by Jay Parini
“I do, my lord.”
“I am not your lord! Isola, there is one God.” I paused. “Do you believe in God’s power to heal you?”
“I believe in God’s power,” she said.
That was the phrase. Now she trembled with a violence that disturbed everyone in the room. Her mouth foamed, her arms flapped and beat the air like windmills. Her eyes popped wide, and she screamed with a vile scream, a single searing note. Falling with a slap to the floor, she writhed. And I crouched beside her, lifted my hands in the air, and called loudly to heaven, “Jesus, help your servant, Isola. Jesus, Jesus.”
Timothy knelt beside me, lifting his arms, crying, “Jesus, Jesus.”
A great storm passed through her body, after which I could see a light coming into her previously dead eyes.
I pointed to Luke. “This is my friend, Luke. Can you tell me how he will die?”
She drew herself up slowly, precariously, then stepped close to Luke, inspecting him. “I know nothing of this,” she said. “I see nothing.”
Silas said, “What about me?”
“I know nothing.”
Lydia began to clap, and the rest of her associates clapped as well.
The next day, however, as Silas and I walked along the cobbled pavement into the market, four guards apprehended us.
“What’s this about?”
“Our master, Abas, has charged you with unlawful sorcery.”
“I’m no sorcerer!”
“We’ve done nothing!” Silas shouted.
But they paid no attention to our protests, and we were brought forcefully before Linus, the local magistrate in Philippi. Abas stood there, arms folded across his chest. Then he pointed to me.
“Are you Paul?”
“I am.”
The magistrate looked bored, slumped in a chair behind a table in his gray toga. His beard was caught up in black snarls. He asked me if I practiced sorcery or dared to break laws established by Rome.
“I heal in the name of Jesus. I do nothing except by God’s grace.”
“And which god do we speak of?”
“Jehovah.”
“You’re a Jew?” Linus asked.
“A Jew and a Roman citizen.” I paused. “I would, of course, never do anything against Roman laws. I respect the temporal authorities.”
The word “temporal” gave him pause. “Why have you come to Philippi?”
“A very good question, sir,” I said. “To proclaim the kingdom, God’s unfolding kingdom. I speak in the name of Rabbi Jesus.”
“So you’re an agent of a foreign power, and a Jew.”
“Not an earthly power, sir, a heavenly one. Rabbi Jesus was the embodiment of God.”
“I have no idea what you’re saying.”
“Until the heart softens, knowledge fails. The truth cannot be observed from without.”
This seemed only to inflame the magistrate.
“Honestly, Paul. Do you wish to go to jail? You and your friend?”
“You can’t take away my freedom,” I said.
This alarmed Silas, who began to protest that I hadn’t fully understood the question. He explained that we had done nothing wrong, although this had no effect on the magistrate, whose guards seized us, tied our wrists behind our backs with hemp, and took us to a jail on the via Egnatia, several miles north of the city.
“I doubt there is much criminal activity in Philippi,” I said to Silas. “This will provide amusement.”
I had scarcely released the words when Roman guards dragged us into a rocky yard behind the jail. They stripped us both, then tied us to a post, whereupon they flogged us with braided whips, drawing fat welts on our shoulders and the backs of our legs.
Silas wailed inconsolably, and I wished I could help to ease his pain. But there was nothing for it.
The jailor, whose name I later learned was Matthius, brought us cups of water and bits of bread, with salted fish.
“You must eat,” I said to Silas, who sobbed uncontrollably. Before this I had not quite realized the fragility of my young companion. His sobbing continued into dusk, and it didn’t stop until darkness cloaked us.
I found the night air quite soothing in a strange way, as it had been miserably hot throughout the day, and the slight chill in the wind touched our wounds like a soft invisible hand and, to a small degree, lessened the pain. I asked Silas to pray with me. This was impossible for him, but at least he listened and, almost imperceptibly, moved his lips: Dear God, Almighty father, help us in our distress. Help us, Jesus, aid us. Our defeat is your victory. Thy will be done, father.
Matthius sat on a block of wood beside us, watching with interest. He had probably not seen many prisoners pray to God. The name of Jesus had certainly never been invoked in this setting. In fact, I suspected that few in Macedonia or Greece had yet heard the name of Jesus, my Lord, the Christ.
“What is your name, sir?” I asked.
He told me, and I thanked him for bringing us the water and food, which I was able to eat. Silas, beside me, slumped in his chains, unable to speak. He had resisted those who beat him, and this proved wrongheaded. Long ago I had learned to allow an assailant to complete his work, having become aware that anguish is pain intensified by the struggle to resist it.
“Do you want to hear about Rabbi Jesus, our wonderful Lord?”
He nodded vaguely, though I could detect no enthusiasm. In the boredom of his life, he could not refuse to hear news of any kind. I explained to him that we must all die soon, and yet there was one God in whom we could trust. When I told him about what happened to me on my way to Damascus, he seemed to awaken. I explained to him that Jesus was an aspect of God, and that he was alive, in spite of being crucified at Golgotha. I also told him that I had been commissioned by God himself to bring this news to the people of Macedonia.
“Do you wish to pray with me, Matthius?”
He didn’t and made that clear. But he thanked me for what I told him, and said his wife might like to know about this. They had recently lost a child to fever, and she had not been well. “She weeps in her sleep and cries out,” he said. “I’m unable to help her.”
“What is her name?”
“Endora,” he said.
I prayed loudly: “Dear God in heaven, Jesus, son of God, please comfort Endora in her distress. Please do this, Lord. In the name of Jesus.”
Matthius explained that he would sit with us through the night, as it was his duty. His superiors had apparently been worried about our escaping. We must not escape, he said, or he would fall into jeopardy with the courts. This was, he said, “a dangerous time,” and the Romans had become concerned with foreign visitors, especially those who might be subversives and wished to undermine imperial authority.
“We have no wish to do this,” I said. “I’m a Roman citizen.”
As night darkened the room, Matthius lit three torches on the wall. I don’t know how much time passed, but I fell asleep late, possibly after midnight. I startled awake, however, sensing what felt like a minor tremor in the distance. At first, I thought it was something in my legs, not the earth itself, that moved, having experienced muscular tremors before. I noticed that poor Silas had his eyes open.
“How do you feel?” I asked.
He didn’t reply.
“You should try to drink some of that water.”
But the water, in a clay jug, slid off the little table beside us, spilling into the dirt. Then the walls themselves began to vibrate and crack, with stones collapsing upon stones. One roof beam cracked in the middle, and the plaster of lime fell from the ceiling. Matthius leaped to his feet.
“Oh God, liberate us!” I cried. “Tear down these walls!”
So the ground juddered, and the jail itself spun in a wild cyclone, with a high-pitched whine. More of t
he roof fell onto the floor, and beams split.
“Fall to your knees, Matthius! Ask God to help us!”
Matthius obeyed and dropped to the ground, his knees tucked into his stomach, his arms splayed in the dirt as stones dislodged from the walls, one of them striking Matthius in the leg, though he didn’t move. Within moments, the whole roof now tumbled in upon itself.
“I’m free!” Silas said. “Free!”
His chains, like mine, had released.
The earthquake went on for a few minutes, then stopped, as dust hung in the air, and the room held its breath.
We lay still, none of us quite sure what to do next.
Feeling I must act, I bathed the wounds of Silas with cold water from a bucket, and he did the same for me. I was surprised to see that, almost miraculously, his wounds healed. Mine, too, receded. We stepped back into our clothing, which had been piled in one corner.
Now I bent beside Matthius, who wept inconsolably, putting a hand on his shoulder.
“If you run away,” he said, “they will abuse me. You don’t know what they are like. I have three living children.”
“We aren’t going anywhere,” I said.
“Why are you so kind to me?”
“I love you, Matthius, as one of God’s own children,” I said. “Do you wish to speak to Jesus?”
“Yes,” he said.
We prayed, the three of us together, and I baptized Matthius with the remaining water in the bucket.
“You’re a new man,” I said. “God is your shield now! Fear nothing.”
Matthius accepted this, inviting us to his house, some minutes from the jail, and we told Endora about Jesus, too. Her husband’s enthusiasm moved her, and when I asked if she wished to be baptized, she knelt and wept, and I poured water over her head. And soon their slaves joined us, and everyone knelt with me and held hands as I prayed.
Silas said, “Our Lord likes the unexpected.”
It was touching to see him gathering the world into phrases he could accept, attempting to make sense of unlikely circumstances. But I feared for him. Reality never breaks in expected ways, and it can’t be described easily. The scaffolding of language often collapses beneath us, leaving only the dust of experience.
We slept in Matthius’s house that night, and at sunrise walked into the town, going straight into the courts again, where Linus sat alone at his desk. He looked up and was startled to see me. When I told him what had happened, he stood in amazement and said, “I must ask you to leave Philippi at once.”
We returned to Lydia’s house, where Luke and Timothy wrapped us in their arms. They loved our stories, even though Silas still complained about the lashes. After a night of rejoicing, we left the next morning. I promised Lydia that I would send regular dispatches from my travels and would return when I could to assist and encourage her gatherings.
Only a week later, on the way to Thessalonica, I paused for a day to write at length to Lydia and her companions, missing them sorely. “My dear friends, sisters and brothers in Jesus,” I wrote. “Your many kindnesses will remain with me, and I know I speak for Timothy, Luke, and Silas as well as myself. You are the first fruits in this country. That is precious to me. I would ask you to remain as close to God as possible, speaking to him through his son, Jesus the Christ. All I ask of you is to practice what through God you have received as wisdom. Keep in mind only whatever seems true and worthy, just and pure. Stay close to what is attractive, beautiful, high-toned, and excellent. If you do these things, always in the name of Jesus the Christ, without losing sight of God, peace will flood your hearts, and you will stand in the river of love.”
We traveled along the via Egnatia for some three days, stopping briefly in the cities of Amphipolis and Apollonia, arriving in Thessalonica at midday on the most brilliant of summer days. The city perched on a hill overlooking the indigo waters below, its houses white as dice tumbling downhill to the pebble-strewn beach. Mountains were heaped behind it, and we could see the white crown of Olympus in the distance.
The synagogue, our first destination, lay on the street called Patros, close to the harbor, in a tight enclosure with its shutters drawn, eager to remain unmolested by pagan curiosity. I found one of the elders rocking in prayer, draped in his shawl, and sat quietly beside him until he had finished. At the appropriate moment, I told him about our mission, identifying myself as a faithful Jew who brought word of a great new rabbi.
“Jason will help,” the old man told me.
Indeed, Jason proved more than helpful, this strong young man with a business that included tanning and exporting hides. He welcomed us with enthusiasm, embracing me as if we were old friends when I told him about my family’s commercial interest in tents, and how I had shipped hides from Jerusalem in my early days. He was an intelligent fellow and questioned me late into the night, having invited us to remain as long as we liked at his house. Within days, he accepted that the Way of Jesus made sense, and I baptized him, using water from a swift stream that flowed behind his house into the bay.
I soon realized we could establish an important outpost here, in Thessalonica, as the synagogue teemed with Godfearers, many of them well-trained in Greek philosophy as well as Jewish scriptures: a perfect combination. I began to see that the teachings of Jesus married well with those of Plato. And could actually picture God as the One described as a spirit anticipated by Plato in his Phaedrus.
We soon met Aristarchus, Jason’s best friend, a gentle young soul with cobalt eyes and strong limbs who worked in the leather trade as well. He and I had long conversations after many First Day gatherings. He seemed to follow me wherever I went in Thessalonica, eager to hear my reflections. I liked him, with his soft but persistent manner, his innocent but intelligent questions. One day he asked me to baptize him, and I felt a surge of joy in bringing him more closely into our circle. Luke, too, admired him a great deal, and shared with him a collection of sayings by Jesus, which Aristarchus committed to memory. I often thought of him as almost the ideal new member of the Way, with his sincerity and depth of feeling. Soon I joined him and Jason at their workshop, which enabled me to draw on my skills. Charity was fine, I told my companions, but one must earn the respect of those in any community by working with them, side by side. Even if we had plenty of funds, this labor was necessary. It established ties, enlarging the web of community. The Way of Jesus would only prosper in this context.
Thessalonica enchanted us, with its open paved streets and a marble-tiled forum that had become the administrative center of the city. During the day it overflowed with carts and stalls, with commercial travelers from distant parts. Everything was bought and sold here, as in Tarsus or Antioch. There was a large stadium in the eastern quarter, with seating for some four hundred, and one could attend games there or, on occasion, see a play. We went to the synagogue on the Sabbath, and I would read to them from the scriptures at their request, but I took every opportunity to speak about Jesus. For the most part, they accepted my teaching, and we met with interested parties at Jason’s house each week on the First Day, singing hymns and sharing the sacred meal.
My skills in tent-making proved useful again, as one of the men in Jason’s gathering had a small factory where he produced tents and canopies. The speed of my work surprised them, and I found myself spending long hours at my table. Silas and Timothy joined me on occasion, when they weren’t in the shop with Jason and Aristarchus, and we made a good team.
The Thessalonians folded us into the life of their city.
But, as one could have foreseen, a number of the Jews resented the successes of Jason’s gathering, which grew week by week, and they hardened their hearts against the Christ and, as his representative, me. I tried to meet with them, and one of them (a man named Elon) acceded, and we had long and serious conversations. He, like the others, resisted all changes to what was considered the core of Jewish
practice. I reminded him that Jesus was a Jew, and nothing he said or did obliterated that fact.
“Only God matters,” Elon said.
“And how do you know anything about God?”
“We know him by his actions.”
I pressed here. “What might those actions be?”
“The creation of the world!”
“Ah, yes. But that was not a single event in the past,” I said. “Creation is an active and continuous process.”
This puzzled, even annoyed him.
“The world dawns every day,” I said, “and it’s always new. The creation overwhelms us with its beauty, its changes. Such beautiful changes.”
“You’re talking nonsense,” he said. “God gave us the Law.”
“God is mysterious,” I said. “We can’t know much about him, not in this life. Even the Law remains a mystery. But he has chosen to reveal himself through Jesus, who is the point of intersection between the infinite God of this universe and mere human beings. We can only know of God what Jesus has shown us.”
My arguments failed to impress him, that much I could see. And the next day, I heard from a friend at the shop that a number of Jews planned to apprehend us, charging us with treason and blasphemy. Blasphemy had no meaning here, not among the Romans, but the ears of the imperial authorities twitched when they heard any mention of treason, and they reached for their swords. Traitors to the empire would be dealt with harshly. I knew very well the potential outcome of this charge and rushed home to my friends, insisting they pack at once. Thessalonica could no longer be imagined as a haven, as we had hoped.
Why did God never let us rest?
We left the city even before Jason arrived home for the evening, when—so I heard a few weeks later—he encountered an irate group of Jews, who seized him instead of us, bringing him before a magistrate that evening.
I certainly did not wish, after our experience in Philippi, to subject Timothy and Silas, or Luke, to flogging and imprisonment.
But God drew us forward, opening a way in the thick underbrush of antipathy.