I had often heard that wisdom is visible in the countenance and I thought that I had seen examples of it in the past. But the man who stood before me, loosely holding the reins of the mare and peering around him with sharp interest, gave no outward hint of his reputation. He was not tall, but he stood straight, like a soldier. What hair he had was cropped very short and his cheeks were rough and red from travel. His nose was long and pointed, and his lips were pursed in thought as I approached. For a moment, we stood silently regarding one another. So this is Paulus, I thought. His smallness was disappointing. I had hoped to be amanuensis to a great leader of men, like Apollos the Preacher—whom I had seen once. This Paulus just stood in the dirt and considered me as you would a horse or a slave. But there was something fiery about his expression. His sharp, dark eyes drove into my heart and plucked it like a lyre. He must have found me somewhat out of tune, as his eyebrows drew closer together with each passing second.
Eventually, I felt that I should say something.
“Sir,” I said, bowing a little. “I am Marcus.”
He cocked an eyebrow and laughed a little to himself. I hadn’t said anything particularly funny, so I waited.
“Marcus.” He bowed in return. “You may call me Paulus.” His voice was calm and measured, almost flat.
“Very well,” I said. We stood apart from one another in silence. Finally, I said, “Would you like to come inside and feed yourself with something warm?”
Paulus grimaced and I saw something almost pitiable in his proud, Jewish face. “Unfortunately, no,” he said. “No time. We must reach Antioch before dusk.”
I thought of the fish stew bubbling cheerfully over the fire inside and I swallowed. “Some bread for the journey, perhaps?”
He laughed and leaped onto the mare’s back with surprising agility. The pain that had flashed across his face was gone, replaced by unabashed excitement. He was impatient to be on the road again. “You will be good for me, Marcus. I am glad Prisca was able to find you. And this fine mare for me to ride.”
“We are leaving now?”
“Yes!” He shouted, laughing again. “Bring the bread! We will need it.” Then he turned the mare and galloped down the street like a lunatic. A fig-seller leaped out of the way, cursing. I busied myself with the horses.
I did not care for Paulus. That evening, when we arrived in Antioch, he introduced me as “my Marcus,” and engaged in energetic conversation with everyone in the house. I was left outside to tend to the horses. He did come looking for me, but only to summon me into the house. An old friend of his lived on the other side of the city and I was needed to pen the letter to him. Paulus’ dictation was quick and sharp.
“Excellent,” he said, peering over my shoulder. “Send it.”
“It will need to be corrected,” I said. “You spoke quickly and the stylus…”
He interrupted me. “Never mind correcting it. There are more important things that must be done.”
I bit back my protests. He had already left the room.
I would never admit to having penned such an atrocity, so I left the letter conspicuously in the atrium and waited until I was sure one of the house servants had taken care of it. I prayed fervently that I would never have to meet the recipient face to face. It was enough to make me hide my head in shame.
When Paulus didn’t need me for writing, I was simply left to my own devices. I wandered the streets on a few occasions, but everything in the city was so foreign to me that I spent most of my time cloistered in the house, sitting in a corner of the peristylum, with nothing but my thoughts to keep me company. The house bored me, and I started to despise Prisca who had sent me here with the crazy Jew.
Then two men came to Antioch from Galatia. They arrived at the outer door just as I was returning from another aimless trip to the marketplace.
“Boy,” one of the men said behind me. “Is the man called Paulus here?” His accent was thick and northern.
I knew that Paulus had enemies, but these two had arrived in the middle of the day, and there was no sign of any soldiers or thugs lurking around.
“Yes,” I said. “Who are you?”
“We are teachers from Galatia,” the taller one said. He had very dark skin and a long, curling beard. The other was paler, probably of Gaulish descent. “Where is Paulus?”
Paulus and the Galatians talked for several hours. I was able to get the substance of their conversation from one of the house slaves. Paulus had founded several churches in Galatia along with his friend Barnabas. These churches were very dear to him, but they had been visited by teachers from Jerusalem who were trying to make the Galatians observe Jewish customs. The victory of Christ and His Kingdom was being cut down to become part of the Jewish ceremonial law.
Finally, Paulus sent his visitors to rest. He called me into his chamber.
He was sitting on the broad seat beneath the window, head bowed, his forehead resting on his long fingers. It was hard to read Paulus’ face, but his whole posture was restless, like he was about to spring out and catch the Galatians by the scruff of their necks to shake some sense into their heads. The babble of the city floated through the window.
I didn’t know what to say. I sat at the small table and took up the pen. Paulus remained motionless by the window.
“The Galatians won’t bend,” I said.
He stroked the long scar that disappeared up into his hair. “Oh, they will,” he said. “There’s just enough truth in the falsehood. They will bow to the false teaching. They are just humble enough, and more than a little afraid.”
Paulus sighed and stood. “I must go to them, but I cannot. So you will help me visit them.” He looked weary, a harbor at low tide. “Did you bring your writing tools?”
I nodded.
“Let us begin.”
I had seen an Athenian give a speech in the agora and I knew some of the rhetorician’s technique. Paulus stood still, head bowed slightly, like he was preparing to deliver a speech to a crowded forum.
“I marvel that you are turning away so quickly from him who…”
“Excuse me, sir?”
He blinked at me.
“Should we not start with a greeting? And follow with a word of encouragement or praise?”
“Do you think, Marcus, that the Galatians ought to be encouraged or praised? There will be time for those later. For now, I marvel at their lack of fortitude.”
“Didn’t you say that they were afraid?”
“Not afraid enough. We will put the fear of God in them.”
We wrote late into the night. Paulus paced across the floor, slapping his hands together to punctuate his words, while I crouched at the tiny table, stylus in hand. I had begun on papyrus, but Paulus kept stopping and changing his words, leaping around within the letter like a dog chasing a feather. His energy began to return as he warmed to his topic.
“They want you to return to the law? The law is safe and sure? What is the purpose of the law? It’s painfully obvious, why would it need to be added except in the face of transgressions? The works of the law are a curse to those who try to live by them. Take this down, Marcus—the just shall live by faith—it is a quotation from the prophets—How can they be so blind! Stupid, stupid, stupid! Oh my Galatians, who has cast a spell on you? Let me back up…Shall I start from here? There was nothing in myself that was worthy of the attention of the Most High, although at the time I thought there was. I was brought out of death, out of the law. I was the weapon of the Accuser, who persecuted the Church of God…”
He rubbed a hand over his head, across his thinning hair. He was out of breath but his eyes were full of flame. He seemed to have forgotten that I was in the room.
“Grace of God,” he breathed. “How I wish I could be there with them…”
My stylus stilled. I waited.
“We must add something else,” he said firmly. “It is the only way to make them listen.”
He told me then, and I almost forgot to write it down. It hardly mattered though, as I was able to reproduce the story almost word for word for years afterward. Paulus had been the belligerent enemy of Christ, the sword of the Jews focused on the heart of the church. He was directly responsible for the death of Stephen, a prophet of the church. He sent hundreds of Christians into prison, both Roman and Jewish.
I looked across the room at him, his body exhausted, but his mind still working furiously, and I realized that this was a man who had killed with the strength of his mind and the power of his voice. His intensity terrified me.
He wasn’t finished. He told me how he journeyed to Damascus in a whirlwind of righteous wrath, intending to stamp the children of the rabble-rouser, Jesus. I had heard the legends of course, the blinding light and unforgettable voice, speaking a language none of them could understand. But Paulus told me about Jesus, whom he had met there.
“I was fiercely cold, blasted by the light. I looked up and saw a man standing there, right in front of me…”
And he, the apostle, had wandered blind until the Lord had thrown the scales from his eyes. I thought of my own story, of the stirring in my heart when the merchant had told me of the Christ, his whispers as full of hope as they were of fear. That merchant—Spurius—had been a weak man, scarcely able to believe, but I owed him my life.
That night, Paulus surprised me at every turn. In every moment, he was energetic and opinionated, very much a child of the Pharisees, sharp as the point of a spear. Sometimes that fire was directed towards the Galatians themselves and sometimes towards those who were oppressing them. At first, he seemed insane, contradictory, but as the night wore on, the remarkable singleness of his purpose began to wear off on me. There was nothing to him that did not belong to Christ. I understood why Paulus described himself as “God’s slave.” Jesus of Nazareth had laid claim on this man and was using him for glory.
I realized that I had stopped writing and Paulus had stopped speaking. He had cocked an eyebrow and was staring at me. He was not smiling.
“Marcus? Do I tire you?”
“No, sir,” I said. I wanted to sink into the floor.
“Perhaps you should go to bed. We can continue in the morning.”
I couldn’t tell if he was mocking me or not. I shook my head. “I’ll stay.”
“Let’s try this another way,” said Paulus the next morning. I looked up from my fish porridge. Was he suggesting that we write more? We had been up late into the night working on the letter to the Galatians and my fingers still ached. I swallowed my mouthful.
“Finish your breakfast. There is still a lot of work to do.”
“Wouldn’t it be more effective to send the letter away as soon as possible?” I tried not to sound like I was avoiding work. It was a valid point. The Galatians needed to hear Paulus’s words as soon as possible.
“No,” he said shortly. “This letter will be read in many churches. I hope they will spend time ruminating on its words. So we will also spend the time writing them.”
Once again, his concern for them took me aback and drove me to silence. I scraped my bowl and retrieved my writing materials.
Paulus unrolled the papyrus from the night before. “Let us read what has been written,” he said. “Then we will know what needs to be strengthened. ‘It amazes me how quickly you have turned away from Him who called you in the grace of Christ and to a different Gospel. Not that there is another Gospel, of course…’”
We slaved over every iota of the letter until Paulus was satisfied. In the late evening of the second day, Paulus finally threw himself down on the window seat and I threw aside the pen, flexing my ink-stained fingers. The day was completely gone, but a fine night wind floated past the window.
Paulus hummed a tune to himself, softly. Then he said, “Marcus, do you sing?”
“Not if I can help it. I do not sing well,” I said.
“Neither do I,” he said drily. “But I apologize to those around me and keep going. Here, I will teach you a song.”
The tune was difficult to my non-Jewish ear, but with his coaching, I was able to approximate the melody. When my shoulders slumped, he struck my back with his hand. “Stand up straight,” he said. “Like you are proud to be heard.”
“What does it mean?” I asked. The words were Hebrew, so I had no chance with them.
Immediately his voice filled the room, not beautiful, but piercing and bright:
“Make merry, barren, who do not bear.
Crack open and shout, who do not struggle in birth.
Because the children of the desolate are many more
than she who has a husband!”
It was then that Demetrius came to the house. The house servant brought him to Paulus’ room, bowed hastily, and left. Demetrius simply stood before Paulus, breathing heavily.
“Demetrius?” Paulus’ welcome was cautious. “You are late. You should have traveled with Kyrus and Georgius. Let us find you some food.”
“Paulus,” Demetrius said firmly. “Heliodorus has been circumcised. He is urging others to do the same. He says it is the only way to win favor with God.” He trailed off.
Paulus’ arms dropped to his sides, his hands balling into fists. “Surely they see the folly…” His voice cracked and he snapped his mouth shut. Demetrius raised his hands helplessly.
Paulus turned to the window. “It has already advanced… How? How could this happen? What about their baptism? What about the gifts of the Spirit?”
I began to gather up the papyrus.
“Stop!” His hand snapped up, fingers pointing directly at me. “Marcus, tell me, does Christ come to enslave or to free?”
Demetrius glanced at me. My mouth went dry as dust.
“Don’t be afraid,” Paulus said. His bushy eyebrows were drawn down close over his nose and his eyes glinted beneath them.
“Christ…” I squeaked. Clearing my throat, I tried again. “Christ demands absolute loyalty. He perfects us, and we need no other master. We are free…” I stopped, surprised at my own words. Paulus looked at Demetrius with a kind of desperate triumph.
“Out of the mouth of babes…” he said. “Strange that the pastors in Galatia cannot understand what a trichide can articulate for himself.”
“Still, something must be done,” Demetrius said.
Paulus spread his arms, stretching himself to his full height. “If they remember nothing else, they must remember Paulus!” he growled. “In me, Christ’s crucifixion was made plain. I am a walking, breathing testimony to His sacrifice. They can’t have forgotten that!”
Demetrius said nothing. Paulus snorted and swept him aside. “They want to place their faith in dead flesh? They are trying to bury themselves all over again, to crawl back into the tomb and deny the coming of the morning. They want to climb back into their swaddling cloths when God has stripped them away.” I caught his eye. “Give me the pen,” he said right before snatching it out of my hand.
“Can you help? What should I tell Kyrus and Georgius?” Demetrius asked.
“Tell them whatever you like!” Paulus shouted. “Tell them that Galatia has been swallowed by fire and flood! What do I care?”
Demetrius gave a stiff little bow and exited the room. I sat on the floor, listening to Paulus grumble loudly to himself. He pulled the scroll open (the letter that we had slaved over last night) and scratched out two or three lines without a moment of hesitation. I opened my mouth to protest.
“Scoundrels! Fiends! Curse them!” he yelled. “Advocating circumcision? If they enjoy it so much, why stop with the foreskin? At least we could be spared the burden of their offspring. More papyrus!” I stumbled to my feet and raced to bring him writing materials. His voice echoed through the dark house.
I don’t know how many times that night Paulus shook me awake with both hands, babbling with excitement or anger or frustration. “How can they not see it? Lord, it’s madness!” At times he seemed to be coming apart. “Lord Jesus, help me!”
But then the phalanx of his wit would instantly reconstruct itself and he would leap back to the table, yelling like a trumpet, the smell of battle in his nostrils. Clenching the quill like a sword, he glowered hot enough to burn the scroll to ash and words spilled out of him. The scene played itself out in the house at his behest and in my sleep-soaked mind, it appeared as if in a vision. Once again, he arrived in Galatia with Barnabas, wracked with fever and chills. The Galatians welcomed him into their homes, despite his infirmity, laying him gently down on their own beds. They wet his forehead, anointed and prayed over him, fed him from their own mouths. “If they could have,” Paulus said to me, his jutting chin just daring me to disagree, “they would have plucked out their own eyes and given them to me.”
How could they have betrayed their trust in him? “My children,” he called them, repeatedly. “You have been born. You have taken your first steps. There is no need for the pedagogue, for someone to hold your hand. Why do you want to become children again? These satans whisper sweet nothings in your ear so that they can cast you out. They are playing you like a fish in a net.”
The table could not contain him. He stamped around the room, scraping the pen against the walls. I offered to take over the task of writing so that he would be free to pace, but he always refused. “These are my children, Marcus. I gave birth to them, agonized over them so that Christ would be formed in them, in their lives and their hearts. I must bear their burdens.”
Near sunrise, I woke with a sheepskin tucked around my shoulders. Paulus was at the table, slowly scratching away at the papyrus. Apparently, the apostle had raided shelves and baskets for every lamp in the house and had arranged them around himself to give light as he wrote. He perched in the middle of this light-nest, muttering to himself, his eyebrows still drawn down tight over his nose. He seemed to be having a conversation with someone. It took me a moment to realize that he was praying.
“…there is little I can do for them. These letters must be their guide and keeper. Send the spirit, Lord Christ, send Pentecost down among them…Thank you, Lord, for bringing these men and women to salvation. Through your faith, Lord, through your faith you can justify them.”
I knew that there were both Jews and Greeks who wanted Paulus dead. Would they truly want him killed if they knew what message he carried? If they really knew…I thought of the words that Paulus had dictated the previous day. “Neither slave nor free…” If his enemies really knew the gospel that Paulus was trying to bring to the whole world, if they knew the earth-shattering truth that he had chosen to spend his life proclaiming, they would not rest until he was cold and still as the grave.
One of the lamps flickered and died. Paulus glared at it. His long fingers traced the scar that crossed his scalp.
I stood and came to the table. His voice was so low and broken I could barely hear him.
“My churches. Oh, my churches. What have they done to you?”
“Sir?”
He started and stared at me as if I had emerged like Lazarus at the Lord’s word.
“Paulus,” I said. “It is Marcus. May I write for you?”
He didn’t reply at first, just sat there searching my face with bloodshot eyes. The scent of the lamp oil hung in the air.
“Lord,” he whispered. “I am tired.”
“I will write for you,” I said.
He finally saw me then, looked at my face directly and smiled fiercely. “There is no need,” he said triumphantly. “It is finished.”
Demetrius left as soon as the sun was on the rim of the sky. I watched him walk down the road, his pace brisk and excited now that Paulus’s letter was tightly bound and secure in his scrip. Paulus was in his bed, still as a baby. I knew his fire would return once he had rested well. Soon he would be asking whether he was expected to make his own breakfast.
As soon as Demetrius was out of sight, I turned and entered the house.
“Paulus, an apostle (not from men nor through man, but through Jesus Christ and God the Father who raised him from the dead) and all the brethren who are with me. Grace to you and peace from God the Father and our Lord Jesus Christ…”
Christian Leithart writes and teaches in Birmingham, Alabama. He is also the cofounder of Little Word.