The daily tasks I had handled for Nathanael for years, challenging as they had been, held little interest for me anymore. I took personally the failure of the Sanhedrin to hinder the burgeoning growth of The Way. I had gotten a taste of blood, and I liked it. But this was not violence for violence’s sake; rather it was the purest form of justice. Arresting, imprisoning, and killing these people were the only ways to stop the spread of apostasy.
Caiaphas, the high priest, made me his special assistant, with all the power and authority of his office, telling me, “I want The Way driven from Jerusalem. You have proven yourself able and committed.”
I was eager to get started. “I will proudly bear your authority, but I need men, weapons, horses.”
Caiaphas said, “Consider it done.”
Imagine how pleased I was the next morning when a complement of brawny horsemen arrived, every one about twice my size, yet fully understanding who was in charge. For several weeks, I led my men on daily raids before sunrise, surrounding houses owned by Jesus’ wealthy followers. We stormed every entrance, denouncing them in the name of God, whipping any who tried to flee, binding them and tethering them to our horses to be dragged off to prison.
I was infused with righteous anger, a godly hatred of these opponents of the Scriptures. My team and I were merciless, swift, and brutal. Fear in the eyes of my prisoners or pleading on the parts of mothers not to separate them from their children had no effect on me. I had been born for this, schooled and trained for this, uniquely equipped for the task.
The fact was I enjoyed it. I was not a tyrant to gain power for its own sake. I was enforcing the will of God. What could be a higher calling? I even told Gamaliel, “I feel alive, fulfilled, as if I am living life to the fullest, defending and glorifying the name of the Lord.” My goal was to do anything contrary to the name of Jesus of Nazareth. I cast my votes for many death sentences in Israel and other cities.
Learning that many of The Way had scattered into Judea and Samaria and as far as Damascus, I went again to Caiaphas, breathing threats and murder against them. I asked for a letter of introduction to the synagogues of Damascus. “Any disciples of Jesus I find there, men or women, I will bring to Jerusalem in chains.”
This seemed to please the high priest. “Damascus is outside Roman law,” he said, “so you will encounter no restrictions.”
He supplied me with the letters, and my band of enforcers and I lit out for the great walled city about 135 miles north of Jerusalem. On horseback for the better part of four days, we traveled the way of the Sea of Galilee, crossing the Jordan River by bridge a few miles north of the Dead Sea. My excitement built as we neared Kaukab, about twelve miles south of Damascus.
I pointed into the distance where the road rose to a slight ridge. “The wall will appear on the horizon as we clear that incline, but don’t be misled. The city is still almost half a day’s journey from there.”
I had slowed my great black mount as the sun reached its apex and we neared the crest, when suddenly we were struck by a light so bright it made my horse rear and emit a piercing whinny. I held fast to the reins as I slid from his back, my full weight hanging from the leather straps several feet off the ground. I had just enough presence of mind to let go so I wouldn’t pull him over backward and kill him.
The other horses and men cried out as they, too, crashed to the ground. I hit hard and the breath rushed from my lungs. I lay there, eyes shut tight, face pressed into the dirt, but even that did no good against the sudden brilliance that radiated not just from above but also from all around me.
I heard men struggling to their feet and trying to calm their steeds. I fought to move but lay rigid with fear. Suddenly a loud voice implored in Hebrew, “Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting Me?”
Astounded I could find utterance, I moaned, “Who are you, Lord?”
“I am Jesus of Nazareth, whom you are persecuting.”
In that instant my world changed. I had believed with my entire being that Jesus had been an impostor and now was dead. There was no time to wonder, to question, to make sense of what was happening. Jesus Himself had clearly spoken to me. The light was the light of God, and it permeated my soul.
I said, “What shall I do, Lord?”
“Rise and stand, for I have appeared to you to make you a minister and a witness both of the things you have seen and of the things I will yet reveal to you. I will deliver you from the Jewish people, as well as from the Gentiles, to whom I now send you, to open their eyes, in order to turn them from darkness to light, and from the power of Satan to God, that they may receive forgiveness of sins. Now go into Damascus, and there you will be told all things that are appointed for you to do.”
I struggled to my feet as the men came to my aid. “Did you see that?” I said, unable to control my shuddering.
“Yes! We were scared to death. The horses are still spooked.”
“Did you hear the voice?”
“Yes, but we saw no one!”
“It spoke to me, the voice of God. I must get to Damascus with all haste, but I cannot see!”
Two led me by the hand and helped me remount my horse, but the big animal skittered and stutter-stepped and I could feel in the reins his shaking his head. “Hold on tight,” one said. “We will lead him slowly.”
Several hours later the sounds of the city told me we had arrived.
“Where should we take you, Saul?”
“To the home of Judas on the street called Straight.”
2
NARROW ESCAPE
DAMASCUS
I HAD NEVER BEFORE prayed as I did at Judas’ house on the street called Straight. I sat blindly on the floor of the bedchamber, murmuring deep penance and rocking in the heat of the sunlight streaming through the window.
Earlier that day on the road into the great walled city I had come face-to-face with Christ Jesus, whom I had persecuted with all that was in me. I moaned, my spirit wracked with sobs, tears forcing their way past the oozing sores. My quivering fingers traced great crusty coverings over both eyes. “Oh, God, forgive me! Cleanse me! Create in me a clean heart like David of old. Make me a man after Your own heart.”
Judas laid a hand gently on my shoulder and whispered urgently that I should eat, balancing in my lap a plate of steaming meat and vegetables.
I continued, “Be merciful to me, a sinner . . .”
“At least sip some wine, Saul. You must. I’ll leave it here.”
I left the pungent food and drink untouched.
Late that day, my supplications turned to every praise I could remember from the Psalms.
Outside the wide wooden door, I heard Judas plead with someone to leave me alone. One of the men from my detail, obviously speaking to his superior, said, “You will not have to answer for returning without him, sir. As it is, we’ll likely have to put down his steed.”
My horse? Why?
It had not been lost on me that my superior, the vice chief justice of the Sanhedrin, had issued me a colossal black stallion that allowed me to tower over my troops. Each man was at least a head taller than I and weighed much more, but they all reported to me. I’d had to leap just to reach the four-horned saddle, but I loved being astride that enormous horse.
“Why?” Judas whispered. “What’s wrong with the animal?”
“You can see for yourself. But if the stable man’s not paid by tonight . . .”
“I’ll pay him and let Saul decide when he’s up and about.”
“How long before we’re able to get him back to Jerusalem?”
“The man is blind, sir!”
“But can he travel?”
“That is not for me to say.”
As footsteps approached, I fell to my face on the floor and cried out, “Jesus, I praise You, Son of the living God, slain to take away the sins of the world, now risen!”
“There’s our answer,” my man said. “He’s mad.”
“I told you,” another said. “It was a spel
l, a seizure.”
“That’s for those at the Temple to decide.”
All I knew was that I would never return to Jerusalem in the same role I had left it. Whether I would regain my sight, I neither knew nor cared. God had found me. Christ had changed me. Jesus had made Himself known to me. Able to see nothing else, I saw myself for who I was.
Three days hence, Ananias and I were brought together by God, my sight and strength were restored, and I immediately began preaching Christ and Him crucified to both the believers and the Jews in Damascus. All who heard were amazed and said, “Is this not he who destroyed those who called on this name in Jerusalem and has come here for that purpose, so that he might bring them bound to the chief priests?”
Though I had been a scholar from my youth and knew the Scriptures almost wholly from memory, I felt clumsy holding forth on an entirely new topic in the synagogues and in private homes with gatherings of followers of The Way. Besides having to convince them that I was not a fraud, merely trying to ingratiate myself in order to turn the tables on them and arrest them en masse, I was suddenly preaching sermons diametrically opposed to what I had espoused for two decades.
Passionate and earnest as I was, I found myself stumbling over my words as I gushed with all my evidence and proofs, rolling the sacred scrolls this way and that, feverishly pointing out every prophecy I could remember that pointed to the promised Messiah. “He was to come from the lineage of David, be born of a virgin in Bethlehem, called Immanuel . . .” I went on and on, thrilling the believers with the fact that Jesus met all these criteria, and clearly alarming the Jews.
I glanced up at my listeners as I paced about, referring to the scrolls and then interspersing my personal story, recounting my credentials, my training, my devotion to God, my commitment—just weeks before—to persecuting the very people I now strove to encourage or win over to my side of the argument.
In the eyes of the followers of The Way I saw both the hope that I was genuine and suspicion that I might not be. Could it be true? their expressions seemed to say. Dare we embrace this man whose dark reputation preceded him? In the Jews I saw anger and sometimes more—resentment? Worse?
Gradually, as I knew more and more of the brothers and sisters—as the believers were wont to refer to each other—they seemed to embrace me as one of their own. Yet, every day I wondered when I might hear of a band sent from the Sanhedrin to transport me back to the Temple.
Mostly I devoted myself to prayer and whatever God wanted to teach me. I felt like a newborn calf in a pasture of cows. All I had were passion and enthusiasm. I knew what I knew and was eager to persuade, yet I also wanted to grow and mature.
What would my family make of this? I could hardly conceive of it. My sister, Shoshanna, and her husband, Ravid, had a son and three daughters, but they had moved back to Tarsus soon after I had begun making a name for myself persecuting followers of The Way. My parents had both fallen ill and, proud as they were of me, said they wanted to spend their final years back at home too. To my shame, I had not kept up with them as I should have.
I had once heard from my sister that they had taken a turn for the worse, and she included a personal letter from the local rabbi. If my work brought me close to my childhood home, Rabbi Daniel informed me, the congregation would welcome me as the hero I was. He wrote,
Reports of your great work on behalf of the Temple only confirm what your family and I and your many friends here in the congregation at Tarsus have known of you since your childhood. Continue making us proud and do come and see us, should the opportunity ever present itself.
In my pride I had responded with a generous donation to the Tarsus temple and a formal expression of gratitude I had grandly dictated to an amanuensis with beautiful handwriting on expensive parchment, which I had him roll and seal with the mark of Nathanael, the vice chief justice.
Shoshanna wrote me back.
While Rabbi Daniel is impressed, as you clearly knew he would be (along with most of the people of the congregation), you must know that your dear father and mother would have appreciated even more some personal message. While your garish parchment is now on conspicuous display at the synagogue, your parents remain chiefly unable to attend except on their best days and yearn only for the unlikely possibility of seeing you once more before they pass.
I don’t mind that their care has fallen to me, Saul, I truly do not. It is a privilege to honor parents who were as good to me as they were to you. But if you must know the truth, as successful as Father’s business was, rabbinical school, not to mention moving a family from Tarsus to Jerusalem and back, depleted any excess. If you have drachmas to spare, perhaps consider sharing the wealth within the family.
Imagine my pique. Admired, respected, even bowed to on the street by most in Jerusalem, I was gushed over by my childhood rabbi and those who had attended synagogue with me. But what did I hear from my own parents? Nothing. They were sick, fine, and that troubled me. But if I could dictate a letter, why couldn’t they?
And my own sister scolding me? Wouldn’t most siblings be proud of a brother who had risen to such heights?
My response had been to not respond at all. At times I wavered and hoped nothing would happen to either of my parents. But I assumed someone, the rabbi if no one else, would give me fair warning if either truly began to fail.
In my anger I could have sent Shoshanna a gift that would have made her feel small for having asked. I had the means, and because I had not married, my needs and expenses were few. All I desired was respect, and if it was not forthcoming from my family, I got plenty from my colleagues and the citizens of Jerusalem.
Naturally the memory of that ugly self-righteousness sickened me now that I had become a believer, and I craved the opportunity to make things right. I prayed it wasn’t too late, but I didn’t dare risk revealing my whereabouts to the authorities by sending written messages. Sadly, the news of my conversion to Christ would be a far greater offense to my family than appearing to have become an ingrate in adulthood.
No, if word had already reached them of what I was suspected of now, the parchment would have long disappeared from the wall of the local synagogue. My parents would have been disgraced and surely disowned me. A missive in my own hand would be rejected, even if they knew it to contain a generous contribution to the family coffer. They would not see me as one who had discovered the long-awaited Messiah. I would not be considered even a Jew anymore, let alone a Pharisee. I would be seen as a traitor, a heretic, apostate, anathema, an abomination.
Not welcome in the home of my youth, I’d feel as if I had never been born.
One afternoon while I was praying about what I would impart to a group of believers in a Damascus home that evening, a young boy from the stables arrived to tell me the owner wanted me to come and see about my horse. I followed him to find the stable man demanding, “Either take the beast, pay more, or I’ll be forced to put him out of his misery.”
He led me to the back, where I would not have recognized the animal except for his saddle draped over the rail. The once-magnificent mount, which had stood head high, ebony coat shining, now shifted warily, eyes wide, hide faded. His ribs protruded, and a wood bucket full of feed proved his lack of appetite.
As I approached, the horse stamped and banged a shoulder against the wall. I reached to pet his neck and he jerked away.
“Cruel to that horse, were you?” the stable man said.
“We suffered a trauma together.”
“Aah, that’s plain. Well, he won’t be ridden again, at least not by you.”
I took that as a challenge and believed I could win the steed’s confidence again if I took the time. For now I had no actual need of him. I lived day to day at the mercies of Judas and Ananias and on the few coins dropped in a box each time I spoke to a small gathering of believers. Though such wouldn’t have paid half a day’s worth of the luxuries I had grown fond of as an agent of the Sanhedrin, it took care of my needs now. I wanted n
o more. If I spent the rest of my life making amends for my sins against Jesus and His people, that would amount to a treasure for me.
I pressed a few coins into the stable man’s hand and persuaded him to give me a week before he took any action with the horse. Every morning thereafter I slipped through the narrow alleyways to the livery. At first the horse allowed me close enough only to speak quietly. Eventually I was able to caress his muzzle and tousle his forelock. Finally he let me saddle him, but that made him stand stock-still and I wondered whether he would ever trust me again. How could I blame him? He associated me with a terrible day and a blinding light that had made him rear and throw me before he crashed to the rocky ground.
I found myself living for the evenings, longing for the camaraderie afforded me when Ananias took me to various homes of followers of The Way. Some had been fortunate enough to see and hear Jesus. He had referred to Himself as “the way, the truth, and the life.” My former self scoffed at that, called Him a heretic, a charlatan, and worse. I imprisoned people who identified themselves with The Way, and yes, put some of them to death.
Now I knew that He was the Way.
Many of these believers told me they could see it in my eyes, hear it in my voice, sense from my very countenance that I was genuine. At first they had been suspicious—and why not? Why trust me any more than my horse did? But now we prayed and sang together, and they chuckled with me at how poorly I warbled. “It proves your earnestness,” one said.
Not surprisingly, I was learning that I was not so well received in the synagogues. Since I had come to Damascus as a celebrated dignitary from the Temple in Jerusalem, charged with ridding the local congregations of followers of The Way, the leaders knew my men and that I bore the authority of the high priest.
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