“If you must know the truth, I had my doubts until I met him. When he told me of God’s visit, he said it was so reminiscent of the vision he received at the time of your conversion, he knew it was of the Lord. His eyes shone and his face came alive in the very telling of it.
“If I have any spiritual understanding at all, I can tell when a man has had a real encounter with God. It wasn’t possible that Ananias was mistaken.
“I couldn’t wait to meet you, and I wasn’t surprised when you walked through that door. When I heard your own story, I knew Ananias had chosen the right person to persuade Peter to meet with you. Peter does trust me, and if I tell him I believe you, he will give you an audience.”
“He will believe me too?”
“I did not say that. But he will see you.”
“He will convince the others?”
“You would do well not to assume too much, Paul. Peter may be the leader, but the apostles are not a military unit. Each has a mind of his own. Just because Peter meets with you doesn’t mean anyone else will. James, the Lord’s brother, probably will. He and Peter are often united.”
I didn’t tell him the Lord had already told me I would meet James. Naturally my wish was to meet them all.
Two days later, when we pulled into Capernaum, I was immediately intrigued to see that a garrison of Roman soldiers was stationed there. “Don’t get any ideas,” Joseph said.
“It’s too late for that,” I said. “I could ask about a campaign in Yanbu, say something about the heroic actions of General Balbus, see if someone might give me an idea where he’s located.”
“You’re not thinking, Paul. No doubt that was a secret raid, and your knowing anything about it would only arouse suspicion. Let’s ponder this before you do anything rash. Besides, you know who lives in this town, don’t you?”
“Should I?”
“Peter’s mother-in-law. Jesus once healed her.”
16
RECOGNIZED
CAPERNAUM
I KNEW IT WAS foolhardy to sit out in the late afternoon sun, idly chewing bread and nibbling a fig next to the horse and cart. Joseph had arranged lodging for us in a tiny upstairs alcove at a modest inn, a mere pittance affording us two thin mats, use of the easement area out back, plus half a bale of hay and a few gallons of water for the horse. We were allotted no food or other provisions and agreed to leave the premises before sunrise.
Joseph advised me to make myself scarce till sundown while he set off to ask after people he knew from his association with Peter and James. I had no reason to be disagreeable and certainly not to disrespect my elder, but I had quickly tired of the dark, dank closeness of the diminutive upper chamber, and no other roomers were around at that time of day. So I fished my afternoon snack from the pack, stored the rest in the corner, and found my way back down and out, making the horse my only shade. I tucked my shoulder bag in the carriage, wanting it never far from me. The horse nickered and whipped his tail, probably curious at what I was up to, but eventually he ignored me.
My mind was on Taryn and Corydon and that garrison of soldiers whose colors I could still see near the city gate a quarter mile away. What would be the harm if I moseyed over there and struck up a friendly, curious conversation? I was a Roman citizen. A taxpayer. Of course, I hadn’t realized any income for more than three years, so I hadn’t contributed to the public till in a long time, but I still had a right to inquire about government services, didn’t I? Who knew what I might uncover?
The longer I sat in the waning sun, the more bored I grew, and the more I knew I ought to be praying. What kept me from it, of course, was that I was not at all in the Spirit at that moment. It wasn’t that I was obligated to obey Joseph, but I knew in my soul that he had spoken to me from a place of wisdom. And as much as I tried to rationalize and persuade myself otherwise, I was thinking only of myself.
As I had to learn all too often at times like that, the Lord chastened me by speaking to me when I was the least prepared for it.
I have stricken you dumb for a purpose.
You have stricken me dumb? I prayed, forgetting once more that God never repeats Himself. And then, thoughtlessly, as if there were some possibility He didn’t mean what He said, I tested Him. I opened my mouth to ask why or for how long, and of course I could emit no sound.
At that moment I espied Joseph being led back toward the inn from the heart of Capernaum by three men who appeared put out with him. They gestured and remonstrated, but they were far enough away that as yet I could hear nothing.
Do not attempt to speak.
I was beginning to understand. Even if I wanted to help Joseph, I was not to get involved. Whatever power of logic or persuasion I might have, God had rendered it useless.
As Joseph and the others drew closer, I began to pick up their voices on the wind. It became clear he was trying to convince them he was innocent, a friend of Peter and his brother, and that he merely wanted to bring greetings from them to Peter’s mother-in-law.
“And we’re telling you, people saw you arrive in this town with a man who looks like Saul, the Sanhedrin’s persecutor of people of The Way.”
“No one has seen him for years!” Joseph said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
So the Lord had told him what to say as well! It would be suspicious if I pretended not to hear what was going on, so I finished my food and rubbed my hands together, standing as the men approached. The horse stutter-stepped and swung his head back and forth.
“This man right here!” one said. “Who is this?”
“Why don’t you ask him?” Joseph said.
“Because I’m asking you! You tell us you have come from the apostles in Jerusalem, and I’m telling you we think you’re up to no good.”
“Well, this is my horse and my carriage,” Joseph said. “If this were my traveling companion, he would have our provisions packed in it and we would be riding away right now, wouldn’t we?”
“Who are you, sir?” the man demanded.
I stared at him.
“Are you deaf?”
I shook my head.
“Are you mute?” another said.
I nodded.
“Are you Saul of Jerusalem?”
I shook my head, perhaps putting too fine a point on the fact that God Himself had told me not to identify myself that way anymore, and walked toward the inn.
“Where are you going? Come back here!”
That caused the horse to stamp and whinny. I looked back to see Joseph give me a furtive glance as he grabbed the reins to steady the horse, and I also noticed no one had followed me. I hurried upstairs and grabbed our food pack, then rushed back down and waited in the shadow by the door.
The men shied away from the edgy horse and one said, “Control that animal!”
That was just what Joseph was waiting for. He leapt into the carriage and snapped a rein, making the steed bolt. The men fell back as the carriage swung around to where I waited. Joseph yanked the reins, causing the horse to rear—which kept the men at bay and gave me time to jump in, the pack in my lap.
The men lit out toward us, but rather than trying to get the horse to race away, Joseph gave the reins a mighty jerk that turned him to face them, clicked his tongue, and snapped the leather again. The young beast bounded straight at the men, forcing them to dive for cover, and we lurched off toward the city gate.
I turned to watch the men slowly rise and dust themselves off. They got what they wanted. They had kept Joseph and me from Peter’s mother-in-law, wholly unconvinced we were brothers in Christ.
Joseph kept looking back until we were well down the road again and he was satisfied no one was in pursuit. “The Lord had to intervene there for no good reason,” he said finally, shaking his head. “Have you found your voice?”
“I have,” I croaked, testing it.
“That cost us, Paul. You know that, don’t you?”
“Forgive me, Joseph.”
“I
t wasn’t much money, but the coins were not ours to waste. The horse needed rest, as we did. And while I am not your master, clearly I knew best, and you ignored my counsel.”
“I’m sorry. Why did they not trust you, Joseph?”
“They suspected me from the moment I got near her home. Naturally they live in fear and must protect her. But I might have been able to talk my way in there had you not been in plain sight.”
“You’re right.”
“Let’s just hope word of this doesn’t get to Peter before we do. I identified myself, but I had not told him I might try to visit her.”
“I would so have enjoyed talking to her about her times with Jesus.”
“You have no one but yourself to blame.”
I nodded, but I also noticed a twinkle in Joseph’s eyes. “You are not still angry with me?”
“I am still disappointed.”
“You don’t look it.”
He looked at me and shook his head. “I am trying to look remorseful, Paul.”
“So am I!”
“We behaved shamefully.”
I nodded solemnly. “We did. And now we have to travel how far to find lodging?”
“Too far,” Joseph said. “We’ll be sleeping in the open tonight.”
“We deserve it.”
“You deserve it, Paul. You’re the one who still looks like your old self after all these years. Nobody knows or cares what I look like.”
We rode in silence a while before I said, “I’m glad those men didn’t get hurt. We treated them like enemies, like threats, and they are our brothers.”
“I know. I hope someday we will get to meet them again and laugh about this.”
“You’re a dreamer, Joseph.”
Three days later we arrived in Jerusalem near midnight, weary and hungry. Due to the fiasco at Capernaum, we twice had to sleep under the stars, and our food had run out half a day earlier than we expected.
Joseph spent the last hour of the journey praising me for how I had held up on the trip, which I found strange, because the drive in the carriage was faster and easier than the painstaking caravan that had carried me from Arabia to Damascus.
He stopped at a trash heap outside the southeast corner of the city, tied the horse to a rock, and walked me to a smelly area where he pointed out damaged parts of the city wall. “People here got tired of bringing their refuse through the Dung Gate, so they broke through in a couple of places. Some have been repaired, but others have been reopened. If you are careful and stay in the shadows, you can slip through.”
“How long has this been in such a state of disrepair?” I said.
“You would know better than I,” Joseph said. “I have lived here only a few years and just recently became aware of it. Was it not this way when you lived here?”
“I didn’t frequent this part of the city. I knew such squalor existed, but I didn’t have to face it.”
“Once you get in, find your way to the upper city and wait for me.”
Joseph headed west to enter through the Essene Gate, and when we reunited an hour later, he had with him a quiet young man he introduced as his cousin, John Mark. “His mother, Mary, will put us up while we are here.”
“How kind.”
“I couldn’t expect the apostles to let you stay with me just yet,” Joseph said. “Mary may not be happy if she recognizes you, but we’re family, so . . .”
John Mark sat between us as we rode to his home, and twice I thought I heard him refer to Joseph by another name, but I assumed it was merely a term of endearment. I was stunned when we arrived at the palatial home of Joseph’s widowed aunt, a handsome woman not much older than he, who immediately assigned servants to wash our feet and feed us.
Mary, too, referred to Joseph by another name I did not catch, but it was also apparent to me that while she was cordial and polite, she was wary of me. As soon as she had opportunity, she spoke privately to him in low tones. When he returned he asked me for a sheet of parchment and a quill. He scratched out a note and asked John Mark to take it to the disciples. “Unhitch my horse and take him, but beware. He’s tired and jumpy.”
Joseph showed me where he and I would share a room. “She knows me, doesn’t she?” I said.
He nodded. “She also knew the Lord. Would you like to see where He broke bread with the disciples the night He was betrayed?” He led me down the hall to a large room.
I stared, wide-eyed. “Here? She knew Him before you did?”
“She is not happy about your staying in the same house.”
“I’m not sure how I feel about it, Joseph.”
“You must tell her your story.”
“In time. I want to tell the apostles first.”
We heard fast young footsteps on the stairs. John Mark appeared breathless and shaking his head.
Joseph glanced at me as he whispered, “Excuse us” and led the boy away. He returned a few minutes later, alone. “I’m sorry, Paul. They won’t see you.”
“But surely if you—”
He held up a hand. “I will talk to Peter.”
“Now?”
“Yes, but I cannot leave you here. You will come with me and wait outside. I will see if I can persuade him at least to meet with you since we have come all this way. He is a fair man. I believe I can talk him into hearing you out.”
17
THE WATCHMAN
JERUSALEM
I SHOULD HAVE BEEN exhausted from the last leg of the trip, crawling through the crumbled wall of the city, finding the rendezvous point with Joseph, and meeting his cousin and aunt. But the hospitality in the spacious home had invigorated me, despite Mary’s obvious guardedness. Fed, feet washed, and now learning I would sleep not far from where Jesus had dined with His disciples the night He had been betrayed—I could hardly fathom it.
Besides that, nothing could have kept me from the possibility of meeting even one of Jesus’ disciples. I had been waiting for this since the day the Master Himself had confronted me on the road to Damascus. How many times had I rehearsed what I would say, what I would ask?
As I followed Joseph downstairs before we headed out, he said, to a secret location in the bowels of the upper city, I heard John Mark arguing with his mother in the parlor where we had been welcomed not a half hour before. He was begging to be allowed to accompany us, but she was having none of it.
“It’s already third watch,” she said, “and you’re going to bed!”
The boy mentioned a name I didn’t recognize who, he claimed, said he could go. Mary swung a door open, dark eyes flashing, and confronted Joseph. “Nephew, it is not your place to raise my child! I have enough trouble without you—”
Joseph raised both hands, smiling. “John Mark, save me from this woman! Tell her I said you could go only if it was all right with her!”
“That’s what he said,” the boy muttered.
“Saved from the gallows!” Joseph chortled, and Mary shook her fist at him.
John Mark trudged toward the stairs. “I never get to make my own decisions.”
At the door Joseph turned back. “Aunt Mary, you’re the best mother I know.”
“No thanks to you.”
“You are!”
“My sister wasn’t a bad mother herself, may she rest in peace. But how many mothers do you know?”
Joseph shrugged.
“Just go.”
“I don’t know when we’ll be back, but we’ll have the gateman let us in so he won’t have to wake you.”
I caught her glance of disapproval. “I appreciate that,” she said.
The horse appeared to be dozing. “I hate to wake him,” Joseph said.
“I don’t mind walking. How far is it?”
“Only a couple of miles. The activity will calm you anyway. You appear too eager.”
“I can’t deny that.”
I even walked too quickly for Joseph’s taste. “We’re not racing,” he said. “There’s no profit in getting ahead of me
when you don’t know where you’re going.”
“But you’re not so much older than I that you should have such a deliberate gait.”
“Slow down and let me talk to you about John Mark.”
“Do.”
“He’s a most unusual young man. He may seem typical in how he talks with his mother, but he is in many ways wise beyond his years. Would you believe he has been a counselor to Peter himself?”
“Truly?”
“The lad has never breathed a word of it, to his credit, but Peter told me that during some of his darkest hours, John Mark spoke such peace to his soul that Peter believes he may even have saved his life.”
“How so?”
Joseph was a good but not quick storyteller, and I was intrigued by the difference in the man when he was being careful. He kept to the shadows and avoided watchmen with a natural ease that somehow did not make us look suspicious. We merely appeared to be changing sides of the street or turning when our normal course might otherwise have taken us a more noticeable way.
“This is a story for him to tell, but imagine yourself in the days immediately following the death of the Lord. You’re grieving, having lost more than your best Friend, but also the Man you believed in with all your heart and soul. You left everything for this person because you were convinced He was the Messiah, the Son of God. You believed—and swore—you would have gone to your grave for Him, and in fact you hacked off a man’s ear with his own sword in your zeal to see that no harm came to Him.
“And then, just hours after you had vowed you would never, ever deny Him, you do just that, and not once but three times, exactly as He predicted you would.”
I shook my head and sighed. “I had heard that story and found it hard to believe, especially when Peter eventually became the most defiant one, virtually shaking his fist in the face of the high priest and telling him that he would obey God rather than men.”
“He denied he even knew Jesus, the third time in the Lord’s hearing where He could look into Peter’s eyes.”
“I would have been suicidal.”
“Who wouldn’t? But it was more than that, Paul. While many others, particularly before Jesus’ resurrection, were sorely disappointed because they had believed Jesus was going to overthrow Roman oppression—and now their hopes were dashed—Peter believed he had lost forever any chance to right his terrible wrong. He had shown himself the worst of cowards, had discovered within himself something so odious he could hardly face it. There was no way to apologize, to repent, to seek forgiveness, to make amends.”
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