Empire's End Page 6

  When finally I reached the plateau, I was spent and thankful beyond measure for the perfect breakfast I had enjoyed, without which I would not have been able to endure that run. But now I had to climb ten feet of steep, slippery rock, my throat parched, and spread my mantle across the broad boulder at the top so I could prostrate myself there in prayer.

  I draped myself over it, planted my elbows, and rested my head in my hands. Lord, I thirst.

  Thirst for Me.

  I do.

  And as my panting slowed, my physical thirst disappeared.

  Prone there in the early morning sun, I might have dozed had I not been so expectant. Who else anywhere had been awarded such a privilege? Should I have brought parchment and quills? On the other hand, could anyone forget anything told him by God Almighty?

  He had to be amused at the very sight of me. What must the desert creatures have thought of the crazy man racing through the sand to the point of exhaustion, without food or water, now stretched out like a lizard in the sun?

  Yet I had the sense I was where I was supposed to be, and I would wait there all day for another word from on high. It wasn’t long before I wondered if I might have to. I lay there in an attitude of prayer for about an hour before my back stiffened and my joints ached and I found myself constantly shifting to take the pressure off my bones. Finally I sat up and crossed my legs. What a contrast to the comfort I’d felt on Theo’s back as he hurtled hundreds of miles throughout night and day to get me to Arabia.

  Was this a test? Did the Lord require something else of me? I would have done anything. But being sovereign and omniscient, He knew that. It began to dawn on me: I had never been a patient man. God had brought me to this remote, desolate wasteland to free me of the distractions of life. He had stripped me of all but the clothes on my back and the sandals on my feet and left me dependent on an old man, a widow, a child, a trade I hadn’t plied since childhood, and a horse that didn’t even belong to me and of which He had already implied He was about to deprive me.

  Now He was forcing patience upon me. But had He not told me that He would use the same zeal, the passion that I had misdirected against Jesus, now to make Him known, yea, even to the Gentiles? Had He not planned since eternity past to make me both Greek and Roman and a Pharisee of Pharisees, to give me such a fervor for life that I would do anything for His cause? Would not my singular restlessness be of benefit to Him if I were to become a bondservant to His Son?

  So young in my faith, so new in my rapport with God, and yet here I was already trying to shape the nature of how we should work together.

  The silence of God is a harsh discipline, especially when you have known the sweet, rich fullness of His voice. I found myself suddenly overcome with emotion, conscious of His presence but also of my unworthiness. So unclean, so undeserving, so lacking in merit was I that even my conversion had been the result not of my repentance from sin, but entirely His doing. Jesus had, in effect, attacked me, forced His way into my heart and life and soul.

  I had not sought Him. I’d even had to ask who He was! And when He told me, I had no choice but to surrender to Him!

  Sitting on the unforgiving plateau in the hot sun under the unrelenting stillness of God, I bowed my head, wishing myself capable of wholly hiding from Him. It was as if the sun embodied Him now and my sin, all of it, was exposed. When He had merely impressed upon my heart that Theo had eaten nearly two bales of feed because he had another long journey ahead, my first response was to say no.

  Well, of course it was, in my flesh. That animal had become almost human to me. But no? That was my response to God Himself? That was the attitude of a man who said he would become a bondservant and do anything? Did I not trust the Creator of the universe—the One who had miraculously delivered me to Yanbu from Damascus in one day—to provide for me without a horse? Did I not trust Him to get Theo all the way back to Jerusalem, to the Sanhedrin stables, to Nathanael himself, thereby clearing my debt?

  Was my plan better? To eke out some sort of cash from this tiny band of refugees who had fled the same persecution I myself had inflicted on the followers of Jesus throughout Judea, and then risk exposing their whereabouts to the authorities by sending payment for my horse to the precise ones looking for me and for them?

  God should have been silent toward me for my stupidity alone.

  And then there was my sin. Oh, the agility of the conscience! I had asked forgiveness for the heinous acts I had committed against so many innocents, and I believed God had pardoned me. But how had I been able to sleep? How had I been able to live, to move about, to converse, to eat, to do anything with the blood of human lives on my hands?

  I told myself I had merely watched the coats of the men who stoned that young deacon, the one whose face had shone when he looked to heaven, the one the followers of The Way now referred to as their first martyr. Yet I might as well have dropped the last millstone on his chest for what I did to coax that mob into action. When I couldn’t distract my conscience with activity I was unable to force from my mind’s eye the distinct memory of inciting the ire of the crowd to drive that brave orator out of the assembly to where they could kill him. I badgered and cajoled and demanded to know how long they would put up with his blasphemy, and then I conveniently stepped aside and allowed them to do their duty.

  That I had thrown no stone made me no less proud of the work I had done that day, and now it did nothing to salve my conscience. I wept bitterly atop that plateau.

  When the sun reached its zenith and I grew faint with hunger, sweat pouring, I reminded myself that if there was a lesson here for me, I would learn it, whatever was required. If God wanted me to nearly starve to death, so be it. But I would not worry about dying, because I believed Jesus, and He had told me my role on the road to Damascus, that I was to be made a messenger not only to my own people, but also to the Gentiles.

  And then the Lord sent Ananias to me to tell me that I was a chosen vessel to bear God’s name before Gentiles, kings, and the children of Israel, and He was going to show me how many things I must suffer for His name’s sake.

  Had God been a man, I would have told Him that if He was not going to kill me, then either teach me or tell me what to do. But if I had learned nothing else, I knew I didn’t want to be the reason for His silence. Over my many years as an expert in the Law, I had grown so frustrated at my inability to elicit any response to all my prayers that there were seasons when I wondered even whether God existed.

  Well, now I had no doubts, but neither did I want to be the cause when our conversations stopped.

  I raised my head and dried my eyes, taking comfort in the fact that Alastor had said God told him he was to leave me alone in the mornings because I was to ply my trade in the afternoons. That meant I was not to be out here all day. If I was gone too long, wouldn’t the old man worry and come searching for me?

  When you return, water your horse thoroughly and loose him.

  Deep sadness swept over me, and I wanted to ask the obvious, but I dared not. I would not see Theo again, would not be responsible for him. God would take care of him, I knew, and in the process, take care of me and my debt as well. I would cling to that in my grief over seeing the horse leave.

  But surely He had not led me all the way out here for only that word. Unquestionably, to Him that was just a detail He wanted out of the way first. Whenever He spoke to me anew I was thrilled afresh, and it didn’t matter if it was about things that seemed trifling to Him or about preaching the gospel to the ends of the earth. Nothing could be unimportant to God.

  The gentlest of midday breezes cooled the sweat of my brow, and I shivered. I turned to face the sun, which forced my eyes shut, and still sitting cross-legged, I opened my hands, palms up, in my lap.

  In a unique and most mysterious manner, I was able to distinguish the Father’s voice from the Son’s. As I sat motionless, the sun bathing me now, Jesus Himself spoke to the depths of my soul.

  The truth you will preac
h will not be according to man, for you neither received it from a man, nor were you taught it. It came to you when I revealed Myself to you.

  It pleased My Father, who separated you from your mother’s womb and called you through His grace, to reveal Me in you, that you might preach Me among the Gentiles. Resist the temptation to confer with flesh and blood or to seek out My apostles, but remain here until My Father has taught you and equipped you to carry My gospel to every creature. For you have been saved and called with a holy calling, not according to your works, but according to His own purpose and grace that were given to you in Me before the creation of the world.

  For as long as I lived I would never cease to be amazed at the eternality of God’s plan. How puny I felt in the face of His majesty and how I longed to be used in any way to advance His kingdom.

  Many will turn from idols to serve the living God and to wait for Me, whom He raised from the dead.

  I could not stop the tears from coming again. May it be so, may it be so.

  God has approved you, entrusted you with the gospel, and He will test your heart. Never resort to flattery, telling men what they want to hear or seeking their glory. You will be My apostle to the Jew and the Gentile, but never make demands as one of status. But be gentle and affectionate, imparting to all not only the gospel, but also your own life so you become dear to them. In this way you will be remembered and beloved, toiling night and day that you not become a burden to any.

  Remain devout and just and blameless, acting uprightly among those who believe. Exhort and comfort and charge all, as a father does his children, that they walk worthy of God who calls them into His kingdom.

  How I knew my time with the Lord had ended for that day I cannot say, but I knew. It was not as if His Spirit lifted from me, for I felt so full of Him I could have floated across that wasteland and back to the encampment. Rather I slowly stood atop the rocky plateau and turned in a circle, scanning the expanse of the Arabian desert that would never again look the same to me. Thank You, Lord, thank You, Lord, thank You, Lord.

  I wiped the sweat from my face and beard and ran my hands over my scalp and through my thinning rim of hair. I shook out and donned my mantle, covering my arms against the blistering sun. Getting down proved trickier than going up, though I prided myself in my athleticism for a man in his mid-thirties.

  Despite being in a hurry to get back to Yanbu, I resisted the urge to run. My mind, my heart, my soul were full and I needed to reflect upon the most sacred moments of my life. I set off at a deliberate pace, knowing the rest of my day would be full of mundane chores but unable to give them a thought. My mind was bursting with the things of God.

  Nothing could compare to the moment Jesus revealed Himself to me on the road to Damascus, but that had been a shock, an ordeal nearly unto death. My life had altogether changed from darkness to light in an instant.

  But this, today, this unspeakable privilege! To sit in the presence of the Holy One! To hear His voice! To be taught!

  Already I had repented of my notion that I would not need quill or parchments. True, I would not forget what I had just heard, but neither did I want to miss the joy of putting it in permanent form. And who knew how long this would continue? Alastor said the Lord had told him he and the others were to leave me alone “in the mornings.” How many mornings? How much did the Lord have to teach me before He sent me to the Gentiles? I was ready to go now!

  It was no wonder He had already needed to teach me patience through His silence. What more could I tell the Gentiles than what I had testified to the Jews in Damascus, that Jesus was the Christ, the Messiah, the Son of the living God? That He had died on the cross for the sins of the world and had been resurrected on the third day and now sits at His Father’s right hand, interceding for His own?

  To me that was enough. It was the truth.

  But plainly, God had more for me to learn before He sent me out. Who could understand Him if they had eternity to study Him? I had read and memorized His laws and doctrines and precepts since childhood—yea, I had even learned to read from the ancient Scriptures—yet I understood little. I had yearned to talk not just to God, but with Him for my whole life, and yet I had not recognized the Messiah when He came. In fact, I saw Him as an imposter, the opposite of the Divine. I opposed Him, reviled Him, persecuted Him, was glad when He was executed, and went on terrorizing His followers—until He Himself confronted me.

  So perhaps what He had to teach me was less about Himself than about me. I was beginning to see His ingenious design, giving me my unique background and upbringing in order to make an apostle of me to the Gentiles. But only He could make me an apostle. Those already known as Jesus’ apostles had encountered Him personally before He had ascended to heaven. They had seen Him in the flesh, heard Him speak and teach, seen His miracles, performed miracles themselves in His name.

  After His death, burial, and resurrection, I had seen Him on the road, and the very experience had blinded me for three days.

  Now He had miraculously delivered me here, and I was hearing Him speak and teach.

  Would I also perform miracles in His name? I felt so unworthy.

  How interesting that He had counseled me to resist the temptation to seek out His apostles, because there was little I would rather have done than crept into Jerusalem straightaway for that very purpose. I would have to evade the Sanhedrin, of course, not to mention all the victims who had much against me. Then there would be the matter of convincing the apostles that I was now their brother in Christ. Who would believe that? I had been their chief enemy! I couldn’t blame them if it took years to convince them. But how I wanted to revel in their stories of daily life with Jesus Himself. It was likely I would try their patience, keeping them up all hours of the night, begging them to repeat everything they had seen and heard and experienced of Him.

  When the compound finally shimmered into sight through the heat waves over the sand, my thoughts turned to where I would find writing supplies. Surely someone there must have something I could use. Who marked wood for the cutting of tent poles? How did people make lists?

  As fortune would have it, as I came upon the livestock pen near the corral, I espied Taryn at the well and Corydon playing with two other children nearby. A breeze lifted her veil while she was transferring water from the bucket to her pitcher, and with her hands occupied she was unable to adjust it. She tried to turn her face from me, causing her to spill some water.

  “Allow me,” I said.

  “I can manage,” she said, clearly knowing I had seen her.

  “Please,” I said and busied myself taking charge of the process.

  She stepped aside, unmistakably embarrassed. I prayed for another zephyr to reveal just one more hint of her olive complexion. Not even the abject sadness of her countenance could hide her loveliness. But I was touched by her humiliation and wanted to assuage that at all costs.

  “May I call you Taryn?” I said, keeping my eyes on my work.

  “Of course.”

  “I am in need of two things, if I may impose.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “I need a trough to water my horse, and—”

  “Corydon!” she called out, and as soon as he saw me he came running. “You and your friends drag that trough over for Master Paul.”

  “That’s my friend!” he shouted as he recruited them.

  “Pardon me,” she said. “And?”

  “And I need parchments and something to write with.”

  I handed her the pitcher, which she hefted to her shoulder. “I’ll see what I can do.” Taryn hesitated, watching her son.

  “How about I bring him back with me when I finish with the horse?” I said.

  “Thank you.”

  The children watched and giggled as I filled the trough, unhitched Theo, and led him to it. They begged to sit on him, but I told them to wait till he’d had his drink. As if he knew what lay ahead, he slowly emptied the entire vessel. I held in one hand the rope
that had tethered him to the corral fence all night and used the other to swing each of the children atop him. He stood immobile except to snort and shake his head at an insect on his nose, which caused the children to squeal. I spread my feet and put both hands on the rope, but to his credit, Theo did not bolt.

  I shushed him and lifted the children down, telling them to stand behind me, then lifted the rope from around his neck and tossed it aside. His ears perked and I caressed his heavily muscled jowl as I swallowed a sob.

  The children stared at me and I urged Corydon’s friends to run along. The boy waited shyly as if puzzled.

  I had fought my whole life to overcome embarrassment about my short stature. Now it just irritated me because I wished I could face the towering Theo at his level. All I could do was awkwardly wrap my arms around his neck, pressing my head into his shoulder. Theo actually gathered me in by lowering his throat to the top of my head and nuzzling my back, exhaling through his nose.

  “Farewell, friend,” I whispered, hating to pull away when he nickered softly. He stamped and seemed to set himself.

  Let him go.

  I am not stopping him, Lord, I said silently.

  Send him.

  Must I? I said, immediately regretting it.

  Paul.

  How dare I question my Lord God? Before I could talk myself out of it I retrieved the rope and snapped Theo sharply on his thigh. He whinnied sharply and moved slowly toward the tents. I kept an eye on him as he cleared the row of dwellings.

  “Where’s he going?” Corydon said.

  “Home,” I managed.

  “I don’t want him to go!” he whined, and he couldn’t know he was speaking for me. “Will he be back?”

  I shook my head. “Say good-bye, Corydon.”

  He called out his farewell.

  The horse cantered into the ravine, then broke into a trot as he climbed the incline. By the time he reached the overlook he was galloping, and before he disappeared I recognized the magnificent sprint I assumed would carry him all the way to Jerusalem and the Temple stables. Maybe tomorrow I would smile at the bewilderment this would bring to Nathanael. No doubt word had spread of my theft. The authorities knew that when they found the steed, they’d find the horse thief—and the turncoat.