Empire's End

by JERRY JENKINS

  Finally the crew gathered solemnly around the captain, causing the chant to cease and allowing me to hear the first mate say, “Give the order, Captain.”

  He nodded and turned toward his quarters, muttering, “Pick him up.”

  The passengers erupted.

  The crew tossed ropes to me.

  As soon as I was back aboard, the sails fluffed to life and never flagged again.

  My parchments were dry.

  I preached Christ and Him crucified, and many more became believers.

  The captain never showed his face again.

  24

  SHUNNED

  TARSUS

  AS YOU CAN IMAGINE, few passengers doubted the Lord’s hand was upon me. Daily many milled about, pleading with me to speak with them, pray for them, teach them from the Scriptures, and tell them about Jesus.

  I remembered the gray-haired couple who had joined the little group when I had been in the captain’s quarters and had slipped away when I resumed speaking of the messianic prophecies. They were at the edge of every crowd now, looking both troubled and curious. Finally I sought them out and asked to speak with them privately.

  The man, perhaps a dozen years older than I, introduced himself as Kaduri, a supplier of cilicium to tentmakers in Tarsus, and his wife, Nait.

  “Perhaps you did business with my father, Y’honatan,” I said.

  “That was your father? Of course I did, God rest his soul. Anyone who supplied tentmakers worked with the best in the trade. Now, I knew your father only in business, but surely he was not—”

  “Pardon me, sir,” I said, holding up a hand, overcome. “Did you say, ‘God rest his soul’?”

  “Oh! Forgive me! I assumed you knew! I’m so sorry, Paul!”

  “When?”

  He looked to his wife. “When was it we went to the funeral, Nait? Not a year ago. The daughter and grandchildren were there with your mother. She is not well either, did you know?”

  “Yes. Is she failing?”

  “She does not remember things. She kept asking where Y’honatan was.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “I’m sorry. Your father was so highly thought of. Many from his congregation and the community were there, and of course countless who had known him in business. You knew he had retired and been ill.”

  I nodded.

  “The son-in-law has taken the business,” Nait said. “Whom do you deal with now, Kaduri?”

  “Ravid. Very knowledgeable. Paul, I am very sorry. I would not have said anything.”

  “No, it’s my fault. I lost touch, and my sister and I, we . . .”

  “I understand. But if it’s not too painful, I was going to say, as devout Jews ourselves, we knew your father and mother as most observant. We did not attend the same synagogue, but I believe it would be fair to say they would not share your views.”

  “That is correct.”

  “Is that the reason for the estrangement then?”

  I had asked for this conversation, hoping to draw them out, to see if they had been the ones offended by my speaking of Jesus as the Messiah. Now I was certain they had been, but I hadn’t expected to be interrogated myself.

  “No, I have been unreachable for some time. But I wanted to let you know that I do not bear any animosity for your reporting my offense to the captain.” Both appeared as if they wished they could deny responsibility. “Truly, it’s all right. Before I became a believer in Jesus as the Christ, I would have done the same. It is a mark of your devotion to God, misguided as I believe it is—and mine was. But I have seen by your faces since then that you have started to wonder.”

  “We’re far beyond wondering,” Nait said. “Isn’t that true, Kaduri?”

  “Yes,” he said. “When this ship went from near-breakup to becalmed because you prayed, I won’t deny we thought you were praying to some god we didn’t believe in. But when it became clear the Lord Himself wouldn’t leave you in the sea, and now we’ve been sailing straight for port since you’ve come back aboard, well . . .”

  “You’re ready to listen.”

  “More than ready,” Nait said.

  By the time we reached Tarsus, Kaduri and Nait had become followers of Jesus, praying with me daily and inviting more and more passengers to meetings and seeing several added to the kingdom of Christ. They wanted me to come to their synagogue as soon as they could arrange it. I told them I would be happy to but warned them they were likely to be received the way they received me initially. “Don’t expect that our church will begin in your temple.”

  “Then it will begin in our home!”

  They offered me a ride from the Tarsus harbor to my old homestead, which I accepted, but I alighted half a mile short of where I had grown up. All things considered, I couldn’t simply appear unannounced on the doorstep of my childhood home. Despite all, my sister would feel obligated to offer me hospitality, at least temporarily. So I first stopped at a bathhouse and washed not only myself, but also my clothes. Then I paid a young man to deliver a message to Shoshanna, letting her know I would arrive in an hour and that I looked forward to seeing Mother, my sister herself, her husband, and their children.

  I waited for any response before leaving for the place of my birth, but the young man returned to say my sister had merely read the message, thanked him, and turned away.

  “No response? No sign of emotion whatsoever?”

  “No anger, if that’s what you mean, sir. But she may have wept. I couldn’t be certain.”

  I thought the walk would calm me and help shape my thoughts, but the closer I came the less settled I felt. I would decide on how I wanted to begin and in the next minute scuttle the plan and start somewhere else entirely. I prayed God would grant me wisdom when I needed it, but I didn’t want to arrive unprepared either.

  When the familiar landscapes of my childhood came into view, the only thing I was sure of was that I would be kind to Shoshanna, regardless how she took the news of my conversion. Even before I had disappeared she had been right to resent my shameful neglect of my ailing parents. I would have to gauge the depth of her pain.

  I found her outside, dressed as if expecting a guest.

  “We’re each going to say how much the other looks like our parents,” she said. “So I’ll begin. You do remind me of Father.”

  “That’s exactly what I was thinking, Shoshanna. You do look like Mother. And no matter what is between us, you are going to let me embrace you.”

  To my great relief she came to me and we held each other tight, weeping on each other’s shoulders. “Mother and the children are inside. Don’t be alarmed by her.”

  Mother and my nephew and three nieces sat on a reclining couch in order of their ages, like museum pieces to be studied. The children looked shy and uncomfortable, as if they had no idea what was expected of them. Mother wore the blank stare of a child.

  I bent and pressed my cheek to hers. “I’ve missed you,” I said.

  “I’ve missed you too, Y’honatan,” she said.

  “I’m your son, Saul, Mother.”

  “No, Saul died. We had his funeral.”

  “That was Father,” Shoshanna said. “This is Saul.”

  Mother smiled at me. “Saul is dead.”

  I squeezed her shoulder, a sob rising in my throat. “I love you, Mother.”

  “I love you, too, Y’honatan.”

  I could barely tell the girls apart. Shy and pleasant, they reminded me of Shoshanna when she was very young. They seemed eager to get through the greeting and relieved to be excused.

  I had not seen Uzziel since he was about five, and I was struck by how tall and lanky he seemed now at age nine. He face showed definition and his hair was long and curly. He was not at all shy but looked me in the eye and answered questions in complete, thoughtful sentences.

  “You’d be proud of him, Saul,” my sister said. “Rabbi Daniel says he has many of your qualities.”

  “Oh? A reader? Memorizer?”

 
“That and a thinker, aren’t you, son?”

  “I like to believe I am,” Uzziel said. “The other boys read and memorize, too, but they don’t ask questions. I have many questions. The rabbi encourages that. Sometimes he and I are the only ones who talk about what the prophets were really trying to say.”

  “Interesting, aren’t they,” I said, “the Scriptures?”

  “Often I think I’m the only one my age who thinks so, Uncle.”

  “Let me tell you, they become more fascinating the older you get, especially when you come to know the God behind them all.”

  “Well,” Shoshanna said, more as a statement than a question, “wouldn’t we all like to think God is knowable.”

  “Oh, but He is,” I said.

  “Uzziel, it’s time for your uncle and me to talk. You may go outside.”

  “It’s all right, Mother,” he said. “I don’t mind staying here with Grandmother.”

  “Go outside and play with your sisters,” Shoshanna said.

  He frowned but rose and shook my hand. “I hope I’ll get to talk with you more, Uncle Saul.”

  Shoshanna said, “Perhaps he can ride with you when you visit Rabbi Daniel later.” When the boy was gone she added, “Ravid built him a cart his little donkey colt can pull. He uses it when he goes to the temple for lessons. I assume you’ll want to see the rabbi.”

  “Very much. Will I fit in the cart? Can the colt can handle us both?”

  “Of course. And you’ll spend tonight with us?”

  “I don’t want to be a nuisance.”

  Shoshanna crossed her arms and sighed. “I wish a nuisance was all you were. I’ve heard you’re no longer going by Saul of Tarsus, once a title of such honor. What is it you want to be called these days?”

  It felt strange, saying and hearing such things in front of my mother, realizing she didn’t even know who I was. “I would be honored if you would just call me your brother.”

  “Oh, I know that is not true, and you do as well. But I mean it, I will call you whatever you wish to be called.”

  “Call me Paul.”

  “And where are you hailing from? We hear things of you from Damascus and rumors from other cities. No longer Jerusalem?”

  “I will be here for the time being. I will be Paul of Tarsus.”

  She seemed to study me. “When you were Saul, you were my champion. You had to know that.”

  “I did, Shoshanna. And I was proud to be your brother. I still am.”

  “Are you? Why?”

  “Because I know the woman you are, the wife and mother, the daughter. I admire you, respect you, like you, love you.”

  “Is that true?”

  I studied my hands.

  “You do well not to answer, Paul. For so many years you were the brother any sister would want—the finest, the smartest, the most devout. You went all the way to Jerusalem—at thirteen!—to study under Gamaliel himself. You became his best pupil, worked for the Sanhedrin, assisted the vice chief justice, advised the council. My revered brother: working at the Temple.

  “It didn’t surprise me. I knew before anyone that you were doing what you were made to do. I could not have been more proud. Or at least I thought I couldn’t be—until you led the way against the blasphemers. Again, the perfect person for the task.

  “Even the high priest recognized your value, sending you to put a stop to the menace. Oh, I was so proud, Paul. Unfortunately, so were you. Father and Mother had fallen ill, which you well knew, for it was the reason we moved back here. But you had become too busy for us, too prominent, too important.”

  “To my shame and regret, Shoshanna. You’re right and I am sorry. Forgive me.”

  “I am not finished. The fact is, I thought my letter might get your attention, and—knowing you—when you didn’t respond, I believed it had. I expected you would ponder and come to your senses. But what did you do? The next thing I hear, you’re no longer rousting out charlatans in the name of the God of Israel, you’ve become a fraud yourself. And not just a common one, oh no, that would not be enough for Saul of Tarsus, not he of the engraved parchment letter that wound up on local synagogue’s wall. You’ve got a story that sweeps the world, and it’s a monster.

  “Tell me this, Paul: If you think so much of me, why have I had to hear your tale from everyone but you? Why couldn’t I hear it firsthand?”

  I looked up at her as the question hung in the air. “You’re serious? You want me to tell you my story?”

  “Apparently you’ve told everyone else.”

  So I did. And as was my practice with anyone who offered an ear, I did not leave out anything. Beyond every detail of my encounter with Jesus on the road to Damascus and how I had come to see that all the prophecies I had memorized as a child had pointed to Him, I gave a full account of the ride to Yanbu, my times with God in the wilderness, falling in love with Taryn, the Roman massacre, standing up to the deposed general, even being thrown into the Mediterranean and the Lord causing the ship to circle me until the captain was forced to have me rescued.

  Throughout my lengthy recitation, Shoshanna’s reactions reminded me of Barnabas’. She raised her eyebrows, shook her head, leaned forward, recoiled. In the end she told me that, if nothing else, she believed that I believed.

  “It’s hard not to when God Himself speaks to you,” I said. “I’ve given up my entire previous life for a new one. I have committed the rest of my days to be a slave for the cause of Christ. The question is, what do you make of it? Do you see that Jesus fulfills all the prophecies of the Scriptures, that He brings salvation to everyone, including you?”

  Shoshanna appeared to think deeply, to consider my question. Silently I prayed. Then she threw her head back and laughed heartily—which caused Mother to smile broadly. “I think you’re as crazy as she is!”

  “Shoshanna! You think I’m delusional, that I invented all this? Do you really?”

  “I do! I want nothing to do with Jesus or with you, and I don’t want you trying to instill any of this nonsense in my children. As for Ravid, the truth is he’s always been a bit jealous of you. He needn’t worry about that anymore. When I tell him that what he’s heard about you is true, he’ll know no longer compare himself to my successful brother.”

  I could barely find the breath to form words. “Will you allow me to speak to him?”

  “He’s an adult, but he will agree with me.”

  “And you’re sure you want me to stay here tonight?”

  “Actually no, if you want the truth. Tell Uzziel not to bring you back when he returns from the synagogue, that you have made your own arrangements. You are no longer welcome in this house.”

  “Shoshanna, you can’t be serious. Mother, the children, you, Ravid—”

  “You might see him somewhere. He can speak for himself. But if Mother were able to speak for herself, she would say what the head of this household would have said, had you come here while he was still alive: it is a serious thing to turn your back on your upbringing, Paul.”

  “I have done no such thing.”

  “You have dishonored your traditions, your race, your religion, your people, your history, your forefathers, your god, and the Holy Scriptures. You have rendered yourself unqualified to call yourself a member of this family, and you are banished from this home.”

  “Shoshanna—”

  “Please leave.”

  I stood, my mind in a stupor. A stoning could not have been worse. I embraced my mother and kissed her on the cheek. “I love you, Mother.”

  “I love you too, Y’honatan.”

  “I love you, Shoshanna.”

  She opened the door and called for Uzziel. “Bring your cart!”

  I reached for her but she turned away. “Sister, don’t do this.”

  She stepped outside and the girls came running. I squatted, hoping they might come to me, but they hung back and Shoshanna would not have allowed me to embrace them anyway. I fought my tears for the sake of the children
, knowing I could not explain.

  When the cart rattled up, the colt looked too small to pull Uzziel, let alone a grown man. I hesitated, but the boy looked so proud, patting the seat next to him, so I climbed aboard, making the entire rig lean. His mother told him to deliver me straight to the rabbi and that I would not be riding back with him later.

  “But I thought—”

  “Just do as you’re told, Uzziel.”

  I waved at the girls and they chorused their good-byes, but Shoshanna would not look at me. How many hours had we played together in this very place? The memories flooded me, and as Uzziel urged the colt forward and the little animal stutter-stepped to try to get the surprising load moving, I called out, “Farewell for now, dear sister! I love you with all my heart and always will!”

  She pretended to busy herself with the girls as the tiny wheels of Uzziel’s cart finally began to slowly rotate and the donkey lowered its head, straining, straining to tow its prodigious cargo.

  Rabbi Daniel must have seen us coming, for he emerged from the synagogue and met us on the road. I leapt from the cart to embrace him, but his look stopped me and he pulled me away from Uzziel, whispering urgently.

  “I need know only one thing. Is it true? Have you become a follower of The Way?”

  “Rabbi, you are one of my oldest and dearest—”

  “The question requires a yes or a no.”

  “I must be able to explain myself, Rabbi Daniel. In fact, I would love to address the congregation using the Scriptures and—”

  “No! Now I demand an answer! Yes or no? Are you still a Pharisee or have you—”

  “Yes!”

  “What? You are?”

  “Yes! I am a Pharisee and will always be a Pharisee, but I have come to believe that Jesus is the long-awaited Messiah, and—”

  “No!” He held up both hands and shook his palms in my face. “No! You tarnish the very name of the Pharisees with such blasphemy and I’ll not hear another word of it. I prayed it was not true, but you confess it with your own mouth.”

  “And I will preach it from the rooftops, if not in your temple then in others in this town! I am not going anywhere, Rabbi Daniel. I will preach Christ and that there is no other name under heaven by which one must be saved.”