by Tessa Afshar
The world became quiet underwater, sounds distilling into faint vibrations. Sunk under that wet and still dome, she heard the beat of her own heart, and with every beat, she uttered a silent song of thanksgiving, a holy hallelujah for what God had accomplished on their behalf.
She broke the surface, engulfing a deep, hungry breath, lungs filling with life, the weight of the past weeks falling away with the dirt.
She returned home, her steps light. Home! For the first time, she and Aquila would have a private chamber, one they did not have to share with other people or with leather samples and bulky work paraphernalia. She entered their room softly, inhaling the scent of roses, which someone had left in a vase on a table next to their bed.
She was combing her hair when Aquila opened the door. “How did we come to own such a beautiful place?” he asked, his voice hushed with wonder. “It should have been impossible. We cannot afford this!”
Priscilla laughed. “Nothing is impossible with God.” She shivered as the cool air found its way into the damp patches of her tunic where her wet hair clung to the linen in sinuous tendrils.
Aquila took a sharp breath. With a flex of his foot, he snapped the door shut behind him. Covering the distance between them in two long strides, he drew her against him. His kisses were butterflies against her neck. “I’ve missed you,” he said.
She felt the familiar warmth that turned her bones into water as his kisses became bolder, his touch more urgent. Somehow, she found herself on the bed, a large muscular thigh straddling her side, arms supporting her shoulders and head. Aquila’s touch grew wilder, more intimate.
At first she returned his passion, felt dizzy with it. Felt herself on the crest of some intangible delight. Then without warning, the feverish wanting dimmed and came to a halt. What had been a union, a twining of two into one, became instead a moment of disconcerting separation. Aquila, caught up in his own tide of desire, nevertheless sensed it in her, sensed the moment she closed like a submersed oyster.
Afterward as he lay next to her, his skin glistening with perspiration, his eyes narrowed with a frown he could not hide. “Is it me?” he asked softly in the darkness.
“What?” Priscilla’s heart plummeted like a stone to the bottom of a deep well.
“I have noticed you . . . withdraw in the midst of our intimate times. And I am wondering if I am doing something wrong.”
“No!” She pivoted toward him, dragging the sheets to cover herself. “You are perfect. Everything you do is perfect.”
“Then what is it?”
She shook her head. “I do not know. I don’t really understand it myself.”
Aquila grew silent, considering her words. He laced her fingers with his and bent to kiss her very gently on the mouth. “We will have to be patient, then. Let your mind and body catch up with each other.”
“Do you think they ever will?” she asked, sounding small.
He cradled her against him. “Someone wise told me that nothing is impossible with God.”
She clung to that promise. Clung to the thought that one day, the shame that seemed to still inhabit the subterranean hollows of her heart would be overcome. That her body would discover the natural joy God had intended between man and wife. But somewhere in her mind she heard an echo, an accusing voice that declared God’s promise would hold true for everyone but her.
Aquila had not told Priscilla, but for the past few weeks, worry had gnawed at the edges of his happiness. Worry that he might not be able to provide for his family the way he wished. That he might have let them down by allowing himself to buy a house that seemed more fantasy than good sense. Worry that his father’s accusations would prove true after all.
A wave of gratitude washed through him as he thought of their home on the Aventine. The fangs of anxiety which had sunk deep into him the moment he had purchased the house finally loosened. Seeing with his own eyes what God had accomplished, Aquila began to realize that he need not agonize about meeting the financial responsibilities that still lay before him. The Lord had provided this far. Aquila had to learn to trust that God would continue to provide.
This is God’s house! he thought with sudden comprehension. His to use as he wishes. We are merely stewards of it.
As if to confirm that conclusion, Rufus visited them on the same evening, carrying a large box. Inside, he had nestled a tall stack of plates and bowls made from red-glazed pottery. “If you are going to host God’s church in your home, you need more plates than the five you currently own.”
Priscilla laughed. “These are lovely,” she said.
Aquila relieved Rufus of the heavy burden, warmed by his words even more than his generosity. “Thank you, friend.”
“Your grace knows no bounds,” Priscilla added.
“Before you two go on with your praises, let me tell you what I have been thinking.” Rufus settled himself on the couch, another gift, this one from Sabinella, who claimed she had too many of them crowding her villa.
Rufus picked up the colorful pillow resting next to him, his fingers plumping feathers that needed no plumping. “Watching our friends labor side by side here, I realized something. We cannot keep silent anymore. It’s time to tell the whole congregation about Yeshua. The prophecies of old have been fulfilled. They need to know!”
Aquila paused. “I feel it too, the need to share our good news with them. But surely such a public step will break that precious unity we witnessed in this house. We have been making inroads. You have over a dozen Jews meeting in your house. Priscilla and I have twice as many among the Gentiles. Wouldn’t it be better to continue slowly? Otherwise, the synagogue may split, and friend turn against friend.”
From the loose folds of his belt, Rufus withdrew a roll of papyrus, its cream-and-ivory striations marked with dark ink.
Without opening it, Rufus said, “Before we came to Rome last year, my mother and I stopped at Antioch. While visiting the church there, we befriended a man named Paul who comes from Tarsus. You will hear that name again, mark my words. Like his fathers, Paul was trained as a rabbi, whip-sharp and knowledgeable, a firebrand of faith. He and one of the leaders of the church named Barnabas had just been appointed by the Holy Spirit to travel through the region and share the gospel. He has recently returned from that journey.” Rufus tapped the papyrus on his knee. “Today I received this letter in which he writes about his experiences.”
Aquila felt a frisson of excitement. “What does he say?”
“They began by speaking in the synagogue at Antioch of Pisidia. At first, the people proved receptive, asking Paul and Barnabas to return and speak the following week. Many Gentiles became believers, Aquila! But some of the Jewish members of the synagogue provoked the leaders of the city and they incited a mob against Paul and Barnabas and ran them out of town.”
Aquila ran an agitated hand through his hair. “This is precisely why I think we should wait.”
“I know. I felt the same until I read this letter.” Rufus shook the rolled papyrus in his hand for emphasis. “They stirred up trouble, I grant you. But God used them powerfully. Because of Paul and Barnabas, the Lord’s message has advanced throughout that region. It spreads like an unstoppable flame. They gain followers for Jesus by the dozens. Hundreds, even.
“They suffer for it wherever they go. Danger surrounds them, and yet they press on. When they went to Iconium, Paul and Barnabas barely escaped a mob that wanted to stone them. But everywhere they preached, people came to faith, and they made many disciples.”
“You mean it is worth the price,” Priscilla said. “Even if preaching the gospel openly should mean we cause dissent in the synagogue or encounter resistance.”
Rufus nodded. “Likely we will encounter far worse than mere resistance. It is no easy thing I ask.
“The crowds stoned Paul in Lystra. Stoned him! Then they dragged him out of town and left him for dead. He writes—” Rufus unfurled his letter and scanned the page before starting to read. “‘I opened
my eyes to a ring of faces. They were getting ready to bury me, I think. I told them not to be hasty, rose to my feet, and returned to town. The next day, we traveled to Derbe, where many more put their trust in the Lord.’”
Aquila inhaled sharply. A miracle that the man had survived a stoning. Most would have abandoned their purpose following such an experience. Returned home after paying so steep a price. And yet this Paul of Tarsus had picked himself up, wounded and bloody as he must have been, and continued on.
He had willingly risked another stoning, more suffering, in order that some may receive the message that had the power of life.
He stared at his hands, steepled between his knees. The way to wisdom was paved with caution. But when caution itself became the destination, a man’s heart could become irresolute. And miss the call of destiny. He turned to Priscilla. “What do you think?”
She twined her fingers into his. “I think it is time we see this house bursting with new believers.”
Priscilla watched her husband with pride. On the Sabbath, he had read from the prophet Isaiah in the synagogue, and after closing the scroll, he had fearlessly, and with aching conviction, told his brothers and sisters about Yeshua. A storm had broken loose after his final declaration: “Everyone who believes in him is made right in God’s sight.”
The walls of the small synagogue had reverberated with a thousand questions. Bitter objections had clashed against hopeful inquiries. Two hours later, the clamor of screeching voices had drawn a couple members of the urban cohorts to investigate the source of the commotion. The members of the synagogue had finally calmed down then and apologized for disturbing the neighborhood, mollifying the cohorts with the promise not to cause such a tumult again.
Almost half the synagogue had wanted to know more about Yeshua after that quarrelsome beginning. Fifty of them had gathered at Priscilla’s home tonight, seeking answers. Seeking fresh hope.
Aquila cleared his voice as he stood in the midst of the gathering, every eye trained on him. “Most of you have heard of Jonah, the reluctant prophet who ran away. We may not be prophets, but many of us know something about running away. We run away from duty, from sacrifice, from love. We run away from God when what he wants costs too much.
“Today I want to tell you about one who did not run away from God’s difficult call.” He stopped for a moment as if to collect his thoughts. “Like Jonah, we are pursued by storms and monsters. By temptations and sins and death itself. And they swallow us whole, as Jonah’s fish swallowed him. There is no running from death. One day it shall consume our flesh. No one has the power to overcome its hideous appetite. Except for God himself.
“And that is what he did. His Son spent three days in the belly of the greatest monster of all, three days in a tomb, three days dead, his body rotting. On the third day, he rose from death. He willingly faced the monster that swallows us all in order to win the victory for us. Death and sin cannot rule us any longer, because Yeshua conquered them on the cross.
“Now, instead of death, it is God himself who pursues us, pursues us like a shepherd seeks his lambs. Like a father pursues sons and daughters who are lost. Like a bridegroom pursues his beloved bride. We can choose Yeshua and find forgiveness for our offenses. We can find healing for our wounds, mercy for our mistakes.”
One of the God fearers, Julia, a freedwoman who had once served as slave in a patrician family, asked, “Is this Yeshua like Orpheus, who followed his wife, Eurydice, into the underworld after she died of snakebite?”
Aquila turned to Priscilla. “I believe my wife can answer you better than I, Julia.”
Priscilla smiled. “There are some similarities. In a way, Orpheus overcame death. He saved Eurydice by singing so sweetly that Hades, the god of the underworld, allowed him to take her back to the world of the living.”
All the Gentiles, familiar with the story, nodded their heads.
“Orpheus’s story is an anomaly, however. Death always wins, and the pagan gods cannot gainsay it. Hades does not give up its residents. In Eurydice’s case, we see a singular exception where love overcomes death. An exception that demonstrates the power of love. In this, the story of Orpheus is accurate. But it is only a story.
“Jesus is the Truth. Within him resides perfect love and cosmic power, the divine and human comingled, blood and spirit married in pure union, so that he alone can conquer death. Not as an exception, but as a promise that shall not fail any who follow him.”
They talked late into the evening after that, husband and wife taking turns to answer their guests’ many questions.
Priscilla knew how to instruct the Gentiles. She had taught the household of Pudens before that night. But that had felt different. She had been sharing with friends, not teaching a newborn church. The first night the members of the synagogue at Campi gathered in her home, Priscilla rose up to lead alongside her husband. They became more than man and wife. They became ministers of the gospel together. They had not talked about this shift beforehand. Her new role in the church came not so much from planning and discussion as from a natural response to need, a flowering of the gift God had planted within her.
She went to sleep that night, the words of the prophet Isaiah resounding in her mind. “To do his work, his strange work, and perform his task, his alien task.”
Yeshua had entrusted her with a strange work. An alien task. What Roman woman even dreamed of becoming a spiritual leader? This peculiar divine mission both terrified and thrilled her. She might not have been able to fulfill such an unusual calling without Aquila’s encouragement. He proved her staunchest supporter, urging her to use her training and natural talent for the glory of God.
Even with Aquila’s unbroken support, every time she spoke either to a crowd or to an individual, something inside her learned afresh that without Yeshua himself, she could not accomplish what was asked of her. In the ebb of her weakness, she felt the flow of God, pouring in, filling her more, turning her weakness into his strength.
Twice a week, she and Aquila hosted the gathering of new believers and seekers in their home. One night for the members of the synagogue at Campi and another for Senator Pudens and his household.
With each passing week, more believers joined their numbers. Benyamin, Aquila, and Rufus took turns spreading the gospel among the other synagogues as well, and soon their numbers multiplied.
They began to witness baptisms, at first sporadically, and then on a weekly basis. Though Senator Pudens declared himself not yet ready for such a leap, he never missed a gathering unless the responsibilities of the senate prevented him from coming. And along with him, a small trickle of other Roman noblemen and -women started to attend their weekly gatherings.
In the passing of months, the Word of God spread across Rome, finding a home among prince and pauper, free and slave, male and female. And God used Priscilla as his instrument every bit as much as he used her husband.
Twenty
“WE ARE GOING to the baths today, Marcus,” Aquila said. He had cornered the boy in the atrium, where he lay sprawled on his belly, soaking up the sun, practicing his writing on a wax-covered wooden tablet.
Marcus shifted. “I am too busy studying. Besides, I already washed with the bucket.”
“Regardless, we are going to the baths.”
Marcus sprang to his feet and began taking backward steps. “I need to work on the leather squares Benyamin asked me to stitch.”
Knowing from experience how slippery the boy could be, Aquila flashed out a hand and grabbed his collar. “Baths. Now.”
“I don’t want to go!” the boy shouted.
“I had noticed.”
Marcus began struggling in earnest. “You’re not my father! You can’t tell me what to do.”
Aquila stilled. “Who is your father?”
The boy stared back mute.
“Exactly. You live with us. That means you abide by our rules.”
“I don’t belong to you! I can leave anytime I want.”<
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Aquila inhaled a sharp breath. “You can, Marcus. But I hope you will not because I have grown to love you. All of us have. Very much.” He knelt before the boy so they were eye to eye. “Like a son.”
The rebellious mask crumbled. The boy’s lips trembled. “I don’t want to leave you.”
“Good.”
“But I don’t want to go to the baths.”
“Can you explain why?”
Marcus shrugged. “I just don’t.”
“Marcus, let me tell you the difference between love and indulgence. It would be easier for me to give in to you. To let you have what you want. Easier for me not to waste my time reasoning with you. So much easier to have your friendship than your resentment. If I do the easy thing now, then I would be giving you indulgence.”
“Excellent!” Marcus cried. “That’s what I want. Go ahead. Give it to me.”
Aquila ignored the outburst. “You would feel a momentary relief by having your way now. But in the long run, indulgence will harm you.”
“No. It won’t. I promise.”
“Yes, it will. You need to learn to overcome. To face your fears. Indulgence cannot give you strength to face the challenges of life. Love can. Love rarely indulges. Instead, it requires you to make the difficult choices. The right ones. The ones that heal and restore.”
“Love sounds really hard.”
“It can be. But this is what I promise: We will go together. I will not leave your side. Not for one moment. You will not have to face this fear alone. Love never leaves. Never abandons. I want you to learn the difference, Marcus. Because all your life, you will have to choose. Choose between love or indulgence.”
“Then I would like to choose indulge . . . indulgement today.”
“No, Marcus. You have been making that choice for too long. Yeshua loves. So you must learn to choose love. Sometimes, when you are weary and overwhelmed, God will indulge you. But never as a way of life. If you don’t learn with me, with us, how to be loved, then for the rest of your life you will tilt toward indulgence. Hunger to have what you want in the moment to satisfy the demands of fear.
