The story quickly spread that I had been escorted into the city blind by men who had since abandoned me. And when I did appear in the synagogues, I did not roust out interlopers of an opposing sect but rather proclaimed Jesus of Nazareth as the long-awaited Messiah.
Despite being a novice, I debated, preached, cajoled, persuaded. And just about the time a congregation seemed ready to rise up and cast me out, I moved on to another synagogue. But finally the day came when the Jewish leaders had had enough of me. If the Sanhedrin was not going to do anything about me, they would.
Rumors flew everywhere. Would they capture me, bring me before a tribunal, bind me, and spirit me back to the Temple in Jerusalem?
At sunset one day I was holding forth in a synagogue, my finger on a passage that foretold of the Messiah, when Ananias rushed forward and whispered in my ear, “They mean to kill you, Saul! We must go now! Follow me!”
Amidst a great murmur that rose to shouts, I followed him out the back and into an alley, surprised at how the older man could run. He led me down one street after another toward the eastern wall. “I have sent for your horse!” he called over his shoulder. “When did you last eat?”
“It’s been hours.”
“I had no time to get you anything,” he said, as he emptied into one of my pockets coins from a small purse. “You’ll have to find something on the road.”
“I don’t need all these,” I said.
“Of course you do. Who knows how many days you must make them last?”
“Where am I to go?”
“I had no time to think about that either. Jerusalem?”
By now I was panting. “I would be no safer there! It’s likely death here or prison there!”
Ananias led me to one of the homes built into the wall, and we dashed inside and up long narrow stairs. There was no way out except through the city gates, for the outside walls were smooth. I had met the couple residing there at one of the meetings of believers. After a hurried embrace, the man said, “We’re two hundred paces from the eastern gate.”
“No good,” Ananias said. “The Jews are watching all the gates. We must lower him out the window.”
“Thirty feet down?” the woman said.
I followed her and peered out. In the disappearing twilight I could barely make out the ground. “Ananias . . .”
“You’re not a large man,” she said.
“Still, I would split open like a piece of fruit.”
“You will fit in my basket.”
“Surely not.”
But when she fetched it, I could see she was right. By removing my sandals and tucking them beneath me, I was able to wedge my feet inside and tuck my head between my legs, my hands clasped firmly behind it, elbows pressed to my sides. I leapt out and helped Ananias and the couple fashion ropes from linens, anchor them in the room, and then bind them to the handles of the basket.
“The stable boy should have your horse a hundred yards east of the gate,” Ananias said. “Pay him two coins, and give the watchmen wide berth.”
I folded myself inside the basket, barely able to breathe, and the woman began pressing fruit and loaves of bread around me. When they lifted me to the edge of the window, the sun had vanished, and I felt cast into outer darkness.
The basket bumped and scraped the wall, and more than once it almost tipped me out backward and then forward as they fought to control it. First the fruit and then the bread sailed out and thumped to the ground in the gloom. Worse, the coins from my pocket rattled out and pinged against each other in the night air as they flew from me. Was it possible I’d lost them all? How far could I go penniless?
My ragged descent seemed to take forever and I had no idea how far I’d gone or even whether we had allowed enough makeshift rope until finally, mercifully, I slammed to the ground.
I grabbed one sandal from the basket and was feeling around in it for the other when the three began quickly raising it again. I backed up to where I could see the window but didn’t dare holler at them, and suddenly the opening went dark. Why had they doused their lamps? Were the authorities checking every house?
I waited, hoping at least they would notice my sandal in the basket, and sure enough, a moment later it flopped behind me. I followed the sound and presently stumbled upon it—all the while digging deep into my pocket for any remaining coins. I found two.
I hopped on one foot while sandaling the other, then raced into the night for my horse. I had so hoped to coax him gently to run beneath me again, but in the light of day when he could read my calm demeanor. What would all this rushing about in the darkness mean to him, especially if my pursuers appeared close and I had to force him to bolt?
As I neared the gate, a cacophony of voices assaulted me. Clearly everyone attempting to get in or out of the city was being questioned and searched. I slowed, covered my head, and kept to the shadows, blocking the flickering torches from illuminating my face. Ananias had pulled me away just in time. There would have been no other way out of Damascus and certainly there was no way back in now.
I found the boy just east of the gate, not as far as I had expected. He held the tall stallion by its mane and seemed to struggle to keep it from startling, both his and the horse’s eyes wide and wary.
“No bridle or bit?” I said. “And no saddle? How am I to ride him?”
“There was no time,” the boy whined. “I was told to get him here fast.”
“Did you ride him?”
“Bareback? No! He wouldn’t even let me get a rope around his neck. I just got here. They asked me at the gate where I was going with him. I said out to exercise him. I don’t think they believed me, but he stamped and nickered and I think they were afraid of him.”
I thanked him and gave him my last two coins. As he ran toward the gate, I called after him, “You should return through another gate!” But it was too late. Someone demanded to know what he had done with the horse, and guards were dispatched to find it.
There was no time for sweet-talking the steed now. Knowing my knees and elbows would be worn to bone within a mile, I leapt to reach his mane. Because of my stature I had to pull all my weight the rest of the way up by that coarse hair. I feared that would cause him to throw me or crush me against the wall, but he merely straightened his forelegs and steadied himself till I rearranged my grip and planted a knee on either side of his back.
Men approached, armor clanging, and the great creature stood as if waiting for me to tell him what to do.
“I will call you Theo,” I whispered. “Gift of God. Go!”
3
THE FIRST MIRACLE
DAMASCUS TO ARABIA
“THAT’S HIM!”
“Halt!”
“That horse belongs to the Sanhedrin!”
“Stop him!”
But on my simple command, the stallion instantly returned to the magnificent form I’d remembered. He thundered away from the wall and onto the well-worn path, causing sojourners into the city to scatter. He deftly pivoted around those who heard his pounding hooves too late and would have otherwise been trampled.
The shouting, clanging guards faded quickly. I peeked back to see they had resorted to their own mounts, but by the time they reached top speed, Theo had hopelessly outdistanced them. I would love to think I was steering my charger to this prodigious feat, but no doubt he barely felt my death grip on his mane or my bony, bowed knees in his sides.
I was hardly steering. I was hanging on for my life.
And he wasn’t mine anyway, was he? I had indeed stolen a horse that belonged to the Sanhedrin. I would have to make that right. But how? I didn’t even know where I would find my next meal. Strangely, in the excitement, my hunger had subsided. And unless I was mistaken, the horse felt full size and full strength beneath me. Had someone been exercising him? I would have guessed he’d lost up to two dozen pounds when first I’d seen him. What had put him back on his feed?
Theo had reached a speed as fast as I had ever ridde
n him in a saddle, and without one I would not have expected even to stay astride. But he had also settled into such a strong rhythm that I felt one with him, rocking with his pace and feeling none of the discomfort I expected from his bristly coat.
Clear of pursuers and encountering no one else coming toward Damascus, I eased my grip on Theo’s mane and expected his gait to slow. But no. He rushed on. We had been at full gallop for little more than twenty minutes when we neared Kaukab, about twelve miles south. This was the stretch where my Lord Christ had confronted me and my horse had thrown me and landed on his side.
Surely this memory would slow him. But either Theo didn’t recognize the spot or didn’t care, for he surged on. It was as if he had a mind of his own, a destination only he knew, and I would find out when we got there. We flew past Kaukab and soon left the road and angled southeast, hurtling over rougher, rockier terrain without slowing.
This could not be good. Was Theo spooked? Would he sprint until he collapsed? Then where would I be—in the middle of nowhere with no resources and a spent horse? I gently tugged him to the right, trying to urge him back toward the road of the trade route, where I knew we would eventually come to a place I could rest and water him.
But he ignored my prods and stayed his own course. What was I to do when I needed to eat or relieve myself? He could hold out much longer than I, so it made no sense to wait until he flagged. Without money I would have to find berries or a way to trap small game or locate a body of water where I could devise a way to catch fish.
Half an hour later, as Theo dashed on through the night, I wondered if I would have to leap off. He showed no signs of slowing, and when I reached to feel for foamy sweat on his flanks, I detected none. How was this possible? I soon realized that I felt none of the effects of the exertion either. I should have been pouring sweat as well. My muscles should have ached, my heart should have been pounding, my breath short, my fingers cramped, my knees and elbows worn raw.
Yet I felt fresh, strong, rested, as if I had enjoyed a long night’s sleep. My only ordeal had been vexation, worry over what to do next. I had agonized over how I would stop, where I would stop, where I would eat, what I would eat, where I would rest, how I would water and feed the horse, how I would keep him on course, but on what course? I had no idea where I was going.
And yet Theo seemed to know. He didn’t slow, showed no hesitation.
Suddenly I felt as if God Himself were telling me I should relax and trust my horse. Tearing over rough terrain at top speed bareback, I had not come close to being thrown. I had been vigilant, eyes alert, squinting into the night. Now I leaned forward and rested my cheek on the back of my hand in his mane and let his fast, steady rhythm soothe me.
An hour later I realized I had been actually dozing as we flew past a way station on the trade route and men called out.
“Slow down!”
“You’ll kill that horse!”
“You all right, man?”
I waved and settled back in. Theo sprinted on without effort, so seemingly unaware I was even astride him that I was able to stop worrying about my safety or where he was taking me. Clearly this was of God. He had a plan. Escape had been my aim. Hours into this miraculous flight I was devoid of concern and only looked forward to whatever destination He had in mind.
It struck me that I had actually slept, unaware of how long, and had not suffered from the chill of the black night. Theo’s gait never waned, even when I felt the softening of the earth, breathed in moist air, and realized he was kicking sand in high plumes behind us. He had set his nose on a direct route about twenty feet from the edge of the Red Sea, heading due south.
When the western horizon to my right began to lighten to the faintest pastels, I comprehended that the magnificent animal had been at this for more than ten hours. How long would he go? How far might he take me in the light and heat of the day? Still I felt no discomfort, no hunger, no call of nature, no fatigue. Whatever God was doing, He had imbued us both with ceaseless power.
A dozen Roman cavalrymen, swords drawn and standard flapping, surged from a thicket of trees about forty yards to my left. They galloped directly into my path and stopped in a line, anchored at the middle by a taut, wiry, gray-haired man, the reins of a white stallion in one fist and the other raised over his head.
“Halt in the name of the emperor!” he thundered. “Saul of Tarsus?”
Hopelessly outnumbered, I yanked Theo’s mane to stop him and trusted God to protect me. But my horse was having none of this! He slowed not a whit but flew between the man and his number two as I yelled, “Whoa! Whoa!”
“I am General Decimus Calidius Bal—after him!”
Now I was torn. A Roman citizen, I fully intended to obey a general who knew my name, yet my horse had already proven to be under the authority of the creator God. His response to my commands was to sprint, and I was tempted to urge him on.
Clearly, this general’s horses were also thoroughbreds, as his garrison quickly drew alongside Theo.
“Are you Saul of Tarsus?” he called out.
There was no point in pretending otherwise. “I am!”
“I am General Decimus Calidius Balbus, ordering you to halt in the name of the emperor!”
Again I pulled on Theo’s mane and shouted, “Whoa!” And again my horse ignored me.
I smiled apologetically at the general and shrugged. He did not appear amused. “Stop that horse or you’ll both suffer the consequences!”
I went through the motions again, to no avail.
The general drew his sword and swung mightily at my neck. I ducked, and the blade caught Theo just below his left ear, drawing blood, making him skid to a stop, wheel around, and rear, front hooves flailing at the general, whose own horse whinnied and shied while the others surrounded us.
“You’re under arrest!” General Balbus shouted, and I resisted the urge to respond, It doesn’t appear so.
Theo continued to thrash until he spied an opening in the circle of armed horsemen and dashed away again, the Romans in pursuit. I merely hung on, shrugging at General Balbus’ threats as he and his men stayed a few feet off Theo’s heels for nearly twenty more minutes. I reached to feel the wound above the patch of drying blood only to find no opening in the skin. I caressed the coarse hide and the blood flaked away.
As had been the case since we’d left Damascus, Theo never slowed. Occasionally I peeked back at Roman horses foaming with sweat, mouths agape and gasping. Gradually the soldiers fell off the pace, drifting farther and farther back, the general’s voice growing fainter, though his threats sounded no less passionate. Theo edged closer to the water where he kicked up wet sand and gentle waves covered our tracks.
When I no longer heard hoofbeats behind us, I looked to find that Balbus and his men had dismounted and huddled in a circle. But the general did not appear the type who would give up the chase for long.
With Theo still rolling on, all I could do was thank God and leave the endpoint and the outcome to Him. When my fear subsided I was content to reflect. Not so many days before I had been what my new friend Ananias had so eloquently called “dead in trespasses and sins,” so deeply entrenched that not only did I not see them as such, I also thoroughly believed in my own righteousness. It had taken a miracle to blot out the old and make all things new. I had gone from a life of fully believing I was serving God by tormenting and even killing people who believed Jesus was the Messiah to being converted by Christ Himself. I had traveled to Damascus as one person, arrived there as someone else entirely, and now fled to I knew not where to become I knew not what.
If this stunned people who knew me only by reputation, imagine what it was like for me to have planned to barge into temples to harass believers in Jesus, only to arrive there and proclaim that He was indeed the Messiah.
Would I ever be able to return home? If I was cursed in Damascus, I was anathema in Jerusalem. I longed to meet the original disciples of Jesus, to sit at their feet, hear their st
ories, learn from them, serve with them. But would they believe I’d become their brother? Would I get the chance the convince them? All I wanted was the privilege of trying.
Clearly, that was not where God was sending me now. And also clearly, I would not be without opposition.
4
STILL SMALL VOICE
ARABIA
GOD HAD USED THE threat on my life to send me to a vast wilderness, but why?
Terrifying as it had been to have my new Lord and Master reveal Himself to me as a blinding light and speak aloud to me, in the days since, I had longed to hear His voice again. Yet somehow when it came to me once more, it was not the piercing clarion call of the One I had once persecuted. No, this time, as the sun rose in a cloudless sky that should have forced me to cover my legs and head, I sensed a still small voice deep within my heart and soul.
As Theo rumbled through the desert sand, I felt God the Father gently urge me to relax, to sit up, to ease my grip on the horse’s mane, to rest my palms on my thighs. Despite the unexplainable ride and the miraculous escape from the Roman cavalrymen, still I was hesitant to obey. Yet as soon as I did, I found myself as comfortable and confident as I had ever been, even when I’d enjoyed the security of a saddle.
Without shade or breeze, except for that caused by the speed, my thinning hair wafted and my face was refreshed, and I felt no need even to squint into what should have been a blinding sun. Yet I had been in the Arabian desert for hours.
The same zeal you brought to your former life you will dedicate to the gospel of My Son.
“Yes, Lord!” I shouted. “I will proclaim Him for as long as You give me breath!”
You will be My witness—
“Yes, Lord!”
But suddenly, by His silence, I felt a deep rebuke. Now I fell silent and lowered my head. I dared not even beg forgiveness. I had interrupted the very God of the universe, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. He had said He would use my zeal, but had that fervor already offended Him? I wanted to leap from Theo and prostrate myself, hiding my face in the sand. What was wrong with me?
Empire's End Page 3
