20b - The Birth of the Church

Paul insisted that he had to serve as a model in all things, particularly in the matters of independence and industriousness. So even though Priscilla and her pious simple husband, as well as the entire Christian congregation begged him to give up his work at the loom, and devote himself entirely to the mission Christ had called him to, they begged in vain. Paul continued to work at his loom like a day laborer.

“My daily work is part of my mission,” he said.

He also wanted to remain independent for his own sake. He certainly wouldn’t allow the Gentiles of Corinth to support him, for there was still much to criticize and correct in them. So each evening, after a hard day of labor at the loom, and after a meager supper, he preached to his flock of Jews and Gentiles in the house of Justus.


Although the new “synagogue” was independent of the old one, having its own head, its own officers, and its own worshippers, including Stephanas and his large “family,” there was still a connection between the two synagogues, for both observed the same Sabbath and the same festivals. On Friday evenings, both buildings were bright with Sabbath candles. And on Sabbath mornings the Scroll was read in both. The only difference was that in one, Paul preached on Christ.

The common feasts, which used to be held in Priscilla’s home, were transferred to the new synagogue, due to the increase of numbers. There were already some prominent citizens among the Christians of Corinth. In addition to Crispus, Stephanas, and Justus, there was one Erastus, an official in the city administration. There were also a number of freedmen and slaves, all baptized by Paul’s assistants, Silas, Timothy, Aquila, and Priscilla.

Though Paul preached that justification lay in faith, not works, he also knew that works were the flesh and blood of faith. It wasn’t enough to feel oneself united with Christ. One must imitate him as well. Therefore he began to teach his Gentile converts the Ten Commandments and to educate them in the behavior of faith.

As part of this system of education, he enjoined the Gentles to contribute to the community fund for the care of widows, orphans, the sick and needy according to their means, a practice previously known only among the Jews. This work couldn’t be done on the Sabbath, for handling money was forbidden on that day. It was also considered a desecration of the spirit of common feasts to transact any business on that night, even though the Sabbath was technically over. Therefore Paul instituted a new procedure and had the members of his congregation assemble on the day following the Sabbath, that is, the first day of the week, the day of creation.

So every Sunday the Christian congregation gathered in the synagogue of Justus, and every member brought whatever he was able to spare as a donation. Even the slaves donated what little they could. Then Paul would preach practical things in regards to charity, love, and decency.

Thus the Christians found themselves observing two Sabbaths, the Jewish Sabbath, and the Sabbath of their own congregation. The second Sabbath they named “the lord’s day” because on that day Christ rose from the dead.


Corinth was the first place where Paul at last found enough time to attend to the complete organization of a congregation. One of his first rules was that everyone was obligated to earn his daily bread honestly with the labor of his hands. Although Paul founded a number of charitable brotherhoods to care for the poor and the sick, anyone who was in good health was not exempted from daily labor. Paul had a saying, “He that will not work shall not eat.”

Faith in Christ was not just something to save men after death. Paul wanted to change the world order of the Gentiles and to uproot all evil. Faith must regulate the life of the individual in his relations to the state, his family, and in all human contact.

The Gentiles were used to participating in the feasts and celebrations in honor of the local gods. It was a symbol of citizenship. So when Gentiles abstained from participation, they found themselves cut off from the rest of the population just as the Jews did. They were now subject to the same hostility, suspicions, and accusations. This isolation was harder on the Gentiles than it was on the Jews. They needed a special degree of faith to be able to withstand the pressure of their environment and their old associations. In order to help them in this act of sacrifice, the young Christian church adopted the same organizational forms as the Jewish synagogue. Each group elected its overseers and submitted to their authority. Like the Jews, the Christians came to their officers and elders with their problems, whether these concerned articles of faith or the rules of life under the faith.

Paul was always on the alert against any infraction of the purity of family life. He introduced a strictly monogamous concept of marriage, with love and respect on the part of the man, love and obedience on the part of the woman as a remedy against the degenerate nature of the surrounding world. In some respects he went even further than the Jewish rabbis. Leaning on the doctrine taught by Christ, he forbade divorce. Moreover, members of the Christian congregation were forbidden to take any of their disputes before the city courts. They were told to take their differences to their own arbitrators, even as the Jews did in the court that sat in the synagogue.

These concepts produced a need for men learned in the law, and such men began to appear. So they had councils of elders after the Jewish fashion. The elder of the congregation was the highest authority, and his word was law. His functions embraced not only the religious needs of the congregation, but its entire life. He was charged with the education of the young and the appointment of teachers. He kept an eye on the conduct of all the members. When the congregation became too large for the personal supervision of a single elder, he was authorized to choose assistants, among whom he distributed various functions.

And before they quite knew what had happened, the Gentiles suddenly realized that Paul, who had liberated them from the yoke of the Law of Moses, had placed them under the yoke of righteousness.

* * * * *

Even while concentrating on the faithful of Corinth, Paul never forgot the congregations he founded in other places. He thought of each congregation as a beloved child. The Galatians were the first fruits of his labor, but the Philippians were also very dear, they being the only ones he had accepted monetary help from. And no less dear were the faithful of Thessalonica, who were much tried. The field he’d sown in haste, and left to the storm, had become golden with the grain of Christ. He missed them all.

He remembered how his teacher, Rabban Gamaliel, took him to his office in the Temple court, where the elders of Israel had received the delegates sent by the various Jewish communities throughout the world. To answer their questions, Gamaliel wrote letters for them, containing the wisdom of the sages of Jerusalem. Those letters were like threads, binding the various congregations to the central root of Israel, the Torah. Why shouldn’t Paul do the same thing with the congregations of Christ?

When Paul received word that some believers in Thessalonica had died, and the faithful of that city mourned because the dead wouldn’t have the privilege of seeing the second coming of Christ, he made up his mind. He sent Timothy out to buy a roll of papyrus, so that he could write to the Thessalonians and tell them that those who died in Christ lived in Christ, and that they would see the redemption even before the living. They would hear the trumpet of Christ first.

Thus Paul began to weave the network of letters that would ultimately work, not just his vision of the faith, but the strands of his own life. His letters would become the record of his stormy wanderings, the echo of his soul’s cry, and the mirror of his inner struggles and doubts. They’d be filled with the dark sound of mourning, the thunder of rage, the moaning of his heart, and the cry of his triumphs. Like a skillful weaver, he would work the pattern of his emotions, desires, and longings into the texture of his letters, and all would be shot through with the fiery colors of his temperament and the somber shadows of his Jewish soul.

For now though, he was only concerned with what was happening in Thessalonica. So he dictated to Timothy.

“Brothers, we are comforted in our sufferings and troubles because of your strong faith. For now we live, because of your strength in the lord.

“Do not engage in passionate lust, like those who don’t know God. Let no one take advantage of his brother, or deceive him in any way. God has not called us to be unclean, but to be holy. Therefore anyone who rejects these things does not reject man, but God, Who has given us His holy spirit.

“And concerning brotherly love, you don’t need me to write to you, for you yourselves are taught by God to love one another.

“And see that you modestly work with your own hands, just as we taught you.

“As for those who have died, don’t mourn for them, like people do who have no hope.

“For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, so too will God bring those who are asleep in Jesus.

“And as far as how and when all this will happen, you don’t need me to write. For you know full well that the day of the lord will come like a thief in the night. Therefore comfort and encourage each other with these words.

“See that no one repays evil with evil. Always do what is good, not just for yourselves, but for everyone. Rejoice always.

“Never stop praying.

“Give thanks in everything, for this is both God’s and Christ’s will for you.

“Brothers, pray for us, and greet each other with a holy kiss.”

Then in his own hand, Paul wrote, “I solemnly command you in the name of the lord that you read this letter to all our holy brothers. The grace of our lord, Jesus Christ, be with you. Amen.”


Sometime later Paul had Timothy write a second letter to the Thessalonians.

“Now we command you, brothers, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that you withdraw from every brother who walks in rebellion, and not after the tradition we taught. For you yourselves know that it is your duty to obey us, and to act like we acted when we were with you. We ate no one's food without paying for it. We always worked diligently so that we might not be a burden to anyone. Now we didn’t do this because we had no right to such help, but in order to make ourselves an example for you to follow. For when we were with you, we taught you, ‘If anyone doesn’t work, neither should he eat.’ For we hear that there are some of you who live disorderly lives and are idle busybodies. They don’t work, but are forever concerned with the affairs of others. We command those people, in the name of our lord Jesus Christ, that they work quietly, so that they may eat the bread of the own labor.”

Again, Paul added some words in his own hand, “I, Paul, send greetings with my own hand. This is the sign in every letter that I write. The grace of our lord, Jesus Christ be with all of you. Amen.”


Paul took each letter, bound them in linen, and hung them on the chest of a messenger. The names of the messengers are unknown, and it doesn’t matter. Whoever was a believer in Christ was a soldier of Christ, and he would surely have delivered the message.

Thus Paul sent his letters to the congregation of Thessalonica. But Timothy and Silas remained with him in Corinth, for he needed many helpers in the work that lay before him.

20a - The Birth of the Church

A series of riots broke out in Rome because of popular resentment against a certain “Chrestos,” and the emperor Claudius drove many Jews, both Christians and non-Christians, out of the capital. Among those who fled to Corinth were Aquila and Priscilla. This pious couple brought two gifts with them, their faith in Messiah and their skill as tent makers. Soon after their arrival in Corinth they transplanted both gifts, so that they flourished in Corinth the same as they had in Rome.

In their home city the believers had been at odds with their fellow Jews regarding the new faith, but here in exile, they forgot their differences and helped each other settle into the new life. There would be plenty of time later for their differences to emerge when the settlement became stabilized.

The Jews in the Corinthian synagogue generously aided the newcomers. The Roman exiles were absorbed into the older Jewish settlement, and all prayed together in the synagogue. Aquila obtained an interest free loan, and was able to put his weaver’s stall in the marketplace.

On the evenings of Friday and the Sabbath Priscilla illuminated her little dwelling with many lamps, as she’d done in Rome. Her home again became the meeting place for believers and their families, each one bringing a contribution to the common meal. The believers crowded into the small room, seated themselves according to their ages, and services were resumed. Each one was free to speak. Some told stories and repeated sayings of Messiah they’d heard from visitors to Jerusalem. Others spoke as the faith moved them. Psalms were sung, and words of comfort were spoken concerning the imminent coming of Messiah.

The Sabbath gatherings of believers were their greatest source of strength, enabling them to bear the mockery of non-believers without bitter resentment. Their belief in Messiah became part of their Jewishness, so that they couldn’t understand how anyone could become a believer without first entering the Jewish faith. They were very hesitant to try to win converts from among the Jews of Corinth, because the memory of quarrels in Rome was so fresh, and they didn’t want to risk disturbing the peace of their newfound home. They were content for now to pursue their faith undisturbed, with the joy of their common meals, and with the practice of helping each other in need.

This was the condition of the community when Paul arrived in Corinth.


Paul had sailed from Piraeus to Cenchrea, the port of Corinth, spending the journey berating himself for his failure in Athens. He took full responsibility for trying to meet worldly wisdom with more of the same. He never should have tried to argue with the philosophers with his own “wisdom.” They were convinced that they had exhausted all the sea of knowledge, but they were just moles wandering about in blind little alleys of earth, and he had stooped to their level. He promised himself that he would never again try to use worldly wisdom to make himself great and acceptable. He would speak to men and women as one speaks to children, and not to corrupt adults. He would nourish them with the milk of faith, as he’d done with his beloved Galatians and with the Macedonians. This resolution comforted and strengthened him.

He also took a Nazarite vow not to cut his hair, eat meat, or drink wine unless the lord directed him otherwise. He would keep this vow as a sacrifice to God until he was able to bring a sacrifice of redemption to the Temple in Jerusalem.

The moment Paul set foot in Cenchrea he felt the breath of a new wind. This wasn’t a harbor city of dead gods, like Phalerum, the port of Athens. Cenchrea was a port of the living. Life erupted here among the countless masts of ships coming from every province in the empire. The paved streets resounded with the footsteps of sailors, merchants, and travelers, including a number of Jews who were drawn there by the commerce, which expanded greatly when Corinth was declared a Roman colony. This city had a great future, standing as it did between Asia and the mother country of Italy. Even now there was a concourse of ships here the like of which could hardly be seen in any other port. They brought grain, spices, ores, and dyed stuffs from Egypt, Asia Minor, and other places. The city was expanding visibly from year to year.

Corinth was a young city. The old Corinth of ancient temples and art treasuries that had flourished under the Greek tyrants had been completely destroyed by Pompey. Julius Caesar began rebuilding the city, settling it with freedmen and encouraging colonists from all parts of the empire to settle there and to develop the commercial and industrial possibilities of Achaia, so that Corinth might take the place of Athens.

It was a city with no tradition, no dominant unifying language and no uniform culture. It was a mixture of races and tongues. Freedmen and slaves worked in the foundries, the factories, the oil presses and the gardens. The temple of Venus, who was in reality a Phoenician Ashtoreth, had already acquired some fame. More than a thousand girls served there under the priests, conducting a huge trade in prostitution under cover of a sacred service. Transient sailors naturally frequented the temple. The city was always full of drunken sailors, who rioted in the streets, crowded the hostelries and restaurants, and lost their hard earned demeters and dinarii at dice to the local sharps. The continuous angry shouting of drunken and swindled sailors and the shrill laughter of whores could be heard from the narrow streets of Corinth.

Visitors who passed through Corinth took home stories of its wealth and depravity to the ends of the ancient world, and there was a constant stream of peddlers, merchants, and artisans swelling the population.

* * * * *

Paul was surprised to discover a little community of believers in Cenchrea. They told him about the community in Corinth led by Priscilla and Aquila and about Aquila’s business there. Paul was encouraged that he would be able to find work at his own trade while pursuing his mission. He felt that Corinth was a ripe field unlike Athens, corrupt with intellectual pride, unapproachable and impenetrable. True, Corinth suffered from the opposite evils of ignorance and grossness, but the basic human material was not rotted through and through. They could still be saved. His first aim, then, was to obtain employment with Aquila and his second to find the best approach at reaching the Corinthians for Christ.


From the moment he met Aquila and Priscilla, Paul felt completely at home with the pious couple. The warmth Priscilla exuded restored him after the bitter, frosty reception he’d known in Athens. Priscilla took it for granted that Paul would share their home with them, a little dwelling of four wooden walls, covered with a roof of goats hair cloth that her husband had put up. A corner was curtained off, a bamboo mattress was spread on the floor, and somehow Priscilla found a wooden bench and a three-legged stool. This would be Paul’s home.

At last he could unpack his bundle, take out the scrolls of the prophets, the tools of his trade, and his mantle. He ate his first home meal here, which Priscilla prepared for him, consisting of vegetables, soup, flat cakes of bread, and olives. He was offered meat, but he explained about his Nazarite vows and politely declined.

When he returned from work in the evening, Priscilla prepared a wooden bowl of hot water so that he could rest his aching feet in it. Paul was filled with gratitude for the many blessings God had granted. With a roof over his head, a friendly motherly hand to care for him, and a wide-open field to be sown in the faith, what more could he have asked for?


Aquila had his looms set up under awnings of goats hair cloth among the stalls and booths of the artisans of Corinth in the marketplace of the city. He produced material for tents and mantles, which he sold right there. Women carded and washed the goat’s hair at the foot of the looms.

Paul was harnessed to one of the looms, completely covered with dust. His hands were busy on the threads while his feet worked the treadles. Swiftly and skillfully he shot the mounted spools from right to left and left to right across the frame, using threads of many colors from dark-brown to deep purple. He worked faster and more neatly than the young men, and there was a sharper sound when he brought the wooden beam against the framework of the loom. A high degree of skill was needed to bring the board, with its teeth, exactly against the openings in the framework, but the apostle’s limbs seemed to work by themselves, like horses continuing on the right path when the driver has fallen asleep.

But this driver was fully awake, talking passionately to a circle of men and women gathered around the loom. His words could be heard above the cries of drunken sailors, the singing of streetwalkers, and the bargaining of merchants and buyers. His clear, metallic voice, heavy with the power of faith, was distinct, set apart from the tumult around him, like the sound of a bell above the murmur of human voices. His listeners were his own people, and it was to them that he sought to give strength, knowing that they were afraid to spread the faith lest it lead to dissensions in this place of refuge.

“These eyes,” rang Paul’s voice, “saw him on the road to Damascus, these ears heard his voice. And when he appeared to me in the Temple court he told me to carry the gospel to the ends of the world. And you ask me to be silent for the sake of peace in this place? What kind of peace is that? It’s the peace of the cemetery. Will Satan make peace with you? He too has sent his son into the world, to corrupt it and lay waste to it, to make you sinners before the Day of Judgment. What answer will you give Christ then?

“The lord Christ has touched my lips with the fire of his hand and with the wounds of his body, and there is no power, neither in the heights of heaven nor in the depths of the earth that can close my lips and make them cease from preaching Christ.”

A refugee from Rome took up the argument.

“We just got here, and we’re young plants that can easily be uprooted. In Rome our community was destroyed because of dissensions. And when the Jews here learn who you are and remember the disputes you caused in so many places, the flames we’ve just saved ourselves from will break out here too. We’ll be uprooted again.”

Another broke in to plead, “Can’t you at least wait until we get ourselves on a firmer foundation here?”

“God’s word is not patient,” answered Paul. “It’s not like a beggar standing at the door, waiting to be admitted. God’s word is like a storm in the night, and you may not want it, but the lightning strikes you anyway. You can’t swallow God’s word like a bite of food. It’ll become like boiling lead in your stomach. There’s no place you can hide from God’s word.”

“Hear, O apostle! Have you no word of comfort for your own flesh and blood?”

Rabbi Andronicus spoke these words, a man held in high esteem. He spoke loudly enough for all to hear. He’d come here with the other exiled believers, having been one of the first to spread the gospel in Rome. But he said even more.

“Why must your words always be as sharp as a sword when you turn to the House of Israel? You bring the comfort of consolation and hope to the Gentiles, but to your own brothers you bring dissension and war.”

Paul’s loom stopped and he turned pale. The rabbi had spoken the simple truth, and he knew it. He had kind words for the Gentiles, but not for his brothers.

To himself, he thought, ‘It’s not my fault.’ Out loud he answered, “I don’t knead my dough with honey. I speak what God puts into my mouth.”

“For the Gentiles, you do knead your bread with honey!” cried one man furiously. “For the Jews you have only a rod. Everyone knows this.”

“The Gentiles are but children in the faith,” responded Paul, defensively. “And like children they must be nourished with milk. But the Jews were brought up by the prophets, and they can digest the strong meat given to grown men.”

“They are afraid of men, but they don’t fear God,” came a woman’s voice. Priscilla spoke from the door of her shop, where she was busy selling the products of the little factory.

She turned to those who were questioning and upbraiding Paul and raised her voice, which rang sternly, “The Lord God on high has issued His commands to the apostle. Do you think you can deter him from obedience? See to it that you do not sin! And if it must be that we once again suffer for Messiah, we know how to endure it.”

With this the discussion ended, for the voice of Priscilla was the voice of authority in the little congregation.

However, Rabbi Andronicus could not resist one last appeal to the apostle, “Paul, sir,” he said, in a tone of supplication, “heed your words and be guarded in your speech.”


Paul was permitted to preach on his first Sabbath. His listeners were all Jewish, and his sermon was addressed to them. On this occasion he heeded the words of Andronicus and was guarded in his speech, saying nothing that might offend the worshippers. The entire sermon was devoted to the Jewish Messiah, who had come in the person of Jesus the redeemer. However, he went on to explain that Christ was not, as many Jews thought, an earthly redeemer, a king who would redeem the Jews from the yoke of Rome. Christ was the Second Adam, of whom the prophet Daniel had spoken, who would come with the clouds of heaven. Mankind came from him and was bound up in him. He was a heavenly being, higher than the angels.

God sent this heavenly being down to earth as a man of flesh and blood, to liberate man from the sin that kept everyone in chains under the dominion of Satan, the Evil One. Mankind’s liberation from sin could be brought about only through the sorrows and pains Christ had freely taken on himself. By his shed blood, he cleansed mankind of its sin and restored it to the condition it enjoyed before the sin of Adam. King David, the Psalmist, as well as the prophets, predicted the suffering and death of Christ. He was, moreover, the first to rise from the dead. His return was imminent.

Therefore it was fitting that all who believed in him should gather into the fold of salvation as many of the children of Adam as possible, persuading them to accept baptism and to adopt the rules of a holy life of brotherly love, compassion, purity of the body and avoidance of whoredom and every other manner of uncleanness.

These were new words for Paul, and they fell warmly on the listeners who heard the echo of the hope of Israel in them. Messiah was of the Jews!

By speaking of Christ in terms of the ancient Jewish faith, Paul awakened a host of tender associations in his listeners, especially because he quoted the prophets and Moses and referred to the promises given the patriarchs. Flames of hope shone from the eyes of the Jews, fountains of joy were opened in their hearts.

Some of them were hesitant, of course, and asked themselves what their rabbis would say about this. They still didn’t know who this man was or who had sent him.

“Surely he doesn’t expect us to go right out and say, ‘We will do and we will obey,’” argued one Jew. “We’re not like the Gentiles who one day sacrifice to Zeus and Aphrodite and the next day worship the gods of Egypt.”

“What kind of comparison is that?” asked another Jew. “God help you! Don’t make the name of Messiah unclean by uttering it with your lips. For Messiah himself preaches the one living God, who fulfills the promise made to our fathers through him.”

“But why have we never heard this before? Why have our rabbis said nothing?’

Another Jew said, “I think we should wait. The pilgrimage to Jerusalem will be back soon. Let’s wait and hear what they have to say.”


Paul was invited to the home of Crispus, the head of the synagogue. Crispus was a pious Jew, a simple man, with little learning. Like many, his heart was filled with the certainty of faith in the coming redemption. The apostle’s words moved him deeply, and all that day Paul sat with Crispus, who was a little man, bowed with the burdens of life. It seemed as though Paul’s words made him shrink and become even more bowed.

The next day, Sunday, Paul baptized Crispus and all his family. He was the first to be won by the apostle in Corinth.

Winning Crispus was a great joy for Paul. When the exiles saw that he had prevailed with the leading Jew of Corinth, they were ashamed for having tried to dissuade Paul from doing the work of God and were completely won over to his opinion.

Paul’s second triumph came soon after the first. There was a rich Gentile by the name of Stephanas who came to the synagogue on the Sabbaths. He was respected throughout Corinth, for he was wealthy and had a great family, that is to say, he possessed many slaves, who worked in his bronze foundry. The apostle also baptized him and all his family.


Silas and Timothy arrived in Corinth a day or two later. They brought good news from Thessalonica and Berea. They also brought good news from Luke, who was still in Philippi, and from the good widow, Lydia, who once again sent a sum of money so that the apostle might continue his work. This good news, along with his own success, lifted Paul’s spirit, and he was filled with new hope. Surely this was all a sign that God approved of his labor.

So once again Paul decided to change his tone. He wouldn’t beg for Christ. Was Christ a hungry wanderer begging at the door of the synagogue, waiting for a kindly soul to admit him? The word of God was in his mouth; the salvation of Israel was in his hand. He could bring salvation whether his listeners wanted it or not.

So Paul took the pulpit on the second Sabbath like a man with conviction. Pointing to the passage in the Torah that was just read, he thundered, “Christ is the fulfillment of the Torah for everyone who believes. And when you acknowledge with your lips and believe in your heart in the lord Christ, you will be saved!”

Speaking of the veil that hid the face of Moses, Paul became like one drunk with his own words, and preached once more that Christ was not only the fulfillment of the promise, but also the fulfillment of the law. Without Christ, he declared, there was no Torah. And not only was there no Torah, but without him there were no children of Abraham, even. For the children of God were not children of flesh and blood. The children of promise were the true seed.

These words came across as if Paul were taking away from the Jews what was rightfully theirs and giving it to the Gentiles without price. Not the Torah, but Christ was the center of the faith.

“No man can be justified through the Torah, for it is through the Torah that the sins of man are known. Nor shall circumcision justify a man, for he is not a Jew who is one outwardly. He is a Jew who has been circumcised in his heart. When Jesus is within you, your bodies are dead to all sin, but your spirit lives in righteousness.”

Predictably, the worshippers were appalled by his words. They had the usual thoughts; he had no letter of authority from Jerusalem, and he brought dissension into many Jewish communities.

But Paul couldn’t seem to help himself. The words just seemed to force themselves out of him. Later, at night, he felt pain and regret. He was utterly weary of the quarrels he provoked among his people. They had reached such a pitch by now that their original cause and purpose was forgotten. It was no longer a dispute in the name of God, but a sort of rivalry between the Messiah of Israel and the Christ of the Gentiles.

And then the apostle performed an act he had never permitted himself before.


No matter how bitter the dissensions between himself and the Jews had been in the various cities, Paul never separated himself from his own people. Yes, he threatened to do it. He told them he would go to the Gentiles. But then he would go to a new city and immediately ask for the synagogue. Thus the quarrels, such as they were, had remained confined to the four walls of the Jewish house of prayer. But here in Corinth, for the first time, Paul went away from the synagogue, rented a house from a god fearing Gentile by the name of Justus, and opened his own prayer house for the congregation of Christ. The house was near the synagogue and was made up of both Jews and Gentiles. Not only that, but Crispus, the former head of the synagogue, became the head of the new Christian prayer house. It was only by creating the impression that his house of prayer was Jewish that Paul could hope to escape suppression by the authorities.

At night, though, he couldn’t sleep. His conscience wouldn’t let him. He’d go over his words a hundred times, weighing everything he’d said that day over and over. Had he done well? He’d set out to conquer the world in the name of Christ, and now he had thrust a wedge between Israel and the world. He was winning the Gentile world at the cost of his own people.

He knew there was no other road open to the Jews, but he also knew that the Jews couldn’t abandon the law merely because he said so. But neither could he divide Jesus into a Jewish Messiah and a Gentile Christ. There could be only one Savior, even as there was only one God.

He prayed passionately for a new sign to validate his act. And he got it.

One night while lying in prayer, he saw a form take shape in the darkness. He couldn’t distinguish it clearly, but he knew it was the form he’d seen on the road to Damascus. He heard a voice, “Fear not, and do not be silent, for I am with you.”

The vision put an end to his doubts. He knew there was no turning back. There was no ground for hesitancy. He’d been called to his new task. He was a faithful servant of Christ.

19 - Of One Blood

A statue of Solon, the founder of the Athenian constitution, stood in that part of the Agora that lay below the Acropolis, near the beginning of the Sacred Way that led to the summit. It had been a tradition since the days of Socrates that any wandering professor visiting Athens could speak near the statue on any subject of his choosing, to anyone who was willing to listen. There were plenty of wandering professors, and there were plenty of listeners ready to hear something new in the way of philosophy, science, or politics. The Athenians were noted for their insatiable curiosity and for their readiness to give a hearing to any theories brought to them from anywhere.

Several professors were there one morning addressing little groups of listeners. One was lecturing on the life and philosophy of Zeno, the founder of Stoicism, who taught the theory of one God, the beginning and end of all things. God had delegated certain demons, who had a kind disposition towards man, to manage the world. These were the Greek gods. The Stoics also believed in the immortality of the soul, but not for everyone. That privilege was reserved only for those who were educated and followed the path of justice in their lives. When such men died, their souls were translated to higher spheres. Thus the only aim of the Stoics was to perfect the intelligence.

Another professor nearby was teaching about Epicures, the founder of the Epicurean system. “The gods,” he declared, “can do nothing to change man’s destiny. They have no interest in it. Man’s body ceases to exist when he dies. Therefore do not fear death. Death doesn’t exist, and what doesn’t exist can’t be felt.”

There were four other professors addressing their groups on their special subjects, including one who attracted a larger crowd because he’d just arrived from Alexandria with a new interpretation on the theory of atoms as originally taught by Democritus. Listeners wandered from group to group.

And so they stood in the Agora in the morning light, these teachers who brought to the metropolis of the Greek world every variety of thought the ancient world afforded. Listening to them for a while, Paul was aware that in their confusion of views they weren’t trying to find the truth. They wanted to win a debate, to prove how sharp and ingenious they were. And indeed, many of the listeners came for the same purpose, and the Agora was little more than an arena for mental acrobatics. The glory of Athens drew many professors and students, their robes trailing in the dust of a hundred roads before they achieved the great privilege of teaching or learning in the Agora.

Paul had no way of knowing if his mission would be any more successful here than in the synagogue. His last bit of money was gone, and he was eating very little. His bed was still the hard bench in the hospice. His sandals were worn through; his robe was tattered. He had nothing in the world except his faith in God and Christ. But this was enough for Paul, with his unattractive appearance, his provincial Greek, his outlandish accent. When he’d heard enough of the verbal ingenuities of the professors, he jumped up onto a pedestal, ignoring the god-image that stood there, and starting speaking to the all-wise Athenians.

He started with the Alpha and Omega of the Stoics, the God of the universe. At least that’s not a philosophic hypothesis. It’s reality. God exists. The God of Israel, implicit in every thought, inexpressible by any word, had taken compassion on man, the crown of His creation. He first made a bond with His people, Israel, but now the time had come for Him to extend His compassion to all mankind. God was not indifferent to man’s destiny, for man was the summit of His creation. He’d appointed a time when all men should come under the sign of Christ, a savior who’d been promised through the Jewish prophets. Christ came, and he was here. He was living among them. Though he died, like all other men, he was the first to rise from the dead. In turn, he would awaken all men from death, that they might face his judgment.

Like all speakers in the Agora, Paul had listeners. Some were Athenians, some foreigners. All were attracted by the vague hope. Who knows? Maybe this stranger brings the wisdom of the East, the philosopher’s stone. Maybe he has secrets we never thought of before. Even Paul’s strange appearance was somewhat in his favor. In spite of his long nose and large ears, his high bulging forehead and his general air of exaltation lent a certain amount of credulity to his mission.

But this was true only for some of his listeners. For as he stood talking, one of them exclaimed, “Don’t the gods love beauty anymore? Don’t they usually choose the handsomest men to be their priests? How can this man talk to us of divinity with that face and body?”

“And the way he talks,” groaned another. “That dialect pierces my ears like thorns. Couldn’t the God of Israel send us someone with a better accent?”

“The God of the Jews likes ugly things,” declared a third. “No doubt He Himself is a cripple. You know, the God of the Jews has forbidden His followers to make an image of Him. I wonder why.”

“I don’t know. The wisdom of Athene doesn’t always take the body of an Apollo,” said a fourth. “I’ve heard good things from other gods, too.”

There were some in the crowd who listened attentively to the apostle. One asked Paul a serious question, “Are you implying that not only will our souls be transformed into heroes of legend, but that our bodies will be reassembled in life?”

Paul answered, “Our bodies, in form and substance, will rise from their graves when the lord comes to judge the world. And just as I saw him with my own eyes, even so I believe we shall all rise.”

“If I had a face and body like yours,” muttered one bystander, “I doubt whether I’d want them restored. Now if this God would promise me the figure of Apollo –“

A scholar with a long, earnest face, who was listening closely, said to those around him, “This man speaks wisely, like a philosopher. I too believe that both soul and body will rise in the resurrection. The man gives you full value for your money, mark that well. For when all is said and done, what does man have apart from his body? The body is what measures and bears the worth of a man.”

The scholar turned to Paul and said, loudly, “Tell me, man of learning and philosophy, how will the body be brought back to life after corrupting in the earth? Do you agree with Democritus that our bodies are composed of atoms, and that these atoms will be reassembled, to rebuild man’s body with all its functions? If so, then perhaps the learned speaker can tell us what happens to those atoms that fall away from one man’s body and become part of another man’s body? Will they be returned to the first man’s body so he can become whole again? And if that’s so, what happens to the second body? What experimental proofs do you have about the veracity of your theories? If you will be good enough to produce them, I’m sure the scholars here will examine them with the utmost interest. Better yet, we’ll all be indescribably grateful for the privilege of witnessing the experiments the learned speaker will no doubt perform in our presence.”

The man looked around with a mocking grin and said, “Do any of you, O scholars and philosophers, happen to have a corpse in his possession, for the purpose of this experiment? Or perhaps one of you will allow himself to be temporarily killed in the name of wisdom?”

In the simplicity of his soul, Paul didn’t catch the mockery in the man’s voice at first. He didn’t even notice that the laughter of the bystanders was directed at him. To him the mocking professor was the simpleton, and he was filled with pity for him, as one is filled with pity for a half-wit who suffers from the delusion that he’s a sage.

“O wise one of Athens,” he began his answer. “From what atoms are you made? Who formed you and reared you into manhood? A stinking drop was sown in your mother’s womb, and out of it a man was born. What about the bread you eat? A seed was placed in the earth, and a blade of wheat grew out of it. And with what atoms did God form the world? Who gave Him the drops of water to fill the oceans? Who brought to His hand the material to create the stars in heaven, the seen world and the unseen world, the known and the unknown? Will it be hard for Him that did this to gather together again the man He has sown in the womb of the earth? Can you put a boundary to the deeds of God, you who are blind worms, you sages of Athens?”

“The man’s babbling! Don’t you see he’s half-witted?”
“No, he’s not babbling. He preaches about a certain Jesus, and the resurrection, things we hear now for the first time.”
“So he brings alien gods to Athens? Another cult from the barbarians?”
“Surely he’s an enemy of the gods.”
“Mutiny. Down with him! Haul him to the city council.”

Laughter had become anger. A dozen hands were stretched out and the apostle was dragged down from the pedestal and carried up the winding stairs to the platform atop the Areopagus, where the councilors were seated on stone benches, discussing the affairs of the city. Paul suddenly found himself surrounded by white heads and white beards. He was standing in the center of the council. Their grave faces wore a uniform expression of amusement and contempt. He heard the furious complaints of those who dragged him there.

“He brings strange things to our ears!” shouted one.
“He preaches alien gods!”
“He preaches a certain Jesus who created the resurrection.”
“The resurrection?” asked a councilor. “What’s that?”
“The dead climb out of their graves.”
“And you’ve brought this Jew here because of such empty nonsense?”

But one of the councilors turned a puzzled gaze on Paul.

“Tell us,” he said, “what is this new doctrine? We’re curious to hear it.”

“Men of Athens,” said Paul. “I see you are very religious in all things. For as I went past your sanctities I saw an altar on which was written: To an unknown god. Him who you worship unknowingly, I preach.

“The God who created the world and all things in it, being the Lord of Heaven and earth, inhabits no manmade temple. Nor does the hand of man serve him, as though He were in need, for He gives life and breath to all things. He fashioned all people of one flesh, so that they might inhabit all the earth. And He set the times, according to where men live, in which they should seek Him, though he is close at hand, for we live and breathe in Him, even as several of your poets have sung.

“Now therefore, because we are descended from God, it’s not becoming to us to liken divinity to gold, or silver, or stone, hewn into certain forms by master craftsmen. The time of this ignorance is over, and now He commands that all men repent and turn to Him. He has set a day on which He will judge the world in justice, through the man He has chosen. And this was assured to all when he awakened this man from the dead.”

The councilors listened patiently, more or less, until Paul said the words “awakened from the dead.” This caused loud laughter among the councilors.

“See, this man is out of his mind.”
“True, something’s lacking here,” said one councilor, pointing to his head.

This mockery actually saved Paul from the charge of blasphemy against the gods. One councilor even slapped him on the shoulder, saying, “Hear now, good man. Some other day, perhaps we’ll listen. But now, go home and rest.”

And with this he was dismissed.

Plodding homeward, Paul said in his heart, “I will yet disturb the wisdom of the wise and shame the understanding of the sages!”

* * * * *

Timothy finally arrived from Thessalonica, and just in time. He found Paul in a grievous physical and moral condition.

He brought a little money with him, a gift from the good and wise Lydia of Philippi. He also brought her report on the welfare of the believers in her city, and Paul rejoiced to hear that his foundations were firm.

Timothy took Paul out of the gloomy little hospice and put him up in a regular hostel. He also took Paul to a steam bath, and bought new clothes to replace the rags he was wearing. And while he washed the weary, almost fleshless feet of his “father”, he gave him a detailed report of the progress of the group in Thessalonica, laying Paul’s fears to rest, for his labors had taken permanent root, and the first fruits were evident.

But there were some difficulties. Some people believed so strongly that the coming of Christ was imminent, that they saw no sense in carrying on the business of daily life. They’d abandoned their regular jobs and spent their days in idleness, living on the charity of the community. There were also some who weren’t able to completely abandon their old idolatrous habits and customs. Some had relapsed into a life of whoredom, and they deceived and fooled each other in their behavior. The rest just tried to ignore it all. These thought of Paul often and longed for his return, while some of the backsliders were frightened by such a thought.

Paul realized that he shouldn’t have let Timothy come to him, as he was so obviously needed there. So he told him to return to Thessalonica. Timothy pleaded to be allowed to stay with Paul to tend to him. Silas, he said, was in Thessalonica, and he was a great worker.

But Paul was insistent, saying, “God comfort you, my son, as you have comforted your father Paul. The Lord calls you elsewhere to His work, and you must go.”

He sent Timothy back to Macedonia and then made preparations to go to Corinth.

18 - Hellas

This was no longer the Athens of Pericles, Socrates, or Sophocles. The disciples of Zeno still debated the problems of life and death, using the Socratic method of question and answer, but the Stoics were not deeply rooted in the old faith, and the nourishment for their philosophy was drawn from the shallow spring of their own intelligence. Thus the lessons taught in the stoa carried no individual moral obligation, even though theoretically they did achieve a supreme morality linked to the immortality of the soul, that is, man’s higher impulses.

The Sophists, whose ingenuity could create and demolish whole worlds effortlessly, reduced the Greek genius to a condition of static impotence, condemning the Greek spirit to fruitless repetitiveness. It was as though Apollo were compelled to drive his fiery chariot round and round a circus ring. Beauty, wisdom, strength and harmony themselves, as pure abstractions, became gods. The masterpiece of Phidias on the Acropolis evoked more admiration than the goddess it represented.

Paul went into the marketplace of Athens to bring the gospel to the Gentiles.


The great Agora was surrounded by hillocks, temples, and citadels. It started at the Piraic gate, ran the length of the Piraic street along the foot of the Acropolis, and was bounded on the other side by the Areopagus.

One part of the Agora flowed around the Areopagus, which was a steep rock on which stood a plateau or platform. Narrow, winding stairs, cut in the stone, led to the summit. Stone benches were arranged on the platform, for it was on this hill that the elders and judges of Athens assembled. It was also called the field of Mars, for tradition held that the very first trial ever held here concerned the god of war, Mars, who had committed a frightful crime against his sister goddess Aphrodite. Ever since then the Athenians had used the hill for the sessions of their councils and courts.

The chief market of Athens stood around a gigantic statue of Mercury at the foot of the hill. It differed little from other markets of the ancient world. There were narrow bazaar-alleys, covered with sheets or woven olive branches, little stone stalls, and booths that were reached by climbing narrow steps. Artisans and shopkeepers were everywhere. There were gold and silversmiths, sandal makers, and garment sellers. Perfume mixers worked next to garlic and onion dealers. Slave sellers loudly chanted the merits of their human merchandise. Paul saw a coal black Ethiopian mother standing on the block, and the dealer crying out that this woman was a breeder of mighty sons, every one of her offspring a veritable Hercules. A whole generation of gladiators, he roared, had already sprung from her loins, and those mighty breasts would yet nourish another generation of fighters. On another block stood a naked “Adonis,” a youth of mighty proportions. The merchant had anointed him with oil, so that the flesh shone like metal
.
Images of the gods and goddesses of Athens were primarily displayed in a place called King’s Row, after Archon, the mythological half man and half fish. Pallas Athene, protectress of Athens, dominated followed by Demeter, with Hera, the goddess of fruitfulness, a close third. There were also many statues of Apollo and Hercules, for an image of these had to be placed in every school and gymnasium. The rich would also have these images in their children’s bedrooms to serve as inspirations to beauty and strength. There was also a considerable business in copies of Aphrodite, and of Bacchus, the god of wine and theatrical spectacles.

There was, however, one notable difference in the market of Athens from other marketplaces of the ancient world, for it was filled primarily with people from other places. Athens was the Jerusalem of the Gentile world. The Roman aristocracy, those who planned great careers for their sons, whether in politics, or in the army, or in the imperial administration, sent them to the schools and sages of Athens. Every lawyer who looked forward to a rich practice, every scholar and professor who dreamed of a position in a university, every actor even, whose ambition lay with the general public, knew that a first prerequisite was an Athenian reputation. Thus the city was filled with students and professors from other lands.

As Paul walked through the marketplace, he saw young students clustered around the forges of the rapier smiths, appraising the supple blades, testing the sound of the metal, and waxing enthusiastic over some exceptional piece of craftsmanship. Here and there a circle was made and a fencing bout took place. Other students gathered around the dealers in robes, learning the difficult art of throwing a mantle over the body in such a way so as to bring out the most graceful curves and folds.

One shop of oils and ointments attracted a particularly large crowd of students, where the dealer swore by all the gods of Olympus that his oils and perfumes had the mystic power of awakening the love of a woman, to arouse her to such a pitch of desire that the mere emotion itself brought on pregnancy. Young men bought presents for their latest loves from the cloth merchants and then went over to the gold and silversmiths. There was also a constant demand for fruits, herbs, spices, and plants of all kinds, along with great masses of delicate things of all colors to wear. The flower stalls were riots of color, from dark brown to bloody purple, from cinnamon to flaming saffron, which the youth bought generously, in order to make wreaths to hang on the doors of the beloved.

Older folk, more seriously inclined and more learned, could be found in the book and papyrus shops. Learned slaves sat here on grass mats dipping their sharpened metal pencils in colored inks and copying manuscripts, word by word, as dictated to them from a reader. Single leaves of covered papyrus, samples of the work produced by the copyists, were hung up, and prospective customers were grouped around them. This was their chance to examine the classic text of an ancient work for themselves, instead of having to hear it recited badly by poor actors or even worse mimics.

In front of one bookshop, a dealer had hung out several pages of one of Aristophanes’ comedies, and a lively discussion was going on among the students and scholars on the everlasting theme of the attitude of that ancient writer toward the gods and heroes of Greek mythology. The discussion was lively but apparently pointless. The Sophists claimed that Aristophanes was a blasphemer, but then turned around and declared that blasphemy was the highest form of praise for the gods. Those who defended him then turned around and said that his mockery of the great gods Bacchus and Hercules could be nothing but harmful to the youth. So the only result was that a bystander couldn’t guess who was for Aristophanes and who was against him.

And so it went in the marketplace in the Agora of Athens.

But this was just one part of the Agora. An alley of pillars led from the foot of the statue of Mercury across to the second half of the Agora, at the foot of the Acropolis. Entering this section, the visitor was lost in a confusion of temples, altars, and statues that rose along the slopes and steps toward the supreme temple on the summit.

There was competition among the heroes, poets, and warriors in regards to the temples and altars. Every ruler wanted to see his statue erected among the divine images and altars of the Agora. The Roman generals who conquered Athens treated the city with a respect and consideration granted to no other province, and they wanted to contribute buildings to the city. Not just the mightiest Romans, a Julius or an Anthony, but even the lesser overlords, competed with each other in their gifts of statues, colonnades, and porticoes. It was a mark of high culture for a ruler to squeeze taxes out of his groaning subjects so that he might add something to the adornment of Athens. The Jewish tyrant, Herod the first, had sought feverishly the privilege of having one of his own buildings in Athens. He failed. But one of his predecessors, the High Priest Hyrcanos, had, strangely enough, risen to this apotheosis, and his image stood among those of the Athenian heroes, poets, and legislators.

Very little praying was done in these temples. In fact, one might say that there were more temples than there were serious worshippers.

Paul wandered about this part of the Agora, lonely and bewildered. The temples and altars made him think of a cemetery. He read the inscriptions, such as, “Go and do no evil,” and, “Never betray your friend.”

He watched the unattended ceremonials carried out in the temple of Dionysus-Bacchus, of Apollo, and of the two-faced Janus. His Jewish temperament turned passionately from the beauty of the architecture and the fine severity of line of the Doric columns that supported the temples. His heart was moved to anger, and he burned with zeal for God. He thought to himself, “They have a father-god, a mother-god, son-gods, and bastard gods, and gods who go whoring after the daughters of men. But not one of them can speak or hear.”


The path led up to the Acropolis, where the temples seemed to be hewn out of the primal rock. The tall pillars soaring into the air broke at the top into a burst of leaves. Fragments of rock peered out from among the temples, and sometimes you couldn’t tell what God formed and what man formed. In some places a ledge of stone jutted out, threatening to overwhelm the graceful terraces, walls and colonnades. And yet the temple walls were a harmonious continuation of the rock, as though growing from it.

Paul went by the temples of Aphrodite and Vulcan, both nestled in a cleft of the rock. Statues of poets, tyrants, heroes, and gods, in all poses, looked down at him as he ascended the broad marble steps. At the summit, only one goddess reigned before her glorious Parthenon – Pallas-Athene, the protectress of Athens. Her mighty figure, fifty feet high, stood on a broad platform and was surrounded by a host of gods whose figures barely reached her knees. A golden three-pointed helm flashed from her head over the Acropolis, over the city, over the Aegean Sea, and over the spirit of Greek thought.

Her features, cut in ivory by the master hand of Phidias, showed no touch of femininity. There was no subtle, alluring smile like on Aphrodite. She was severe and just, dedicated to the useful and necessary, the patroness of the known and experienced. Neither the rounded lines of a mother-body nor the proud lines of her throat indicated her rule. Her rule was through wisdom alone, and shone in her great and steadfast eyes. The master had clothed her in a long, massive, golden robe, whose folds fell in a straight cascade over her bosom, her hips and her knees, down to her ivory ankles. Her golden shield, blazing in the sun, was adorned with scenes of battle. In one hand she held a long golden spear. In her other arm she held the image of Tyche, who stretched out the olive wreath of the conqueror to her. A gigantic serpent, symbol of medicine, wound around her feet in golden coils, a cleft tongue protruding from its open jaws.

Behind her stood the loveliest building in Athens, the most perfect and most harmonious human utterance ever expressed in architecture – the Parthenon. It wasn’t the procession of the gods hammered into its frieze that fashioned perfection in the Parthenon, but rather the sheer simplicity of its form. Not a single superfluous line marred the integrity of the structure. Whatever had been put into it was there by virtue of need and rose from the hunger of the human eye for beauty. The calm severity of the building made one think of the quiet murmur of a spring; not the song of a mighty cascade, but of a still-flowing stream among the shadows of heavy cypresses. The power of the Doric columns that stood like guards around the building might have looked appalling in another setting. But here, against the white background of the marble façade, they seemed to beckon hospitably into the shadow of the robes on the graceful bodies of the feminine figures.

A lone little Jew stood in front of the towering statue of Pallas-Athene. Paul the apostle, a Pharisee and a son of Pharisees, gazed up at the goddess who didn’t exist, for of course, there were no gods or goddesses. There was only the one God of Israel, who filled all the worlds. His glory was in all places. No image or statue could enclose Him, and no word could express Him. He simply was “I am that I am.”

Everything else was the work of His hands. The dead image of gold, erected by the clever Athenians, was the creation of one of His creatures. God created the material that made up the image. The mind that created the figure and endowed it with lines and inspired it with loftiness and beauty was a gift of God to the craftsman. In this sense, the image was not an abomination, as others thought. It was without force of itself, and those who believed in its divinity were only transferring their own concept of the divine to it. In reality they were seeking the one living God, but in their blindness they couldn’t perceive Him, so they worshipped the creation, twice removed, rather than the Creator.

Addressing the image, Paul said, “Your gold will be your undoing, goddess of Athens. For it will provoke men to shatter you and melt you down, and with all your glory and strength you will be defenseless against them.”


It was quiet on the Acropolis. The dying rays of the sun lay on the pillars of the temples. The tattered sandals of the apostle clattered on the marble as he descended, between temples and gods, from the summit of the Acropolis. His shadow was thrown back on the altars, and they seemed to shrink from the stern sound of those sandals. The gods stared after the alien Jew, brooded on his footsteps, his frail, bent form, and on his huge head. Other than the sound of his footsteps, the only sound was the tinkling of bells the priests sounded to remind the people that the gods were still there.

Suddenly Paul came to a halt. Before the image of one of the gods a young couple stood, hand in hand, addressing him in prayer.

“Most praised among the gods, immortal Jove,
Highest on earth below and in the heavens above.
The first great cause. Your word is nature’s law.
Before your throne we mortals humbly bow,
For we are of your seed, and to man alone is it granted,
Yes, to man alone, to lift his voice to heaven.”

“God of Israel,” said the apostle, inwardly, “how near men are to You. Through the darkness of the night they grope for You. Turn Your face to them, O God and see how they hunger after You. Renew Your bond with them through Your holy servant Jesus Christ.”

In that moment it felt clear to him that God had indeed turned His face to man. In all the world, this spot, in Athens, on the Acropolis, and among the idols had been chosen for a sign. There was a limit, and there would be an appointed hour of judgment.

* * * * *

It was evening when Paul reentered the Agora, and the altars and images were shrouded in shadow. There was a lively tumult as crowds streamed toward the Dionysus Theater in the eastern wall of the Acropolis. They were holding torches and lanterns to illuminate the path. Young men pressed forward, keeping step to the sounds of flute players. Here and there a litter carrying one of the councilors of Athens threaded its way through the crowd, preceded by heralds who called out the name of the important man who demanded passage. There were many women, too, heavily robed and veiled, surrounded by their overseers and servants. They were going to see a play called Oedipus Rex by Sophocles, with one of the famous actors of Athens in the leading role. It seemed the entire city was going.

Paul let himself be drawn along with the crowd. The rising tiers were packed with young and old, and vast though the amphitheater was, it couldn’t accommodate all who wanted admission. There was some scuffling for seats, mostly between the slaves who attended their masters, and it was almost impossible to maintain order. At the gates of the theater mobs pressed forward, and the larger the numbers of those admitted, the larger were the crowds left outside.

Paul was sort of carried into the theater in a sudden rush. He was anxious to see the play, for he knew that of all the Greek tragedies this one embodied most perfectly the world outlook of the man of Greece.

The leading citizens of Athens occupied the stone benches closest to the arena. A group of priests stood around an empty throne reserved for Dionysus, “the bringer of joy and of play to man.” It was a popular belief that he attended every one of the plays and rendered judgment on the quality of the performance. The tiers farthest away, reaching far up the slope, were packed with the ordinary citizenry.

Jammed together, the occupants of the seats kept up a ceaseless clamor. Friends shouted to each other, and even threw each other their flower wreaths. The players stood in the open arena along with the chorus of old men. Some of them were dressed in fantastically colored costumes and held the masks they would put on during the performance. The audience was much interested in the actors, and as it recognized one favorite after another, his name was called out loudly, like spectators encouraging gladiators to the fight. Other actors, who perhaps had disgraced themselves in recent performances, were greeted with laughter.

The priests blew the silver trumpets and the audience slowly grew quiet. Their high gaiety turned into earnestness and concentration, for they considered this not just a theatrical performance, but a religious service as well.

In the play, even before Oedipus is born to his parents, the King and Queen of Thebes, the gods set a dreadful and unalterable destiny for him. He will kill his father and marry his mother. In Paul’s mind, the trial is not planned for the prince to perfect his character or strengthen his faith, as was the case with Job, so that he might triumph over adversity. That would be the purpose of the Jewish God. The gods of Olympus lay out this ghastly future for Oedipus for no reason at all. They do it out of sheer playfulness.

The parents learn of the decree and do all in their power to prevent it. They’re even prepared to sacrifice the child rather than let it live into the unspeakable future. But they can’t prevent it. And they’re not alone. Even the gods are impotent to prevent the unfolding of the course of events that they themselves decreed.

Everyone knows the story. But watching this masterpiece of the great dramatist, they live through it as though seeing it for the first time. Breathlessly they follow the scenes. Without knowing why, and without the cooperation of his own will, Oedipus fulfills the words of the oracle to the letter. He kills his father, marries his mother, and has two sons through her. And now the gods demand vengeance for the sin. There is pestilence in the city of Thebes, and Oedipus, in ignorance of the source of the pestilence, dedicates himself to finding out who committed the criminal act that moved the gods to anger. His mother-wife, knowing the truth, tries in vain to discourage his search.

The end draws on with the swiftness of a flying arrow. The mother can’t prevail on the son to remain in happy ignorance. She takes her own life. Noble-spirited Oedipus, learning the truth, stabs out his own eyes and condemns himself to eternal exile.

This evidence of the ceaseless aspiration of the Gentiles toward the truth, even to their own undoing, moves Paul’s heart as never before. For this is not Oedipus alone. This is the Gentile world at its best. The entire audience participates in the Oedipus tragedy, all of them chained to blind destinies. The gods know destiny, but not grace. No redeemer has been born to them. There is no one in the heavens to represent them.


Paul learned much that evening, and his heart overflowed. He wanted to jump to his feet and cry out, “No, no, this is not the truth you’ve been shown. Man is not a beast among the other beasts, tied to the destiny of his own nature. Man is the chosen of creation formed by God in his own image and endowed with special attributes. He has a soul, which is a part of Him. He prepared the blessing before the curse, salvation before calamity. Yes, even before He created the first man, God created the savior of man.

He felt fountains of bliss opening up in his heart as he remembered the name of the savior in this place. Living waters came up and refreshed him.

As he walked back towards the hospice through the night streets of Athens, there was a dancing in his footsteps. He was drunk, not with wine, but with joy.

17 - Fool of Messiah

Dusty fig leaves hung over the white walls of the courtyards, while women sat mending clothes and household utensils on flat, level roofs. Two young men, wrapped up to the throat in white cloaks, sprang out of one of the gates toward the Agora, passing a slave in a short shirt leading a lad to school carrying his writing tools, a stylus, and a tablet. A woman threw out her husband because he had come home so late from some nighttime banquet, and there was a crowd of old men and women enjoying the scene. Hungry bystanders, saliva dripping from their mouths, including slaves, idlers and women in tattered mantles, stood around a sausage shop where a tripod stood in the open street, filling the air with the pleasant odor of frying meat, while the heavy smell of vinegar came up from wine cellars.

Farther down the alley, between the olive press and the cheese maker, near some restaurants and cheap inns, Paul found the synagogue of Athens, shut off from the street by a wall.

The synagogue was closed. It wasn’t used during the day by teachers or by the Rabbinic court, as was the custom in other cities. The head of the synagogue was absent, so there was no one around to welcome the visitor. He was in the Agora, selling purple-dyed linens to rich young students for their concubines and dancing girls. The synagogue’s scribe was also in the Agora selling jars. Any visitor from out of town could just wait.

A Jewess living in a nearby house took pity on the waiting stranger, who was obviously a Jew, and invited him in. She placed a wooden bowl containing warm water in front of him so he could wash his hands and feet. She also offered him a cup of goat’s milk and a piece of bread. The stranger thanked her for her kindness, in the name of God.

“In the name of the God of Israel,” added the woman as she wet her fingers in the warm water, so as not to mention the divine name with unwashed hands.

“In the name of the God of Israel and of his holy servant, Jesus the Messiah!” said Paul.

“Jesus the Messiah?” said the woman, her eyes filled with wonder.

“Yes. Have you never heard of him?” asked the messenger, as he ate his small portion of bread.

“No, never. We are far from Jerusalem. Has Messiah come then?”

“Yes, Messiah has come, and I’ve come to tell you about it.”

“When was this? How did it happen? Why haven’t we been told? A rabbi was here from the High Priest just a week ago, and he said nothing about it.”

“They didn’t recognize him.”

“What? They didn’t recognize Messiah? I don’t understand.”

So the stranger told her of wonderful things as she stared at him, bewildered, and slightly suspicious. But she only had one question. Does this mean that the Jews would now have to leave the scattered cities where they lived to gather in Jerusalem?

“That would be a pity,” she said. “My husband just started work with a silversmith in the Agora. He makes ornaments for Athenian women, and it’s a profitable business. There are many rich students in Athens, and they have much money. We’ve been able to buy some new things for the house, like a bronze couch and some cedar wood bowls. Besides, we’re buying this house and have already paid nearly half the price. We’d have to give up all this security and move to Jerusalem if Messiah’s come. And who knows what would happen with so many Jews streaming there from the four corners of the world, all looking for jobs, and snatching the bread out of each other’s mouths. No, I’m not at all happy with this news.”

As she said this she placed a little bowl of olives and a cruse of honey in front of the messenger.

“I’d much rather things stay the way they are. We’re happy to send our taxes to the Temple. Just let me stay right where I am with my family. Other Jews can go, but me and my husband and our two children would much rather remain in Athens, as long as things continue to go well.”


Paul got a similar reception from the head of the synagogue, when the latter returned from his cloth shop on the Agora and found the messenger waiting for him in the synagogue court.

“By Zeus! By Jupiter!” said the head of the synagogue, a little man with a short neck, a round belly, and an asthmatic wheeze. He meant no harm by this exclamation. It was his way of talking to his customers in the Agora.

“We really don’t know what to do with all these messengers from Jerusalem. They don’t give us time to catch our breaths between one and the next. Why, only a week ago a messenger from the High Priest was here and took away seventy-seven drachmas from our little community. And a little while before that a messenger from the Pharisees got fifty silver drachmas out of us. And then there are all the rabbis and preachers that stop by. And now here’s another one. Tell me, what is it you want, and who sent you?”

“The one who sent me,” answered Paul, “didn’t send me to take, but to give. I’ll be no burden to you. I’m a weaver by trade. I weave goat’s-hair cloth for tents and mantles. In fact, I have my tools with me if there’s someone who could hire me while I’m here? And as for what I will give you, I ask no payment for it. For the one who sent me said, ‘You received me for nothing, and you shall give me away for nothing.’”

This was certainly something new. A rabbi sent from Jerusalem, who asked no contribution and who would earn his own bread with his own hands? This was unheard of. True, there were rabbis in Jerusalem who earned their own livelihoods with their own hands and who taught the law with no compensation, but they’d never actually seen such a rabbi. The ones who came from Jerusalem came to collect contributions.

He said to Paul, “There’s a little hospice attached to our synagogue for messengers to lodge in when visiting us. They may also be fed from the treasury of the community. This has always been our practice, and our pious women will see that you lack nothing. And on the Sabbath we will hear what you have to say.”

Paul accepted this temporary hospitality, and for the moment he didn’t look for a job. He didn’t know yet how long he would be in Athens, waiting for Timothy and Silas, with news of what happened in Berea and Thessalonica. Besides, he had a little money left from his job in Thessalonica, although he’d spent most of it paying the fare of the Bereans who’d accompanied him on the sea journey.

* * * * *

On the Sabbath, after the reading of the law, Paul received permission to address the worshippers. In giving him this permission, the head of the synagogue whispered, “Keep it short. We work hard all week, the Sabbath is our day of rest, and we’d like to go home.”

Paul gave his typical sermon. Messiah had come, been unrecognized, was tormented, and put to death for the sins of all men. He quoted the prophets as proof, as well as other passages.

At about this point Paul realized that many of his listeners were practically asleep, and others had simply left the synagogue. As to those still listening, it became quite clear that their interest was confined to what effect the coming of Messiah would have on their personal condition.

“And now, be it known to you all that Messiah was the first to rise from the dead, and that he will soon come to judge the world. And the only salvation on the Day of Judgment will be faith in Messiah. If you recognize him, acknowledge him, and say that God raised him from the dead, then you will be saved. And it’s not just for Jews that Messiah came, but also –“

“By Demeter!” interrupted a tall Jew, “a fine thing it would be for all us, if we had to return to Jerusalem. No, no, not I. Let who wants to go, go. I have my wine business here. I can live like a Jew without Messiah.”

“By Hercules!” exclaimed a second Jew, one with a short, well-tended beard and eyes touched with black. Dressed in a mantle falling over him in graceful folds, he spoke with the accents of an educated Athenian. “I’m of an old Athenian family! My grandfather came here as a messenger of the High Priest Hyrcanos, whose statue stands in the Agora. He chose to stay in this city, the capital of the world, to become a wine importer. The business flourishes. We have our own vineyards, and branch offices in all the principal cities of Greece. I’ve attended the finest academies of Athens and I’m from the school of the Stoics. I have many friends here. My sister is married to a member of the High Council. And now this man comes and tells us Messiah has come? Does this mean I must leave the city of my birth and pack off to Jerusalem? No, such doings are not for me!

“Take our contributions to the Temple or to the Pharisees. That we understand. But leave us alone!”

By this time everyone who wasn’t asleep in the synagogue was talking. Voices were raised. Finally the head of the synagogue got up and tried to pacify the worshippers.

“Good people!” he cried. “Calm down. Don’t you see that this messenger is here from Jerusalem with important news, nothing less than the coming of Messiah? If everything he says is true, then surely we are all duty bound to rise up, just as we are, leave our houses and gardens, our workshops and stalls, and our vineyards and farms, and go up to Jerusalem with song and music, to throw ourselves at Messiah’s feet and say to him, ‘We are come to claim our portion in the inheritance of Israel.’

“But you tell us,” and here he turned to Paul, “that it wasn’t the Sanhedrin that sent you. You have no letter from the High Priest. Some congregation we’ve never heard of sent you. Nay, you say that Messiah himself sent you to carry the gospel to the end of the world. Ok, we’ll accept that too. We’ll listen to your words, and do what you say. But surely you must have some proof that it was Messiah who sent you, and not someone else. Do you have some sign, something to corroborate your words, so that we may indeed know that you spoke with Messiah man to man? Come, now, produce the sign, and show it to us. Open the roof of the synagogue so we can see the fiery chariots bringing Messiah down to us.”

A voice cried, “Don’t you all see this man is a deceiver? What sense does any of this make?”
“Deceiver! Deceiver!”
“No, not a deceiver, but a rebel against the word of God. This man would take us off the path of faith!”
“Out into the street with him!”

The head of the synagogue fell into a panic. “Good people!” he shouted above the tumult. Pointing his finger to his forehead, he said, “This man’s not a deceiver. He’s just touched in his mind.”

A burst of laughter filled the synagogue. The laughter served its purpose, and the anger was forgotten. The threat of physical violence was forgotten with it.


Paul was not a man to shrink from discouragement or be turned from his purpose by mockery, considering what he had already sacrificed for his faith.

But how much more respectfully had the ignorant and uncouth Jews of Thessalonica listened to him than these sophisticated Jews of Athens! Indeed people who had opposed him with all their strength had more true faith than these people. The blows and curses of the simple folk of Iconium were far better than the laughter of these Jews. He felt much closer to the people of Thessalonica, Iconium and Antioch in the common bond of the hope of Israel. Here, in Athens, there was nothing but cynical indifference.

Thus, after that Sabbath, he waited for Timothy and Silas with even more longing than before. Perhaps they would bring him words of comfort from Berea and Thessalonica.

Meanwhile there was nothing he could achieve in Athens. He didn’t even bother to look for work. The handful of coins he had left would suffice. The hard bench in the hospice was good enough for the few hours of sleep he allowed himself. He avoided, as much as he could, even the hospitality of kind people. For indeed there were some kind people there, even among those who had laughed at him. After all, he was a rabbi of Jerusalem so they didn’t forbid him to speak in the synagogue a second time, and they didn’t ignore him when he addressed them privately. So each day he came to the synagogue, and occasionally found someone to preach to. They listened, but they couldn’t help but smile.

“Ah, yes, we hear you! You’re the man who tells us that Messiah has come.”


That night Paul lay on his hard bench in the hospice. The ancient wounds that had drained his life in his youth open again, and he is bathed in torment. Doubt seizes him like a wild beast seizes its prey. For the hundredth time he asks himself the unanswerable question, “Why do the Jews reject my message? Why are my own people, flesh of my flesh, deaf to it? Messiah has sent me with the most important message of all, and when I speak, I don’t see any hope in them at all. Instead there is tumult and mockery, and the highest Jewish blessing is transformed into a curse.”

He remembers all the cities in which he has preached the gospel to the Jews and remembers the riots he was rewarded with. He remembers the sullen faces, the rages and the hostility. But the Gentiles, who are strangers, and know nothing of the hope, they are the ones who respond to the tiniest seed that remains in them from the days of creation. They are the ones who end up longing for Christ.

“God, why have you closed the hearing of my own flesh and blood? Wasn’t I forged in the same fire as they? Didn’t I wait, like them, for Christ, and don’t I know how they think and what the objections of their hearts are? I should be able to reach them because I think like them. Surely it can’t be simply because I tell them that Christ has abrogated the little law that stands between them and the world. Why can’t they see that all the laws and commandments are contained in the one great law of Christ? It is for the hope of Israel that I do away with the lesser law.

“No, no, it’s something else. There’s a mighty wall between my brothers and me, and all my words bounce back from the wall and fall into the sand. My love, my desire, and my innermost longing are thrown back at me. The hearts of my brothers are locked against me, just like they are locked against uncleanness and abomination. What then? Is there something unclean and forbidden in me? Oh yes, these hands have shed innocent blood. I’ve shared in the slaying of the righteous. Have I truly been forgiven and washed clean? If so, shouldn’t my words appeal to my listeners? Or am I still an enemy appearing before them?”

Suddenly he sees hundreds of simple Jewish faces in the darkness, the Josephs, Simons, Judes and Menachems, and their eyes shine with the light of faith. Their bodies are covered with stripes from bloody scourgings. They are all lying on a stoning field, and the angel with the flaming red hair is among them, imbedded in a heap of stones, his arms stretched out. Stephen’s eyes are wide open and his lips parted as if a cry has just been torn out of them. But this isn’t just Stephen’s face. Strangely, it’s also Paul’s face. But wait! He’s also seated near the edge of the pit next to a bundle of clothes. Paul’s own men are throwing stones at the figure of the angel, the Paul-Stephen with the flaming hair. But the seated Paul is white-faced. His eyes are narrow and they sparkle with a hateful joy, his lips contorted in a grimace of delight at the flowing of blood.

A shudder passes through Paul and he whispers, “My God! I’m a murderer! How can they listen to me? God wash me clean of my sin! Help me!”

He closes his eyes, as if he could shut out the vision. It’s not Stephen he can’t bear to look at. It’s himself sitting at the mouth of the pit that fills him with horror. Needles of flame shoot through his tightened eyelids, and all his flesh is wounded.


Those nights in Athens were a time of soul searching for Paul. He was both witness and judge. He reviewed his life, and it was as if he were carding his soul like he carded a bundle of goat’s hair, to cleanse it of impurities. The mornings were better, for each day he felt his confidence returning. So like a donkey resuming his yoke, he returned to his work, for work was his only salvation.

So, in that period, he sank and rose again, and the grace of his faith restored him to his mission as a gospel witness. And he applied the verse to himself that says, “Were it not for Your law, I would be utterly lost in my poverty.”

16 - The Unknown God

The ship that carried Paul and his faithful Berean followers to Athens was still a long way from the port of Phalerum when they first saw the mighty statue of Athena towering over the Acropolis. This most beloved daughter of Zeus was the goddess the Greeks held in highest honor, for she’d sprung forth complete from his head, that is, from his wisdom. Zeus never refused her a favor. And it was because she was always on the side of the strong and triumphant that she was considered the goddess of wisdom.

Like their beloved goddess, the Greeks recognized only the achieved, the known, the tangible, that which they could hold in their hand. Only what was in one’s possession could be said to have value. So they divided the substance of human achievement into departments and set a genius over each department. Thus, the night belonged to Artemis, and she glided through its darkness in the company of her nymphs and fauns. So, too, Apollo, the sun, ruled the day. Mounted on his fiery chariot he rolled through the heavens, and the spears of his radiance rained down. Darkness and death fled before him.

And so each god ruled in his domain over all that man’s intelligence had achieved.

Now a sick man is about to appear among them, bringing the discovery that the achieved, tangible, and compartmentalized, was not the template of truth. Truth lay beyond the tangible. It lay in the great realm of the inconceivable, the unachievable, where the God of Israel had his domain.


In Phalerum Paul embraced the Jews who had accompanied him, and as he sent them back to Berea, he asked them to send Timothy back to him as soon as possible. In spite of his unshakeable faith in his mission, Paul, like an artist, was still nervous whenever he approached a new work. He also felt heavy-hearted over the fate of the Thessalonica community after having had to flee while its foundations were still so insecure. He’d had such hopes about a spiritual conquest of Macedonia.

“Pray with me,” he said to his departing friends, “that God may see fit to bless the work of our hands. Pray with me that the seed we planted is not carried away by the wind to lodge in barren sand. Guard the young shoots diligently, for with it grows the hope of Israel. And send me my son!”

Having said his farewells, Paul picked up the bundle that contained his clothing, the tools of his trade, and his manuscripts of Isaiah, Jeremiah, and the Psalms, and started walking down the road toward Athens.


There were two high walls on either side of the road from Phalerum to Athens, dating, it was said, from the days of the Trojan wars. The road was paved with stone blocks for the passage of carriages. It was an early morning in the month of Elul, the time of year when the sirocco blew across the landscape, leaving a fine film of dust on the lips and eyelids of everyone. Long caravans of donkeys and mules, driven by slaves and carrying bales of goods from the port to the capital stirred up even more dust.

As Paul strode towards Athens he could make out, through the swirling, stinging dust, one temple after another on either side of the road, their facades and pillars covered as with a fine snow. For the most part these temples were deserted. Here and there a lonely priest stood on the steps swinging a bell. In one place the priest had surrounded himself with flutists and girl dancers to try to draw attention. But there were so many temples; there just weren’t enough travelers to give them any quota of worshippers. And so it seemed to Paul that he wasn’t walking between temples, but rather through a cemetery of forgotten deities.

He was familiar with all of these gods, both from his native city and from his travels. There were temples for Zeus, Athena, Aphrodite, and Artemis, among many others. These were not the grotesque idols of Asia, those monstrous demons whose wild priests brought down to the lowest unimaginable levels of debasement, drunkenness, and sexual perversity, to a population only too ready to make the descent. These gods were born of the intellect. They represented some sort of search and experience, the expression of man’s desire to create order in the chaos of human environment. They had a measure of creativity and purpose, or at least as much purpose as could be envisioned by the senses.

The hierarchy of the gods indicated their functions and powers. But their attributes were no more than what man could attribute to them. And how, the apostle asked himself, can the sense of man comprehend both the known and the unknown senses? These gods are earthy, insect-like, even as man is. Man has endowed them with his own attributes, both good and bad, making them the outward bearers of his own desires and passions. What man cannot attain with his own strength, he strives to attain by attributing to his gods.

There are both legitimate and illegitimate gods in this system. There are gods begotten by Zeus through his spouse Hera, and bastard gods, begotten through his many lovers, some even the wives of men. And the function of each god corresponds to his position in the hierarchy. To legitimate children, Zeus relegated the government of the day and night, creation, the weaving of life, and the powers that sleep in the depths of the earth. To the bastard gods, he gave minor heritages, smaller functions.

Now isn’t it strange that this should come from the clever and experienced minds of the Greeks, searching for the foundations of experience? Why is it that the clever Greeks can’t see that the Father in heaven, who has created all things, is the one living God of Israel? Can we say that only the powers locked in the earth, and the murmuring powers of the night, are hidden from us? Are we not hidden even from ourselves? Man, do you know yourself? How foolish are you wise of Athens! Like mites who work on a tattered garment hung away in a closet, so you crawl about and believe you have built a ladder to heaven.


Paul came to a well, built into a semicircular wall, which also enclosed the figure of Hermes-Mercury on a pillar, for he was always represented at roadway intersections. A group of veiled girls and women sat by the well with their vases. Some donkey drivers also came up to water their beasts. Paul borrowed a pitcher from one of the young women so that he could wash his hands and eyelids.

He asked her if it was far yet to the city. No. After the first statue of Hera, he would reach the gates. He asked if the women knew of any Jewish houses of prayer. No, they didn’t know of any, but if there was one it would most likely be near the entrance to the Street of the Camel Drivers by the temple of Demeter. The women told him he would easily recognize that street, because he would see a high pillar there with the statue of Mercury on top. Then the women resumed the conversation Paul had interrupted.

Paul rested and listened. It seems that Aglaia, one of the women at the well, was married to a certain Demetrius, a teacher of sword fighting. A young Roman nobleman of the house of Caesar had begun a friendship with him and had taken him to Rome, and his wife hadn’t seen him since. His contract had been for one year, and since he was a freedman, he could have returned at the end of that period. But some two or three years had passed and he still hadn’t come back. Every day Aglaia came out with her friends to draw water from the well, and everyday she continued her complaint.

Her friends comforted her and told her she should find another man, but she wouldn’t be comforted. She’d already done everything to conjure her husband back. Every day, she brought a wreath of flowers to the well and laid it before the statue of Vesta, the goddess of the family hearth, begging her to send her man home. But it had done no good.

Recently a man who had known Demetrius returned from Rome and told her that her husband had hired himself out as a gladiator after his contract ended. He didn’t know if the man was still alive or not. But then the man made advances to her, so she didn’t know whether to believe him or not. In any case her heart yearned for Demetrius, and she would wait for him until the gods returned him to her.

“Why didn’t you offer a rich sacrifice to Hera?” said one of her friends. “Remember, she’s the guardian of the home and also a sorely tried wife, considering everything she’s had to endure from old Zeus, who’s betrayed her a thousand times with others. She’ll hear the cry of your heart, Aglaia.”

Aglaia answered that Hera was the first one she went to. She offered almost all that remained to her after her husband left. She’d given white meal, cruses of oil, and a fat suckling pig. She even sacrificed her long braids of hair to the wigmakers. Now she was afraid that even if Demetrius came back, he wouldn’t want her, for her hair hadn’t grown back yet. Oh yes, she’d certainly tried Hera, but to no avail.

“And what about Aphrodite?”

“Aphrodite? I served in her temple for two months. That didn’t help. I’ll tell you what I’ve learned from my experience with the gods. The great ones don’t have time for us little people. They’re all taken up with the affairs of the world, and directing the lives of the rich and mighty, who demand all their time and strength. Oh yes, the rich keep the gods busy, with their wars and loves, with their struggle for government and power. So the poor can only go to the little gods, the ones not held in high esteem by the great gods. So I’m looking for one of the fauns or satyrs, and I’ll tell him my troubles. I know the little gods mean well. They don’t deceive us.”

“Let me tell you,” said an elderly woman, whose eyes gleamed with a peculiar luster. “My best experience has been with a certain foreign goddess, Isis, from Egypt. Her ritual has much to offer to married women. I come away from those services edified and cleansed, and all my wishes are granted. I tell you, worshipping Isis is altogether different from worshipping our home gods. You become bound up with the goddess in the ritual, and women who have lost their man, or one of their children, are much comforted by her.”

Another woman said, “Lately I’ve found much comfort in the services of Adonis. When I press his image to my heart, I become like Aphrodite herself, and my heart is filled with yearning for my dead husband. I wander to him in the underworld, and I’m united to him in my sorrow and lamentation. All my longings are satisfied. Oh, you don’t know how sweet is the lament for the god Adonis.”

A woman who had just come by, and was busy drawing water for the many vessels she carried, called out, “All the gods are good as long as you bring them rich offerings.”

The other women, remembering their tasks, rose.

“Take me with you to the worship of Isis,” said Aglaia to the Isis worshiper. “I’ve been longing for her lately.”

The women scattered, and the apostle remained seated on a stone under the figure of the god Hermes-Mercury. His heart was filled with sadness for these women. He raised his eyes to heaven and prayed.

“Father in heaven, have compassion on your poor creatures. Let them see that there is just one God in heaven and just one intermediary between God and man, Christ Jesus.”

Finally, he got up and moved on. But as he continued to walk he noticed one altar that seemed abandoned and forlorn more than any other altar he’d seen so far. It was thickly covered with dust and its desolation seemed to speak to Paul. A power he couldn’t understand compelled him to turn aside and approach the stone altar. There was no image or likeness of any god or goddess, and Paul was filled with wonder over who might have erected it. On the side of the altar there was a brief inscription. He bent down to read the half-obliterated words.

“To an unknown god.”

Paul was astounded. What was this humble, anonymous altar in the middle of these vast and opulent temples of Ares, Zeus and Aphrodite? What was this forlorn and modest tribute to an unknown god? And suddenly it dawned on him, as though a sign had been given, the answer to the prayer he had just prayed.

“No!” he cried. “Not to an unknown god. But to the unknown God.”

So Paul corrected the faded lettering in his mind.

Then he saw something he hadn’t noticed before. On one corner of the altar lay a tiny wreath of fresh flowers. Somehow he was convinced that this was the wreath he had seen in the hand of one of the women at the well. His heart blossomed.

He raise his eyes again and cried out, “See, O God, it is You, and You alone, that they seek in their blindness. Even when they worship their idols, it is to You that their hearts are turned.”