His divinity is kneaded in the clay of your humanity like one bread

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

A Blessed Chaos - Part Two



TWO


Centuries later the words used to describe the young Pharisee’s attack on the church of Jesus, the Christ, were ‘brutal’ and ‘sadistic’. Like a wild animal savaging a body, Saul cruelly persecuted all of those who proclaimed the Risen Lord, and in his blindness – his heart as hard as flint – he cared not what families he destroyed, how many women he widowed, or orphans he left to fend for themselves. In their darkened antechambers, huddled miserably, afraid of the light, he knew they prayed to their accursed god to spare them from his wrath. And so, when they were ushered out before him, chained and bound, Saul looked into their eyes expecting to see shame and fear.

But he did not find it.

One after another, those who were led into the streets in the early morning hours, or late after their last prayers were whispered – one after another they sang soft praises and blessings to their god, asking Yahweh to forgive their persecutor. Their sweet words stung like coals and left Saul angered, bewildered and confused. Like Stephen, these Christ’s Ones thought little of themselves or the danger they were in, but of him –

The one who persecuted them.

On this night, a young man near his age – a former acquaintance from the Temple School – spoke to him as the guards encircled the man’s wrists with irons and herded his delicate wife toward the torch lit street. The flickering firelight illumined a handsome face and dark eyes that sparked with keen intelligence.

“Saul, I have prayed for you,” he said, his voice as steady as the earth

Infuriated Saul retorted, “For me? Better pray for yourself. Or better, yet, for your young wife!”

The man closed his eyes and drew a deep breath before meeting his ferocious stare. “By the blood of the Lamb, Jesus the Christ, my dark stains are washed clean. Yours are still upon you, Brother Saul, and they cry out to Heaven from the ground upon which that innocent blood is spilled. Can you be so blind? Do you not recognize your God?”

My God?

As they led the man away, Saul leaned back upon the cool stones that lined one of the dark catacombs the Nazarene’s Chosen had occupied and sighed.

“My God.”


###


Far away, buried in false night, a pair of callused hands were clasped in prayer, the will of one untutored fisherman bent towards his Lord and friend. Peter asked for deliverance of his people from the fury of this man named Saul. He asked for God to strike down their enemy so that they might prosper in spreading the word of His son.

Little did Peter know that in granting his prayer, the God of infinite wisdom and power intended to change his world and his mission forever. And not only his world….

Everyone’s.


###


The people applauded when he passed by.

Members of the Sanhedrin praised him for his zeal and inflexible fury.

The High Priest had even taken time to thank him personally, assuring him of God’s favor.

But Yahweh, the one who mattered most, remained stubbornly silent. Since the day in the temple when God had touched his heart, Saul realized he had kept himself too busy to listen. But now as he knelt on his soft pallet, still troubled by the words of his schoolmate, he found the corridors of his mind curiously barren. Silent. Empty. As though the God of his fathers had been chased like the followers of the Nazarene into the shadows by his relentless pursuit of justice in His Holy Name.

As though no matter how hard he tried, he grieved Him still.

Moving into a position of prayer, young Saul raised his voice in a familiar Psalm seeking the Lord’s face.

“Why, O Lord do you stand far off? Why do you hide yourself in times of trouble?”

As the whispered words caught in a weary throat and tears traveled the length of his bearded cheek, Saul felt more than saw a shape shift within the shadows that encircled the lamp-lit room. Warily, he turned, catching a glimpse of a thin, sturdy frame; a narrow face masked by the darkness except for where the light revealed a pair of penetrating eyes that sought his out, cutting through the self-taught lies to the heart of his confusion. Startled, he rose abruptly, spilling oil and casting the room into utter darkness.

“Who? Who is there?”

Silence greeted him. Boldly Saul moved across the room, hands held out before him. In the place the man had occupied, Saul found nothing more than the coarsely woven robe he had shed earlier upon leaving the cool desert night behind.

Angered he whirled and shouted into the darkness. “It will do you little good to haunt me!” His breath came in harsh hurried gasps. Scattered locks of dark brown hair lay plastered to his forehead, and he was trembling. “Do you hear me? Little good!”

Real or imagined this god of fisherman and thieves was dangerous.

Balling his fists Saul sought to quiet his pounding heart, taking first one deep breath and then another. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would go to the Sanhedrin and ask for permission to pursue this Jesus’ followers out of the city, even to Damascus where they had fled into the arms of other Jews less likely to recognize the sedition they preached.

Tomorrow he would follow in the footsteps of his God who, when His people had failed Him, had showed no mercy. Had given no quarter.

And soon, as the Galiaean had died, so would his sect.

Tomorrow it would begin.

Even so Saul knew no sleep that night.


To be continued....


Image of the Apostle Paul by Rembrandt

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