by Tessa Afshar
“The one who is holy,” Rebekah said.
“The one who is holy.” Paul nodded. “Unblemished holiness is required of us. We can’t be almost pure. Close to spotless, with only a bit of tarnish here and there. What is required is perfect holiness.”
“Well then, who can be saved?” Rebekah rubbed her forehead. “You are making this into an impossible task. I thought you said you came bearing good news. So far you have succeeded only in making me despair.”
Lydia winced. If even Rebekah felt discouraged, then there was no hope for her.
Paul grinned. “Allow me to make amends. God always intended to save us from this snare. To make us residents of his kingdom, children of his heart. His love for us knows no boundaries.
“God gave us countless promises in his Word, foreshadowing his coming salvation. Remember the Passover lamb?”
“I know this story,” Lydia said. “It was the final plague that God unleashed on Egypt, worse than any that came before. The destroyer took the life of every firstborn male in Egypt. Except for the firstborns of Israel. It passed over their homes because each household had sacrificed an unblemished lamb and painted their doorframes with its blood,” she said. “But what has this lamb to do with your Messiah?”
Paul raised both hands in a gesture of appeal. “We are like Egypt in the time of the plagues. We have hard hearts and blind eyes. A destroyer is loosed in our midst. It can sneak into our homes and steal our very lives, our joy, our hope, our future. Death itself has the last word over us, and we cannot overcome it.”
Lydia felt something flare in her heart, something hot and angry and afraid all at once. “That is truth.”
“Like Egypt, we need an unblemished lamb, don’t you see? A lamb whose blood would force the destruction of sin and death to pass over us.”
“A lamb better than the ones we sacrifice on feast days?” Rebekah frowned.
“Precisely. A perfect lamb, from God. One imbued with the Spirit of the Lord, empowered to bind up the brokenhearted and to release prisoners from their captivity. Who is not a prisoner in this world? Who does not need to be set free?”
Lydia pulled up her knees against her chest and listened with her whole heart. She knew what it was like to be a prisoner in need of freedom.
“Iron bars are not the only dungeons that constrain us. Greater chains bind us. In this life sorrow hounds us, and we cannot escape its sharpened talons. Our souls grow thin with weariness and despair. Grief turns joy into ashes. We are betrayed by those we love. Shamed by those who hurt us and, worse, shamed by our own actions. Guilt eats us like a monstrous beast we cannot fight. And we grow enslaved, held captive by fear.
“Grief. Betrayal. Shame. Guilt. Fear. We are slaves to such dark masters. Jesus came to set us free. Free from sin and death.”
Lydia’s eyes snapped open wide. She clenched her hands, and still they shook. She opened her mouth to ask a question. No sound emerged.
She bent her head a fraction and straightened the strap of her shoe. Then she heard Paul whisper, only for her ears, “No one shall separate you from the love of God. Not trouble or hardship or danger. Not even the makhaira.”
FORTY-FIVE
But he was pierced for our transgressions;
he was crushed for our iniquities;
upon him was the chastisement that brought us peace,
and with his wounds we are healed.
ISAIAH 53:5
PAUL COULD NOT HAVE KNOWN. No one could have known, for she had told no one except Rebekah. The two of them sometimes still joked about the makhaira at their throats. She continued to see the face of fear more clearly than that of God.
And those words. Grief. Betrayal. Shame. Guilt. Fear. They had been the continuous incantation of her heart when her father died, the emotions that had ensnared and almost broken her.
She supposed she had never truly outrun them. They lay buried somewhere deep inside and raised their ravenous heads when circumstances unearthed them from the place she had tried to entomb them. They rose, living still, to torment her. She was as impotent against them now as when they first took root in her soul.
But God knew. Had always known the power they still held over her. And he had revealed his knowledge through Paul.
Only the revelation had not come accompanied by a hammer of condemnation. God had not said, You are unclean. Unacceptable. Unlovable. I know your heart, and I reject you. I know your darkest secrets, and I despise you. Instead, God had sent an invitation to freedom. He had whispered to her his desire to set her free.
A part of her resisted such a simple promise. Surely God would not forgive her so easily? Wipe away her guilt for ruining her father’s life and bringing disgrace upon them with her selfishness? All for the sake of a handsome face and empty promises. She cringed as she remembered.
“He can set us free?” she asked, finally breaking her silence. “This Messiah, this Jesus, can set us free from the bondage you spoke of?” Silence fell on the small gathering. Lydia realized that she had spoken aloud, interrupting an ongoing conversation. She felt herself turn red.
Paul looked at her, his gaze sharp as a sword. “There is nothing in the world so damaged that it cannot be repaired by the hand of Almighty God,” he said as if he could read into her soul. “The answer is yes—Jesus can set you free from every chain that binds you. He is the only one who can.”
“Then let us go to him at once,” she said, gathering her cloak and coming to her feet. “Where does he live?”
“I dearly wish to grant your request, Lydia. But Jesus has returned to the Father. You can receive the Holy Spirit, who will impart to you the Lord’s presence. To see Jesus face-to-face, however, you will have to wait either for his return or for your time to be united with him in death.”
Lydia frowned. “What?”
“He has been crucified,” Rebekah said.
“No!” Lydia sank back to the ground. Why had God raised her hopes if the man was dead?
Paul raised a hand. “We offer sacrifices to acknowledge our sins, do we not? We offer them with the hope that the blood of the sacrifice will wash us clean.”
Lydia straightened. “He had to be sacrificed for our sins?”
Paul exhaled. “Crucified for our sake. Laid in a tomb, dead. And then on the third day, he rose from the grave. He rose with a new body that will never perish. A new body that allowed him to eat and speak and embrace and walk through closed doors and appear and disappear at will. Hundreds saw him and live to bear testimony, for he remained on earth forty days before returning to his Father.
“He reigns over a new kingdom. A kingdom more of heaven than of this earth. Everyone clamors to be a citizen of Rome. Is it not so? Think of the many advantages that belonging to the greatest empire in the world may offer a man. But Rome cannot take your tears away. It cannot restore your life. It cannot take away your sorrow or crying or pain. It cannot overcome death. These things you shall only find in the kingdom of Jesus.
“This is why he has the power to give us a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair. It is why in him we can rebuild the ancient ruins of our lives and restore the places in our hearts that have long remained devastated by our histories. That is what the prophet Isaiah foretold.”
Thunderstruck, Lydia listened. There is nothing in the world so damaged that it cannot be repaired by the hand of Almighty God, Paul had said. And this Jesus was the key to that repair, the doorway to such restoration.
Rebekah had many questions. Lydia understood her friend’s reservations. Even understood her cynicism. For years she had studied the Jewish Scripture. Knew great tomes of it by heart and could argue its sense with a Pharisee’s expertise. She needed her proof when presented with a man who claimed to be the Son of God.
It was different for Lydia. She knew—knew bone deep—that despite her unanswered questions, she had found the one answer that mattered. This Messiah was the one she had waited for.
The Lord had opened her
heart to this knowledge. She knew Paul’s testimony to be the truth. Her feet wobbled as she stood. “Master Paul, what do I have to do to enter into the Lord’s Kingdom?”
Paul laughed, a hearty sound rising out of his chest that reminded Lydia of the gurgling noise of a clean brook. “There is a river here. I can baptize you this very moment. You can join the family of God. My family.”
Lydia stepped forward. “I am ready.”
Paul asked her a thousand questions. Did she repent? Did she believe? Did she receive? Did she renounce evil? Yes! With a resounding, unquestioning, hopeful, tear-filled certainty, she answered yes to each question.
He blessed her and pressed her into the river, purple clothes and all, her head dipping under the water, hair entangled and wet, spread in a hundred directions by the currents. Her breath held, impeded by the river. Her old self was being washed, cleansed, dying even—dying to the past, dying to death, dying to self—and rising up to take a breath like no other in her life. A breath pure and free of guilt. Washed of shame. She felt as if she was newly born.
Then Paul, Silas, Timothy, Luke, and Marcus laid hands on her head and began to pray, words she did not catch, sounds she did not understand, some speaking in languages utterly unknown to her. Their prayers had a strange power. Where she had always been empty, she began to be filled with an inexplicable contentment.
Tears fell, blinding her. Her nose ran. Her wet hair clung to her face and head in haphazard clumps. She cared nothing for these things. Her soul lived! The Holy Spirit, the men called him, this new presence within her. He took away the loneliness and grief. She felt changed by this visitation, this infilling. Altered forever. She would have fallen over if they had not held her up in their strong arms.
When it was over, Lydia stood, shaking, her legs weak, her body spent. For the first time in her life, she was utterly at peace.
“You are the first,” Paul said, “in this whole realm. The first to believe. The first to be baptized.”
Lydia laughed. She turned to the gathering of women. Rebekah stared with wide eyes, her mouth slightly open. Chloris looked like a gazelle, an expression of awe transforming her young face from beauty to something transcendent. Other women from her household took in the scene in silence. She saw that many were affected by what they had witnessed, weeping in silence.
She was their mistress, their patroness. By virtue of her position, she held over them a world of unspoken power. Her decision to follow the Christ obligated them to do the same. Where she went, they must follow. Her God would have to be theirs. Yet Lydia knew that this decision needed to be an inward one, true to one’s heart. Not one made for the sake of obligation or as a mark of respect toward their mistress.
She cleared her throat. “Sisters,” she began. “Those of you who belong to my household: know that I will not demand this faith of you, nor will I hold it against you if you choose not to follow me. Let this decision come from your heart, not from my urging. I invite you to join me in this blessing, freely. Beloved, let Jesus rule in your hearts, for he is life.”
Rebekah came to stand by her. “You have been touched by God,” she said. “I see it in your face. He has changed you.”
Lydia’s smile shone. “You still have to contend with your objections. I understand.”
Rebekah shook her head. “I suspect God will never answer all my questions. Perhaps it is a matter of faith more than understanding.” She went to Paul. “Master, I wish to be baptized.”
She emerged from the water without the shattered expression Lydia had borne. God’s touch on Rebekah was more understated. A subtle shifting in her soul that lacked the dramatic experience Lydia had had, yet no less real because of it. Rebekah went into the water brimming with questions and came out with peace.
Chloris followed, and then the rest. The waters were stirred by the women’s steps of faith, salted by their tears, washed by their newness.
FORTY-SIX
Oh that my vexation were weighed,
and all my calamity laid in the balances!
For then it would be heavier than the sand of the sea.
JOB 6:2-3
BY THE TIME PAUL PERFORMED the last baptism, the sun had dipped low in the sky and the afternoon had grown old.
Lydia observed the fading light with bewilderment. Her mind had not registered the passing of the hours. “Master Paul, will you and your companions consider staying at my home as my guests? For as long as you remain in Philippi, my home is at your disposal.”
Paul inclined his head. “You are most gracious, Mistress Lydia, and honor us by your invitation. But our message is not welcomed by all, as it has been here today. We bring with us Good News and trouble, both. I would not burden your household with any unrest which our presence might arouse.”
The thought of this man dragging the strife of the world into her already-troubled home gave Lydia a moment of pause. One thing she knew with certainty was that he would also bring with him the peace of God. She was surprised to find no anxiety in her heart as she contemplated the possible problems that might visit her through her guests. Besides, had she not learned through the bitterness of her father’s unjust arrest and subsequent death that she should not turn her back on those in distress merely to save herself a bit of inconvenience?
She bowed her head. “It’s of no consequence. If you agree that I am a true believer in the Lord, come and stay at my home. My servants will make you comfortable and provide you with bedding in the courtyard. The women sleep above stairs and will not burden you.”
Paul turned to Silas and Luke for a silent exchange. “It would be no burden to us to share your company and an honor to tell you more about our Lord Jesus. My companions and I would be pleased to accept your invitation.”
After their long day, everyone had generated a great appetite. Rebekah arranged for food to be sent to the men in the courtyard. Among the more conservative members of Roman society, women did not partake of meals with men during a formal feast, and while this was far from a formal affair, Lydia did not wish to intrude upon her guests.
To her delight, Paul sent one of the servants to ask her and Rebekah to join them for the evening meal. “We belong to one family now,” he said. “Let us eat together as brothers and sisters.”
As they ate in the triclinium, leaning comfortably on couches, Paul and Silas spoke of the Lord to them. Lydia found herself sitting across from Marcus Marcius. He had the bearing of a soldier rather than an architect. His dark eyes were surrounded by laugh lines that looked like faint sunbursts; his hair, cropped close to his scalp in the Roman fashion, seemed almost black except for a hint of gray at the temples. She noticed his hands, which were unusually clean but scarred from fingertip to wrist; his right palm bore a large, sun-shaped cicatrix.
He was a handsome man, which put her on her guard. Since Jason, she found good looks in men an offense. But something in the cast of Marcius’s face and the lines around his eyes caused her to wonder about him. Something about the man tugged at the walls she had erected around her heart. She forced her attention to Silas, who was telling the story of a blind man whom Jesus had healed.
During a lull in the conversation, Marcius leaned toward her. “My thanks for your hospitality, Lydia. It has been weeks since I have partaken of such a delicious meal.”
She felt her heart pick up its tempo, and she tried without success to quench its enthusiasm. “I have a good cook,” she said. “You met her at the river this morning.” Lydia held out a plate of fish to him. “Try her roasted tuna with mint sauce. Her specialty.”
He laid the warm piece of bread he had just dipped in olive oil on his plate and reached for the roasted tuna. Her gaze lingered on the scarred hands. The man was a curiosity. A cultured Roman, judging by his speech and manner and patrician cognomen. And yet he bore the scars of a servant.
“How is it that you, a Roman born and bred, came to follow the Lord, Marcus Marcius?” she asked, unable to swallow the question—unable t
o resist the intrigue of him.
“Please. If I am to have the honor of remaining in your home, call me by my praenomen. Call me Marcus.”
“Marcus, then.”
“I began to follow the Lord when I was a slave.”
Lydia blinked. “A slave?” She had never heard of a Roman of his class being sold into slavery. “You were a slave?”
“For three years.” Marcus closed his hands into fists. The whole room had grown silent.
The Greek physician, Luke, reached over to clasp him on his shoulder with long, reassuring fingers. “Not many men would have survived what you went through, my friend. Fewer still would emerge with a whole heart.”
“That, I owe to God and his faithful servant Jacob.”
Lydia was beginning to understand the attraction of that angular face. It was stamped not only with a superficial beauty but also with pain. He was acquainted with deepest sorrow. And something even more compelling. It was as if Marcus had discovered secrets men seldom unearthed and had entered depths heaven revealed to a select few. He was nothing like Jason, Lydia realized. Jason had been all surface, the shallows pretending to hide fathoms that weren’t there. This man knew depths she could only guess at.
“Will you tell us your story, Marcus?” she asked, holding her breath.
He looked at her, his dark eyes narrowed. She turned the color of the beets in the salad under that careful scrutiny. She had no right to ask him such a question. No right to delve into his past. She was about to apologize and take back her request when he smiled at her. His smile was warm and understanding, as if he recognized that her request went beyond a meager curiosity. As if he understood the root of her question better than she did. He nodded once, and without fanfare began his story.