The Damascus Road

by Jay Parini

Peter sighed, perhaps feeling the force of my logic. “I don’t see that we must choose between the Greeks and the Jews,” he said. “God speaks to the nations in their own tongues. That should be a sign.”

  “If we exclude those who wish to join us because they are not circumcised,” I said, “we must content ourselves with small numbers, a mere handful of advocates for the kingdom. But Jesus is the universal lord. He will not reject a man because he isn’t circumcised or fails to adhere to the Law of Moses.”

  “My brother, you see, had a deep respect for—”

  “Your brother! You had very little interest in your brother during his lifetime.”

  “Who says this?”

  “Paul, please,” said Peter. “This is pointless. To be personal at a time when—”

  “Everything is personal. Jesus was personal.”

  “You must consider—”

  “No! I’ve come a good distance to meet, to discuss these matters, and you know it’s not safe for me in Jerusalem. We must have a clear understanding. Those we gather into the fold, if Greek, are not subject to Levitical regulation. It could not be more simple.”

  Peter sucked in a slow breath, rubbing his temples with his fingers. He didn’t look well.

  “I do need clarification,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  Peter replied, “If you don’t mind, I would like to have a few words with James and Andrew. We have only the interest of the Way at heart.” He looked nervously at the others, who showed no sign of agreement or disagreement.

  “I, too, have in mind the interest of the Way,” I said.

  “I’m sure this is true. Could you possibly return at this time tomorrow?” I saw that sweat dripped from his forehead into his eyes, and that he winced. “We’ll have thought carefully about all of this by then. I promise.”

  And so I left them to their deliberations. They knew what I thought. And I would not trouble myself if they decided against me. God stood beside me, so did I require anyone else?

  I had found a room in a narrow alley near the Fish Gate in the house of Judah, an old and trusted acquaintance, and I returned there later in the evening. I noticed the jagged roofline of the Temple as I walked through the Upper City, looking about me in every direction, aware that if word of my presence reached the wrong ears, my life could be at risk. It was, of course, difficult to appraise the actual level of risk, but I assumed that any number of influential men in Jerusalem remembered me, and far from fondly.

  It worried me greatly that the Way might soon diverge, and this would harm everyone who worshipped God in the spirit of his son. Sadness overwhelmed me, and I stopped by a wall to pray, letting my head sink against the rough stone. Thy will be done, I prayed, over and over as the sun dipped low in the western sky.

  Shadows filled the streets with a kind of gold-tinged soot, and I drew a raspy breath, recalling my years in Jerusalem with mixed feelings. It was unlike any other city, with its mingling odors of incense and charcoal, camel dung and cat piss. The residual stench of blood from an infinite number of sacrificial offerings hovered in the air. Slowly I made my way along the worn cobbles, pausing to summon earlier days when I walked these passageways, my head filled with language from the Torah. I had always imagined myself writing commentaries one day, filling empty margins of sewn books with brilliant responses, which generations of scholars would encounter and contradict or, perhaps, confirm as erudite and wise.

  In my tiny chamber, I sat at a small table before a pitcher of wine and some cold meat with sesame paste that had been left out for me. But it had been a long day, and I fell asleep in my chair, resting my head on the table.

  I didn’t waken until I heard the floorboards creak and, aware of the dangers, sat upright. A figure stood before me in the dusky light and I braced, thinking he would thrust a knife into my breast.

  “Who are you?”

  “Paul, do you still chatter about Plato and Antipater?”

  Even in the dim light I recognized the bent nose, the familiar smell.

  “How did you find me here, Aryeh?”

  “Our friend Judah, of course.” He paused. “He told me you had come back. As you see, I’ve grown fat.”

  We embraced, with his coarse beard pressing against my ear.

  “I began to attend gatherings a few years ago,” he said. “For me, Jesus has opened a way to God.”

  “Do you belong to the Temple Guard still?”

  “That’s for younger men.”

  “You’re not so old.”

  “Nor you.”

  “I began life as an old man,” I said. “You once said that. I won’t forget your insult.”

  “You are hunched, bald, and bandy-legged,” he said. “But otherwise appealing.”

  I had forgotten that he liked to make these humorous comments, and smiled at him. “You may insult me, dear friend,” I said. “But my loyalty remains. And my affection.”

  We crouched together on feathery cushions after I lit an oil lamp, and I poured a cup of wine for each of us. He sipped, explaining to me that Gamaliel, before his recent death, had been a voice for reason in the movement, and that he often spoke of me.

  “He is dead then? Gamaliel?”

  “Only a month ago.”

  I had not heard this, and it shocked me to think of this man’s passing. It had meant so much that Gamaliel had turned to Jesus, and that his great learning had become a part of our tradition. He apparently gave wonderful talks to the Jerusalem circle, bringing his knowledge of the Hebrew scriptures to bear on the story of Jesus. “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord,” Gamaliel would say, quoting the Psalms of David, which he called “a carpet unrolled for the feet of the coming Christ.”

  We talked about our teacher’s alluring presence, and I recalled that Gamaliel, more than anyone, had shaped my thinking. His approach to argument—fierce, unafraid—became mine. He understood tradition as a living and ever-shifting body of thoughts and customs, an “accumulation of rhetorical moves,” as he once suggested. God, he declared, speaks now, and to each of us. “The fire still burns,” he said, whenever we spoke of the burning bush and Moses. “Get as close to the flame as you can manage. You won’t fry!”

  Perhaps I preferred the afterglow of an emotion to the burn itself, and considered this a fault of mine, not a virtue. I wanted to be somebody who would stand in the fire, in God’s holy flame.

  “God in me, God without, God everywhere,” I said, repeating the words of Gamaliel.

  Aryeh said, “Those words are…so beautiful.”

  “What is your life now?”

  “I have a wife and two sons.”

  “I would like a son,” I said. “Two sons, even better.”

  “You never took a wife?”

  “There is no time for marriage.” It seemed pointless to explain.

  “You have a mission, a passion.”

  “God has chosen me. On my way to Damascus—”

  “I heard this story. It circulates still, and I’m glad for you. The sky filled with angels?”

  “A gleaming choir,” I said. “And sounding brass. The ground shook, tilting in air. I was blinded by God.”

  “You haven’t changed,” he said.

  We prayed together before he left, something I never thought would happen.

  “God be with you,” I said.

  The next day, I woke with barely enough time to make my way back to Peter’s house, and my stomach clenched as I pushed through the curtain into the room where, as before, I must face the Pillars.

  Peter and Andrew would deliver the verdict, and I took this as a good sign.

  “We have a clear vision,” said Peter.

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “The Greek must become part of the Way,” he said.

  “I agree.”

 
“We know you do. James disagrees, I must tell you. But we have overruled him. No Godfearer, no Greek must undergo circumcision to join the Way. That isn’t necessary.” He paused. “It would be a choice, of course. And one that we recommend.”

  “A sensible approach,” I said, concealing my delight.

  “As for diet, they must follow the Law.”

  “Which aspects of the Law?”

  “We must keep this simple, otherwise there is no way to control whatever happens. If an animal has been sacrificed, or strangled, or has been mauled by another beast, its meat cannot be consumed. And the Greeks shall not drink blood. Blood is forbidden.”

  I could see where they were headed. Saving face would mean something to James. He would insist that they had agreed to a compromise. He must bring this news back to his constituents within the Way, who formed a tight influential circle within our movement in Jerusalem. This outcome could hardly please them, as it opened doors that could never be shut.

  “We can eat at the same table, however,” I said. It was a statement, not a question.

  “Yes,” Peter said, without elaborating. “And one further thing. Fornication is forbidden.”

  “And how do we define that?”

  I had witnessed the whole range of fornication with my own eyes at the governor’s palace in Cyprus, where mere copulation was the least of it, and was myself subject to urges that unsettled me, producing feverish dreams. I knew I must never relinquish control over my body to these animal spirits within me. Discipline was essential in this, as in all things.

  “Do you wish to explain?” I asked.

  Peter didn’t answer. Instead, he broke off a piece of barley bread, giving it to me.

  “There is a question of judgment in all things,” said Andrew. “I would suggest that you pray deeply about these matters. God will show the way.”

  “I shall pray hard and long.”

  Peter smiled. “Very well, good.”

  He told me that I must try the honey that lay in a small clay pot on the table. “It comes from Ananiah, where we have a small gathering. I can’t recommend it enough.”

  “Ah, yes. On the way to the Dead Sea.”

  I didn’t mind the deflection. It was better to talk about honey than circumcision or dietary laws or, for that matter, the details of fornication. It had been a mistake to prod. Fornication must remain within the domains of individual judgment, as the word itself covered a range of behavior. Was a light kiss on the forehead enough to cross the line? Could one touch someone from the opposite sex on the bare wrist without hesitation?

  I left them as soon as it felt it was polite to do so, and found myself almost rising to my toes, giddy with the success of this meeting and of the journey itself. I had settled these important questions, and to the benefit of the Way. A path forward opened broadly, with the sky’s bright unending blue above the bluest heaven.

  Chapter Eleven

  LUKE

  Paul arrived in Antioch in high spirits, buoyant but perhaps overwrought as well, his eyes blinking rapidly as he talked, his lips twitching. It had not been uncomplicated to secure an arrangement with the Pillars, though he had surprised himself by his achievement. The compromise with James, in particular, surprised him. It was perhaps true that James wanted Jerusalem to himself, and it probably made sense to let Paul loose among the Greeks.

  According to Andrew, James thought that Paul would never succeed in the West. He was “too mad, unpredictable, and temperamental,” James said. “His passion is dangerous.”

  He underestimated Paul.

  Now the apostle planned to move into the Greek world without delay, believing the Holy Spirit would fill his sails. Jesus had appeared to him again as he traveled from Jerusalem, urging him to expand his ministry beyond Asia, to think about “Greece and beyond.” To my amazement, Jesus also told him, “Luke will be your ideal companion.”

  It pleased me to have this affirmation.

  Paul gathered the leaders of the Way in Antioch at Phoebe’s house, and explained to them this compromise. It came as a relief, and they cheered his victory. Yet there was a triumphal note in Paul’s explanation that didn’t sit well with everyone, including a cousin of mine, who said, “What an impossible man!”

  “We will travel well together,” Paul said, once again, as we sat in Phoebe’s garden.

  “Where are we going exactly? It would be wise to plan.”

  He gripped my arm at the wrist, digging his yellow nails into my skin. “We’ll tell out the greatness of the Lord and his love. God will suggest the right places for our work. Westward, though. I know he calls us westward.”

  That was an odd phrase but moving. Tell out the greatness of the Lord and his love. And the idea of going westward had its appeal as well.

  How could one resist Paul’s eloquence and passion, his childlike enthusiasm, even his mad energies? I decided to leave everything in Antioch behind, for now. I didn’t care about money and was relatively free of worldly ties. I had no intention of marrying again, as one loss on that level was enough for a lifetime. No relatives apart from a number of cousins and one elderly aunt encumbered me. Nothing fixed me to Antioch except my villa on the southeastern edge of the city, with its view of Mount Silpius from the rooftop terrace, and I knew my cousins would happily occupy it in my absence.

  “We should plan to travel for a period,” Paul said. “I would like to cross the Taurus into the land of Japheth. Bithynia awaits! Have you been to Bithynia?”

  I had not even been to Phrygia, which was closer. And yet I had longed to visit the territories stretching along the Black Sea. Macedonia and Anatolia rang in my head, these luminous and exotic names. News of their wonders had reached my ears, since Antioch was a crossroads, full of visiting merchants, soldiers, wandering teachers and mystics, many of them from Greece, which appealed to me as a destination. I had read the epics of Homer and seen plays by such masters as Aeschylus and Agathon and often thought wistfully about this legendary region beyond the setting sun, with so many islands in the sea.

  Perhaps that day had arrived.

  “Say something,” Paul said, drawing close to my face.

  “I’m thinking.”

  “Don’t think. Come! The Kingdom of God is at hand!”

  “I’m coming,” I said.

  Paul had already enlisted Silas, an Aramaic-speaking Jew from Judea, as another companion. This stocky young man, recently settled in Antioch, had limitless patience, as I had already seen. He listened keenly to Paul, and—though his Greek was never perfect—could warm to strangers, who found him appealing. I soon joked that Silas would “soften up” an audience before Paul took over. And this was especially true in synagogues, where his Judean origins counted for something. Like Paul, he was also a Roman citizen, and this played well on remote imperial roads, where one had occasionally to pass through military checkpoints.

  Our plans fell into place over several weeks as we met at Phoebe’s house for long and abundant dinners. We would stop in Tarsus, Paul said, before pushing into Bithynia by way of the southern Galatian towns of Lystra and Derbe. He was quite determined to meet the population in Lystra once again, even after they nearly stoned him to death, at first mistaking him for Hermes and (unbelievably) taking Barnabas for Zeus.

  “We could bypass Lystra,” I said.

  “God has spoken to me,” Paul said. “And it’s better to face into the wind. There is a spiritual hunger in Lystra. It only requires appropriate feeding.”

  I could hear a hesitance in Paul’s voice as he said that, and guessed that he covered over his terror. How could it be otherwise? They had nearly killed him. And yet this part of Galatia had become more amenable to our message in recent years, with a gathering that centered on Eunice, a confident woman of means who had opened the doors of her house to the Way.

  One day in late spr
ing we set forth, a band of three with a donkey, climbing along a gravel path beside a gorge. We followed in the wake of a camel train from Persia, although we made sure to keep our distance. Paul had brought a small tent, and we could shelter from stormy weather as needed in that waterproof hutch. My own bag contained a sheaf of papyrus as well as reed pens with a pumice to sharpen them. I kept a quantity of dry black ink made from gum and lampblack. I hoped to send letters home to Antioch and knew that Paul planned to correspond with gatherings in many distant parts, which had become a habit of his.

  “We shall have dueling accounts,” Paul said.

  This journey through the Tarsus range could be dangerous, as highwaymen lay in wait for travelers, but Paul never cared about such things. “I believe Silas will keep them off,” Paul said. “Tell him, Silas: You are quite vicious.”

  Silas embraced this description, keeping a sword in his belt to ward off potential attackers. I wondered if Paul had not, after being stoned in Lystra, wished for more protection. Perhaps Silas, without his knowing it, had been engaged to confront potential enemies or to protect Paul from their wrath. It is never good to make anyone feel like a fool, and those who mistook him for Hermes must still, even with the passage of time, harbor resentments.

  We paused to look back on Antioch from the rust-brown crest of a hill several miles from the city, seeing a rainbow arc across the valley of the Orontes. Paul, as he would, took this for a sign.

  “God will protect us,” he said, lifting his arms to heaven.

  I said, “You should feel relieved, Silas. It was your job earlier in the day.”

  We stopped in Tarsus for a few weeks, staying in Paul’s family house, and met with many in his circle there, a gathering of thoughtful people dedicated to God’s gradually realizing kingdom. It quite surprised me to see Paul in this context, in a place so familiar to him, and where the ghosts of his childhood scurried under the blue mosaic tiles in his old home. I noticed that even the slaves there seemed more like old friends and family members than servants.

  “I could never live here again,” Paul said. “It’s oppressively comfortable. I look for, but never find, the child who lost himself in these rooms.”