10 - From Saul to Paul

The congregation of Antioch rejoiced to hear that God had taken pity on the Gentiles. “Let’s send Saul and Barnabas to other cities” they said, “to bring the gospel first to the Jews and then to the Gentiles, even as the lord himself commanded.”

Then the leaders of the congregation, Simon Niger, Lucius the Cyrenean, and Manaen, met together to fast and pray for God’s blessing. When they were convinced that it conformed to God’s will, they put their hands on Saul and Barnabas and sent them out.

Saul and Barnabas took John Mark along to serve and assist them. Barnabas’ asked that they make their first call at Cyprus, his homeland, and to this Saul agreed.

The elders accompanied them to the ship, and the messengers sailed down the river to a certain point where they left the ship and made their way on foot to the port of Seleucia.

There may be no other port in the world whose waters are as stormy as at Seleucia. In the center of the city an inland basin has been cut out for the safe anchorage of vessels, and a short canal connects the basin with the open sea. The city itself lies in a hollow, with vast imprisoning walls on three sides. Within the narrow sea corridor enclosed by the cliffs there is eternal warfare between the sea and the rocks. Furious, green-crested waves hurl themselves against the immense cliff that shelters the entrance to the canal and the harbor. The waters, thrown back repeatedly by the granite guard, gather themselves again to roar and renew the assault. No matter how often the sea is repulsed, it does not give up the siege of the powerful beast that stands like a sentinel between it and the port. Again and again the howling waters seek renewed strength in the bosom of the deep, and one wave gathers up the pent force of the wave that went before, adds it to its own, and proceeds again to the eternal assault. Dashed into a million ribbons of foam, it retreats to transfer its energy to the wave that takes up the quarrel behind it. It is never discouraged. Fed by immeasurable will power, the sea continues to shout of certain ultimate victory.

In his heart Saul is thinking, “From this very day my life shall be like that of the assaulting ocean.”


As the ship makes its way to the open sea, and the panorama of the Syrian coast unrolls before them, the messengers see the full outline of the hills enclosing Seleucia and the green forests that crown them. This will be their last glimpse of Syria for a while. Turning around, they can see the open sea, an open path to all the lands of the world, the lands of the Gentiles. They can see the faint outlines of Cyprus. Those fleeing the persecutions in Jerusalem have already taken the gospel to the island, but only to Jews.

The messengers and their servant spend the time huddled together on the deck and repeat from memory verses of the Psalms and Isaiah concerning the promise of Messiah. This astonishes neither the captain nor the sailors for it’s a custom of Jews traveling by sea. Gentile passengers, however, make mocking remarks. The three travelers ignore it. The journey from Seleucia to Cyprus takes just a few hours, and soon the ship scrapes against the salt-encrusted quay of the great Phoenician port of Salamis.

The first thing the travelers do after setting foot in the swarming harbor is to head for the synagogue, for there are many Jews in Salamis. They trade chiefly in salt, oils, and the famous wine of the island. Some export the copper ores of Cyprus to Tyre, Sidon, and Corinth. The messengers hope to arrive before sunset, so that they may repeat the evening Shema there. Barnabas remembers that there is a little hospice for traveling rabbis by the Synagogue of the Cypriots. The messengers enter the hospice and ask whether or not there are people in Cyprus who’ve received baptism in the name of Jesus.

“There are many such here, among our Jewish brothers and among the Gentiles, too,” they’re told. “They all come to the synagogue on the Sabbath. They’re also here on Mondays and Thursdays for the reading of the Torah.”

They decide, then, to wait for the Sabbath.

On the Sabbath, Barnabas preaches the risen Christ at the services. He’s given a patient, friendly hearing. But when Saul mounts the pulpit, an unfriendly murmuring starts up. Even though it’s been eleven years, the people have long memories. They remember the stories they were told about the persecutions and of the martyrdom of Stephen when the gospel was first brought to them. The name “Saul of Tarsus” only evokes contempt and hatred even this far from the Holy Land. As Paul tries to speak, they constantly interrupt him. They were willing to hear the exact same words from Barnabas, quoted and interpreted in the same way, but they won’t accept them from Saul. A tumult builds until the head of the synagogue forbids Saul to speak further.

Saul’s very name is an obstacle to his mission for Christ. Even though his sins have been washed away, people just can’t forget them. They won’t let him become what Christ himself called him to be, a carrier of the gospel. He does have a Gentile name, Paul. But to change names now would be to disown all his past, so that the name Saul would be forever steeped in sin. It’s this name, Saul, that must be cleansed and made acceptable. Saul will make no change until there is some sign from heaven.

And suddenly the sign comes, like a miracle.


There is unrest among the Gentiles of Cyprus, more so among the educated than among the ignorant. The latter at least believe blindly in their idols and succumb to corrupting sexual orgies in the temples. But the educated and the thoughtful understand the depths of moral and physical degradation the priests are dragging them into, and so they seek their refuge in heathen wisdom and intelligence. But the wisdom and intelligence of the heathen are like two withered breasts, from which nothing nourishing can be pressed. Intelligence can be bent to any egotistic purpose by the ingenuities of logic and the acrobatics of the schools, so even with all their intelligence and wisdom they’re held fast in the chains of a helpless fatalism. They struggle against it, calling soothsayers, star-readers, and interpreters of dreams to their aid, but those who deal in demonic powers can do nothing to change the destiny of their clients. They can only predict the evil hour and perhaps enable them to defer it.

Sergius Paulus, Proconsul of Cyprus, is one of those “men of intelligence” who enlist the aid of sorcerers. In moments of indecision, he doesn’t turn to the highly respected wisdom he learned in the schools of the Stoics. Instead, he surrounds himself with sorcerers and soothsayers. To Israel’s shame, his head sorcerer is a Jew named Barjesus, who crowns himself with the title Elymas the Sage. He rejects the Law of Moses, which forbids the practice of sorcery and demands that a sorcerer is to be killed by stoning.

Now because Rome granted the gods of conquered peoples complete local autonomy, Roman officials often acknowledged the god of the people they were sent to rule and adopted their religious customs. This was not considered to be an act of rebellion, but rather a sensible and even honorable precaution. The goddess of Cyprus was Aphrodite, who required every woman of Cyprus, even wives of prominent citizens, to cover herself with a veil, take her place on the temple steps, and make herself available to sailors or merchants at least once in her life. The money of this prostitution was considered a sacred offering to the goddess.

There was nothing in this type of “worship” to actually attract a cultured and philosophical Proconsul, so although he listened to his sorcerers and stargazers in practical matters, the Proconsul stayed awake on many a night to rack his brains with the question, “What is the purpose of the world and of man?”

Sergius Paulus knew of the one living God of the Jews, and he’d recently heard that this God had sent a redeemer to the world, and that his messengers could heal the sick and exorcise the possessed. So when news of the messengers’ arrival reaches him, he sends word for them to cross the island to the capital city, Paphos, so that they might appear before him.

It’s a long walk to cross the hundred-mile long island, but Barnabas, Saul, and Mark begin the trek in the hope that God is preparing a miracle through them, that the Proconsul of the province will accept the faith, and the name of Christ will be sanctified on the island. But they also know that Sergius Paulus believes in sorcerers and keeps a staff of stargazers, so he’ll probably be expecting them to perform miracles.

As they travel, John tells the others the story of the sorcerer of Samaria, Simon Magus, who offered Simon Peter money in exchange, as he put it, “for the secret of bringing down the Holy Spirit on men.” They’d encountered him in the marketplace, a giant of a man, who stood out by his height and bulk from the other people of the city. Large crowds gathered around this man whose face was covered by a forest-like growth of hair.

He always had a certain woman with him, who stood like a stone image, her pale face unmoving, her eyes lusterless. The man performed his magic through the woman. He could transmit thoughts to her without saying a word. He would look into her face with his black, burning eyes and she would fall into a trance. Then she would begin to move through the crowd, stopping before this one and that one, saying their names, revealing acts out of their past, and foretelling their future. She could also raise herself in the air while in the trance, and hover like a bird. Simon Magus persuaded the people that she was the goddess of Thought, the mother of all deeds, and that he himself was God, who directed those thoughts. There were many who believed him.

This Simon Magus had been a great hindrance in the spreading of the faith in Samaria. Simon Peter cursed him, but it seemed the man was able to ward off the curse with his magic. Later, they heard that he’d spread his practices beyond Samaria. He’d taken on the title of Son of God and had persuaded many that they could find salvation by giving themselves to the woman who accompanied him. But he had many disguises and could change his appearance and body at will. Sometimes he appeared as a Samaritan, sometimes as a Syrian healer, and sometimes as a Chaldean mathematician.

After John finishes his story, Saul and Barnabas are certain that the Barjesus before the Proconsul is none other than Simon Magus of Samaria. Now he was assuming the identity of a Jew and had come to the island to prevent the spreading of God’s work.

“Most certainly he is the son of Satan,” says Saul. “God sent His son to earth to rescue mankind, and out of jealousy, Satan has sent his son to hinder the work of rescue.”

It’s clear in Saul’s mind that he’ll have to do battle to the death with the son of Satan in the name of the Son of God.


On the morning he goes to the palace, Saul washes with unusual care, anoints himself, combs his beard, and puts on his scholar’s mantle. The others do so as well, for as Pharisees, they observe the injunction that it’s only proper on formal occasions to appear in formal attire, and today they are to appear before the mighty of the earth.

Sergius Paulus receives them in the audience chamber of the palace. He is seated on the throne, surrounded by leading officers and councilors of the province. The sorcerers and soothsayers stand along the wall. Their leader looks like a little Jew with a hump, and a hooked nose. His clothes are dyed in many colors and adorned with many designs, pictures of the beasts of the constellations, and mystic letters. He wears the high hat of a priest of the Jerusalem Temple. His assistants are around him, some Chaldean mathematicians, a few Syrian healers, and black desert Arabs, carrying cactus roots and other herbs in censers.

Barnabas, as the official head of the delegation, introduces himself and the others to the Proconsul, but indicates that Saul will be the spokesman. Saul comes right to the point.

“My name is Saul, and I’m a citizen of Rome. I come from Tarsus, and I’m a servant of the living God of Israel. I carry the gospel of Christ, who is the salvation of the world.”

This opening statement produces a profound impression on the Proconsul that the startled Barjesus can’t help but notice. Sergius Paulus had expected to see common sorcerers and he was prepared to deal with such. What he sees instead are men of dignified attire and bearing, without any of the hocus pocus of the magicians in their speech or equipment. They speak simply of the living God, and one of them even carries the bronze tablet of Roman citizenship, like himself. What’s more, his Roman name is the same as his own.

Barjesus trembles when he hears the name of the living God. The sound pierces him like a spear. He knows that, as a Jew, he’s liable to the death penalty for practicing sorcery, and he doesn’t relish an open conflict with anyone who speaks in the name of God. Barjesus knows, too, that this is no common test that confronts him, but the decisive one, and he’ll need all his wits and all his tricks to keep his position in the Proconsul’s household. His very life is at stake. So with boldness he lifts his hand, indicating that he wishes to say something. Permission is granted and he approaches Saul with outstretched hand, and a broad smile on his uneasy features.

“Brother Saul, welcome! Peace to you brother. In the name of our common art and of all the spirits, greetings!”

Then, with an acrobatic bow, and an artful gesture of his arm, he turns to the Proconsul.

“Great Proconsul! This man and I went to school together, the school of the prophets, in Jerusalem, the Holy City. We both learned the art of reading the fates, of driving out evil spirits, and of evading disaster from one rabbi. Remember, Saul, the great Rabbi Gamaliel, who was our instructor?”

Saul fixes the full fury of his seeing eye on the little sorcerer. He says to him in Hebrew, “Who are you to speak the name of my holy rabbi with your impure lips? Let your speech be taken from you, son of Satan.”

The words “Son of Satan” almost knock the little sorcerer over. But remembering what’s at stake, he gathers his courage, turns to Sergius on his throne, and says gleefully, “What did I tell you, great Proconsul? I mentioned the name of our great rabbi, and he recognized me right away. He’s a brother Jew, like myself. We learned much together, Saul and I, in the school of the prophets. We can see the future and read the stars like an open book. We know when it’s time to act and when it’s time to rest.

“But brother Saul, we’ve learned even more here. We’ve enriched and strengthened our art with Chaldean lore and Syrian healing principles. We’ve learned from the sages how to grind and mix herbs, and from the wise women of Ashkelon how to avert the evil eye. We’ve become a great academy of sages and soothsayers. The greatest masters are with us. Over here is a great stargazer of Babylon, and over there is an Arabian master of medicine mixers. One swallow of his potion is enough to bring any woman he desires into the arms of our great Proconsul. Let us show you some of our art, brother Saul.”

“Show us, Barjesus!” commands the Proconsul.

Barjesus arranges his assistants around him in a special order. Then, frowning as if in great concentration, he begins to make signs in the air, calling on the names of spirits. Suddenly a cloud rises from the censers, and a table appears loaded with tempting foods, roast fowl and fresh vegetables. The table floats to rest before the Proconsul.

Barjesus turns to the messengers, saying, “Can you do that?”

“No!” answers Saul, in a firm, clear voice.

“Then show us your magic!” commands the Proconsul.

“We perform no magic,” answers Saul, in the same high, clear voice. “Our God is not a God of sorcery, or of sudden apparitions that amaze us today and tomorrow are no more. He’s the God of eternal being and of all creation. His magic and His signs are you, me, and this sinner in Israel, who knows that his heart is filled with evil and deception. The blade of grass, the tiniest blossom, the birds – these are our magic, for they are the creations of God. Bread conjured up by deceptive sleight of hand is not the wonder of God, but the bread that comes from the earth for our nourishment is the wonder of God.

“God sees your corruption and depravity. He sees you deliver yourselves to the lusts of your hearts and the lure of your sins. But He’s taken pity on you and on us, and has sent a helper to take on the likeness of flesh and blood. And he, the Christ, suffered and bled for us. He died as an atonement for our sins, that we might be washed of our impurity and be brought into eternal life. In the name of the one God of Israel, and in the name of the lord Christ, we stand before you here, O Sergius Paulus, and bring the gospel to you and yours, that you may be saved from destruction. These are our words and our magic.”

The Proconsul hears him out patiently and wrinkles his forehead in thought. His chin rests on his fist while he meditates on what this stranger, a Roman citizen, has put before him. No, he does not find his words convincing, for he can’t believe that a redeemer would come down from heaven to suffer with the poorest and most wretched. Suffering is a sign of weakness and helplessness. And yet there is some truth in what the man says. How remarkable that this stranger preaches his God in the name of the natural whole of creation, not the unnatural, as everyone else does. This is something worth meditating.

“Tell me, when will this anointed one bring the Kingdom of Heaven on earth?”

“When he comes on the clouds of heaven, O Sergius Paulus, to judge you, me, and even this one who deceives you,” answers Saul, pointing at the shrinking figure of the sorcerer.

Yes, the great sorcerer, who just performed so notable a miracle, shrinks from the accusing finger. His heart melts at Saul’s words, for he knows full well that his trickery works only on ignorant Gentiles, who worship the work of their own hands. His performances are not just deceptions. They are sacrilege against the Jewish faith. He knows he’ll be pronounced a son of death on the day of reckoning. Even now he should fall at the feet of the Proconsul, and confess that he’s a swindler and a liar, and that all his tricks are childish ingenuities, sleight of hand, and optical illusions.

But what about his livelihood, his security, his very life? No! He can’t follow his heart’s pleading, even knowing of the Day of Judgment. So he holds himself erect with what little strength he has left, and relies on the success of his “miracle.”

“What do you say to this, Barjesus?” asks the Proconsul, breaking in on his terror.

“What do I say?” stammers the sorcerer. “Surely, great Proconsul, brother Saul is right. And if he is right, let him perform a miracle to support his words.”

And suddenly Saul approaches the little Barjesus with slow, confident footsteps. He seems to expand and grow larger until he towers over him like a mountain, and Barjesus feels like a worm at his feet. Saul looks down on him and for a long time says nothing, but to the little sorcerer it feels like a spear is touching the inmost secrets of his heart, a heart that oozes falsehood, impurity, and terror. He feels that it’s laid open for all to see.

And as Saul speaks to him the light of his eyes goes out.

“You are full of all trickery and falseness, you child of Satan!”

Saul lifts his hand and Barjesus sees fingers as of death curving before his eyes.

“The hand of the Lord is upon you! You will be blind!”

A dark wall of night closes in on him. He stretches out his hand toward it, seeking an opening, and sinks to his knees like a smitten reed.


Sergius Paulus, Proconsul of Cyprus, did not accept the Jewish God or the faith of Christ. But the name of God was sanctified that day, and the name of Christ was carried from one end of the island to the other.

Saul alone knew that this sign was the fulfillment of the words he’d heard on the floor of the Temple court. From that day on he assumed the leadership of the group, and he no longer called himself Saul, but Paul, in proof that his sins had been forgiven.