From Hitman to Hero

 Saul

As Saul rode through the desert, his mind was busy. He thought about the big news story recently, about the people who followed Jesus - the members of “The Way”. Yelling about some spirit, something about fire above their heads, and apparently they were even talking in jumbled random syllables and calling it “speaking in tongues.” Saul scratched his slightly sunburnt head and thought privately that this group of insurgents didn’t take the death of their leader well, so they got inordinately day-drunk and blamed it on some unseen force. These zealots must be extinguished. They were making the rest of the real Bible-believing Jewish people look bad, and Saul could not have that mar the name of God. This “Jesus” guy was insane, and all the stories that surrounded him were clearly propaganda spread by his disciples. 

Sweaty and exhausted, Saul paused on his way to the next town to turn and give directions to the rest of his crew. They had been riding for hours, and they looked haggard. “Everyone! Head to Damascus. I heard there is a pocket of followers there, we can drag them out and split the bounty when we bring them back to Jerusalem.” Saul hoped that the news of potential payment for the heads of the radicals, and it appeared that their faces became slightly lighter. In fact, their faces almost shone. Unnatural brightness seared through Saul’s world. What was this? Not the sun, surely. 

Saul spun on the spot, searching for the source of the light. He squinted, but soon the light became too bright for him to do anything but cover his eyes with his arms. 

The loudest voice Saul had ever heard came crashing through the light. Even though the voice was thunderous, it was not altogether angry. 

“Saul. Saul, why are you persecuting me?”

Saul knew that voice. But when had he heard it before? He couldn’t place it. “Who are you, sir?” He added “sir” at the end, due mostly to the fact that this was an anomalous situation and he figured he would be delicately polite. 

“I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting.” 

Saul’s stomach dropped. Why did he recognize the voice of someone he fought to disprove? The very smallest part of Saul; the inner part of his soul; the part he had tried for his entire life to outgrow; knew that Jesus was who He said He was. Saul wanted to believe so badly, but it just wasn’t natural. This could not be true. 

“Get up, Saul. Go into the city, and you will be told what to do.” 

As quickly as the light and loud voice began, it vanished. Saul was crouched in a heap in the dust of the desert, feeling the regular heat of the sun beating down on him and sweat trickle down his brow as if nothing had happened. 

“Saul! Saul!” 

This time it was not the voice of God - it was his crew. He lifted his head, not daring to move his arms away from his eyes just yet. His eyes felt gritty, like they were full of sand. 

“What the hell happened? Did you hear that crazy thunder?”

“Thunder?” Saul had not heard any thunder, just the ethereal fatherly tone of the Lord. 

“Yeah, it was loud as shit - there weren't any clouds, we didn’t think it would rain today. You good, Saul? You look rough.” 

Hesitantly, Saul lowered his arms. He opened his eyes experimentally, but no trace of the light from before remained. His eyes hurt. Underneath his eyelids, he could feel scales covering his eyes like the chain mail linked armor he wore covered his chest. Saul blinked twice. The darkness was so deep and profound, as was the agony of blinking against these scales. He couldn’t see. “I…..I think I’m blind? There’s something in my eyes. I don’t know what it is.” Saul put his hand in front of his face, just to see if there was any remote shape in view. There wasn’t. “You’ll have to lead me the rest of the way.”

He heard a thump as one of his crew jumped to the ground, and he felt the hesitant rough skin of a man taking his hand. “I got you, boss. Maybe there’s a doctor in Damascus, he might be able to help.” 

They walked for three days. Saul wasn’t hungry or thirsty. His stomach was wrecked with guilt and shame after his encounter with God. When he slept, he only dreamed of two things: the ear-splitting roar of the voice of God, and a foggy vision of an unknown man putting his hands on Saul’s eyes. This second vision became sharper as it swam in Saul’s dreams, and he understood that this was how he was to regain his sight. He even knew the man’s name. When he was alone and awake in the darkness, surrounded by his sleeping men, he would whisper prayers to the Almighty. “Please help me. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” After stumbling blind for days, Saul and his entourage finally reached Damascus. 

Ananias 

“Ananias….” 

The disciple opened his eyes slowly. Was someone in his house? Who had called his name? It was too late for a social call, he had been asleep for hours. Was he dreaming?

“Ananias…” 

Suddenly, Ananias knew what was happening. Sighing with relief, he spoke into the darkness. “Lord? Is that you?” 

“Yes. I want you to do something for me.” 

Ananias sat up in bed, no longer tired. It had been a while since he was given a direct order from the Lord. He normally spent his days researching ancient tomes, teaching, or writing down what he learned from his research. 

“Anything, Lord!” 

“I want you to use my power and heal someone in need. Go to Judas’ house, there is a man there named Saul from Tarsus. He and I have spoken several times over the past few days, and he will be expecting you.” 

Ananias balked. “Saul?” He struggled to keep his voice steady and his emotions at bay. He knew he was speaking to the Lord, and it was not a good idea to show contempt or anger. “Saul of Tarsus? But Lord… he is here to arrest me - he might even kill me and everyone else here-” Ananias was able to stop himself before he added, “Are you sure?” Because he knew. God is never unsure. When the Almighty spoke again, his voice was not unkind - but solid and stern.

“I am the Lord. I know what I’m talking about. Saul knows you’re coming, you will heal him, and I will be glorified. Saul’s life will not be easy, but he will be mine. Because of Saul, millions of people will come to me and know me as their God.” 

The disciple’s shoulders sank with resignation. As he stood and dressed, the pit of dread in his stomach began to lessen. This had happened in the past; God had told him what to do, Ananias had been too scared to comply, God had given him the strength, and he had completed the task. The familiar feeling of being bolstered and sistered like an old joist made the corners of his mouth tick upward. Stretching into his new God-given strength, Ananias opened his door and stepped out into the cloudless day. 

Ananias knocked on Judas’ door. As he knocked, he noticed horses drinking out of the trough on Straight Street. They wore the formidable armor of the militant pharisees who arrested those who followed Jesus. Even though Ananias was still carrying the internal armor of God’s Will, he couldn’t help swallowing thickly before walking inside. 

“Come in! I am glad you could make it. It’s the wildest thing; this man has not stopped asking for you.” Judas stood aside and ushered a pale-faced Ananias into his home. 

“Ananias?” A small voice issued out of a dark corner in Judas’ house. Saul turned his unseeing eyes toward the noise of the door, and smiled. 

The cautious disciple steadied his nerve, stepped forward, and replied, “Yes, it’s me. The same God who appeared to you came to me to heal you and introduce you to His Holy Spirit.” 

Saul chuckled mirthlessly. “‘His Holy Spirit’? I believe we’ve met.” He gestured to his inhuman scaly eyes. 

Even though Saul could not see, Ananias smiled graciously. “Yes, He tends to come in like a mighty wind with roaring thunder if we do not hear His whisper.” He moved to stand in front of Saul, placed his hands on the broken eyes, and prayed. 

“Most powerful and heavenly Lord; may you be glorified by healing the sight of this man. Saul of Tarsus is yours to claim, Father, and he is ready to be filled with your Spirit.” 

Immediately, Saul broke down. With shuddering sobs, his hands replaced Ananias’ on his own eyes. When he wiped the tears from his eyes, he held the scaly coverings that had coated his vision for the past few days. As he discarded them, he looked at Ananias. The disciple was half-standing, crouched ten feet away from Saul. Judas stood at Saul’s side, as still as a marble statue. 

Saul

“I’m not going to hurt you.” Saul said gently, his voice shaking. His heart cracked in sadness and guilt as he saw how terrified his mere presence made these people. His people, he remembered. “Please teach me everything you know about Jesus.” He slowly sat down, and patted the earth next to him. Ananias and Judas moved toward him cautiously, sat down, and began to speak. 

They discussed the love of the Father, the life, death, and resurrection of the Son, and the strange power of the Holy Spirit for the next several days. Saul was insatiable. He asked questions faster than Judas and Ananias could answer them, and he brought up concepts and ideas about the Lord that even they could not explain. 

“Call me Paul.” Saul said one morning, smiling over his tea at his new friends. After learning more about the culture of The Way, Saul had decided to shed his Roman name and instead be known as the Latin form, Paul. 

Notes:

As the years went by, God’s prediction about Saul’s (Paul’s) life was absolutely correct. His life was not easy. After leaving Damascus, Paul preached the Good News about Jesus everywhere he went. He was beaten, thrown into prison, whipped, mocked, put on trial, and banished for his words, but he never recanted his belief in the One who blinded him and healed him in the same week. While locked in prison, Paul wrote letters to a myriad of churches; encouraging them, discipling them, and teaching them. These letters are immortalized in the New Testament; Romans, I & II Corinthians, Galatians, Ephesians, Philippians, Colossians, I & II Thessalonians, Titus, Philemon, and I & II Timothy. 

This is one of my favorite stories because it is a solid reminder of God’s power. Our Savior took someone who was hired to arrest and kill Christians and turned him into the Bible’s most famous apostle. If God can do that, he can change anything and anyone. 

The Lost Son

 Sweat rolled down Jason’s back and his muscles groaned as he threw rotten scraps to seven enormous and hungry pigs. He wiped his forehead with his ragged sleeve and sighed. The hogs grunted into their dinner while the young man looked over the fields around him, not really looking at anything. His haunted face showed the unmistakable signs of premature age; too much life lived in too few years. It had been a day or two since his last meal, and his threadbare clothes were beginning to hang loosely on his slender frame. Jason spent most of his moments suffering the torture of painful memories. His stomach not only ached from hunger, but from guilt. As the sun set, Jason felt the first cool evening breeze that heralded the coming of fall. He flinched as he remembered a scene from this time last year. 

The glass from a picture frame smashed against the wall inches from his father’s head. As a mouthy teenager of only 17, Jason was positive he knew more than his father and wanted out. He did not want to live the calm and patient life his parents had built for him and his brother Seth in the country. Their religion felt like a cage, and Jason wanted to move into the city to experience life for himself. This fight, unlike all of its predecessors, finally came to a conclusion. 

“I’ve got to get out of here, Dad. I hate it! I hate the country, I hate your stupid animals, I hate my brother, and I hate this horrible house. I wish I wasn’t even born into this family.” The young man’s eyes flashed as the poison spewed from his mouth. His father, a stooped but hardy man, hung his head in defeat. 

“Jason, please...” The old man stretched out his hands in a desperate gesture, ignoring the shattered glass that crunched under Jason’s feet as he backed away from the embrace. 

“Not this time. Screw you, Dad. Screw you and your rigid beliefs. I wish you were dead so I could take what’s mine and get the fuck out of here.” Jason knew what he said was unforgivable, and he couldn’t blame his father for walking out of the room. He stood, breathless and red-faced, in the middle of a destroyed room. His heart was still beating wildly with his determined claims.

“Here. I will miss you desperately and I will pray for you every single day.” Jason’s father walked back into the living room, his shaking hand holding out a crisp check. 

Jason mutely took the check without meeting the watery sea-grey eyes of his father, picked up his backpack, and stormed out of the door and into the evening. He had finally spoken his mind. Feeling braver and more free than he ever had, Jason shrugged off the guilt of his father’s stricken face and began planning his new life. His first move would be to find a place in the city, maybe a small apartment above a bar downtown - he had always dreamed of living within walking distance of a place where he could eat and drink without having to cook for himself. He would make friends who knew how to get fake identification, and he could really start over without feeling anchored to that stupid farm. 

With revulsion, Jason took note of the fact that the pig’s feed did not smell bad to him anymore. In fact, he longed to jump the fence and eat the rotten food, and he hated himself for it. Even the people that Jason’s father hired to live on the farm and work for him ate three square meals a day. As he walked to the barn, Jason remembered the comfortable housing his father provided for his employees. Feeling a strong sense of self-pity, he tried to find a comfortable spot in the musty hay in the loft of the barn. 

The past year was a blur of indulgence for Jason. Because of his preemptive inheritance, he was able to live any type of life he wished. After obtaining false documentation, the 17-year-old farm hand was now a 21-year-old lush on paper. He made up a back story; a family who had always given him what he wanted and praised his choices. “Who says money can’t buy happiness?” His trademark phrase would always be accompanied by a roguish wink. Men and women alike flocked to his charisma and charm. Underneath his overworked grin and polished demeanor, Jason tried desperately to convince himself that he was happy. He wanted to stall this inner monologue as much as he could, so Jason never spent a night alone. He would physically plaster himself to whoever he had brought back to his bed, and hold tight to the stranger, friend, or paid companion until the sun rose. Sometimes it felt that, if he let go, he would drown. His guests would discuss the matter privately among themselves after spending the night with him; wondering what had happened to this cool bar fly to transform him into a needy and helpless child in the wee hours of the morning. As soon as the sun rose, Jason would untangle himself from the sheets, apologize and say he must not have been feeling well during the night, flash his brilliant smile, and move on. 

This particular night, and every night since he had begun working at this farm, Jason had been alone with no one to clutch during the witching hours. He curled defensively against the regret as he shook in his sleep, dreaming of his father’s pain. 

Seven months after Jason had stormed away from his father’s farm, he ran out of money. As soon as he was no longer able to cover bar tabs and restaurant bills, his fair-weather friends and cohorts began fading. They slunk away from him as if poverty was contagious, and he was no longer “cool”. After a week of sleeping on the couch of a friend, Jason was unceremoniously kicked to the curb. He tried calling other people he had met in the city, but they dodged his calls and pleas for help. Jason began asking for work everywhere he could, but no one in the city seemed to be hiring someone who had nowhere to live. After the months of cheap thrills and bottled pleasure, Jason was left with nothing and no one. Eventually, he was lucky enough to find a job. At a farm. Feeding pigs. He had spent almost a year running away from farm life, and now he was in a worse position than when he lived at home with his father. The work was hard at his father’s farm, but at least he was fed, loved, and sheltered. 

What sounded like an ear-splitting scream drove all dreams and thoughts of sleep from Jason’s mind. He immediately woke up, lashed out with his arms and shouted in alarm, and a rooster got a full mouth-full of old hay just for starting his song a bit early - and a bit too close to Jason’s head. The rooster, equally startled, fell from the loft where Jason slept. Moldering hay jostled loose from his fathers as he flapped his useless wings all the way to the ground. Jason cursed under his breath and slid clumsily down the ladder into the barn. “I can’t do this shit anymore.” He mumbled to himself. His muscles ached from yesterday’s work and last night’s nightmares. As he stretched his tight shoulders, he groaned at the slapping sounds of rain on the roof of the barn. Jason stepped outside, squinting his eyes against the deluge. It would rain like this all day, according to the heavy black clouds that surrounded the small farm. Jason got to work. 

Near midday, the rain had shown no sign of letting up. Jason was soaked to the bone. 

“You! Come here!” Just when Jason thought his day couldn’t get any worse, he heard the summons from his boss. The tractor roared closer to where Jason was working, and Mr. Eckworth motioned for him to come closer. 

“Yes sir?” Jason walked out to the tractor, his bare feet slapping the muddy ground beneath him. His pay was supposed to come tomorrow, and Jason dared to hope that he might be getting it a day early. 

“I been offered a deal for these animals. Money is tight, so I’m taking it. Get your shit and get out by sundown.” Eckworth’s face showed no apology as he tipped his hat, threw the tractor in gear, and thundered away. 

There was no mention of a paycheck or any remittance for the work he had already completed. Jason swore as loudly as he could, staring up at the relentless clouds. For a brief moment, he remembered the God of his father. “Is this what you wanted?!” He shouted. Jason sunk to his knees. His voice shrank to a low moan. “What am I supposed to do now?” There was no answer. 

Jason dragged himself to his feet. He took one step toward the barn, remembered he owned nothing, and turned around. One foot in front of the other, more miserable than he had ever been, Jason began to wander. 

For days, Jason walked. He ate what he could out of gardens, trash cans, and handouts from friendly strangers. After a week, Jason noticed that he was walking towards the home of his childhood. Without being aware, a small change had begun deep in the recesses of Jason’s heart. No longer was he the rebellious teenager, nor was he the falsely-wealthy prodigal. He was a gaunt shell of what he was meant to be, and he yearned for his family. 

Stomach churning, Jason wondered what his father would do when he walked into the house. He would probably send Jason packing, tell him he had already removed himself from the family and they were doing just fine without him. His malnourished shoulders sagged under the familiar weight of guilt. As he marched closer and closer to his father’s house, Jason began to rehearse what he would say. 

“I hurt you so badly, Dad. I disrespected you and the God you raised me to serve. Can I stay here and work for you? I can sleep in the barracks with the other farm hands - and you wouldn’t have to pay me. I’ll just be here until I can get my feet underneath me, then I’ll leave. I’m so sorry.” 

Jason lifted his head and saw the shape of his childhood home on the horizon. His arms went numb and his leaden feet froze in place. He stood like that for a long time, terrified to move forward. Like a man walking to his own death, Jason arduously put one foot in front of the other and forced himself to breathe. 

After a few minutes, Jason noticed a commotion at the house. His heart stopped. People were yelling, farm hands were running back and forth, and his father was at the center of the motion. The old man locked eyes with Jason, even though he was still a mile away. He put his hand to his forehead, cried out, and begin to run toward Jason. “Oh no. No, no, no, no, no.” Jason’s breath was coming in short gasps as he backed away. He could not bear to see that pained look on his father’s face again, and he realized he had made a huge mistake in returning. He turned around. 

Heavy pounding footsteps beat the dirt road behind Jason. His father had not stopped running. Slowly, Jason faced his father, his rehearsed speech finding its way out of his closed throat. 

“Dad,” The first word rasped out. “I hurt you so badly and I disrespected you and the God you - UMMFH!” Before Jason could finish his first sentence, the wind was knocked entirely out of him as his father grabbed him around his stomach. The old man’s face was buried in Jason’s neck, and Jason felt the tears pooling in the corner of his collarbone. He could not remember ever receiving an embrace like this before. His father’s ancient body shook against him with sobs of joy. 

“Jason! Oh my son. Jason.” Without letting go, the father leaned back to look at his son. The tears running from his grey eyes streamed down his face, winding around the wrinkles caused by working outdoors for so many years. He shook his coat from his shoulders and draped it around Jason. The familiar earthy and slightly sweaty smell of his father made Jason gasp a sob of his own. 

“You were gone for so long! We thought you had died. Welcome home, my son! The workers are fixing up your room and we are making your favorite meal tonight. Come inside! I’ve got coffee on and some sandwiches to hold you over. Lord knows you could use some extra calories!” With a watery laugh, the father clutched his son’s shoulders and led him toward the house. 

Jason was stunned. He had insulted and offended this man in the worst way possible. Why then was he being treated like a returning war hero? The smell of his father’s coat, the feel of his strong farm hands, and the warm feeling of family cracked Jason open. He fell to his knees and cried. 

“I’m so sorry, Dad. I’m so, so sorry.” 

Smiling, the old man clapped Jason on the shoulder. “No more of that, my precious boy. Welcome home.” 

“The Parable of the Lost Son”

Luke 15:11-30

I’m pretty sure this story wasn’t meant as a cautionary tale - it’s meant as encouragement. I never ran away from my earthly father or my Heavenly father, but I have my own version of this story. When I choose to do something that goes against what I know is right and good, I know what I’m doing. I am disrespecting God, and telling him that his law isn’t good enough for me. However; even though I am a hedonist at heart and have problems with authority, I know that my God is exactly like the father in this story. He will sprint down a country lane before I have entirely decided to come home, and he will gather me up in his arms and he will be so happy to see me back. His fatherly love for us is relentless, and we can do nothing to shake him off. In those moments of self-indulgence, I don’t enjoy them as much as I want to. When I know I am drowning in my own interests, happiness seems fake. Nothing holds a candle to the joy that community with the Father brings.

These stories are MY personal interpretation and in no way a replacement for Holy Scripture. I encourage you to look up the reference in the Bible or on biblegateway.com and read for yourself! 

What's this blog about, anyway?

Growing up as a pastor's kid made me very knowledgeable about the Bible. I knew all the good stories, I went to (mostly) Christian schools, and I had a handful of incredible and interesting Bible teachers at those schools. I have loved stories since the day I was born - especially fairy tales, science-fiction, and most fantasy. When I began to differentiate between fiction and fact, I was both alarmed and thrilled to discover that all of the oldest and most treasured stories were in fact...fact. 

Many people think that the Bible is an old dusty tome full of names and rules.

I mean, it kinda is... 

But that's not all! 

The whole world was cloaked in water for over a month. An army marched around the city and then YELLED - and the massive thick walls cracked and fell. A left-handed servant of God killed a bad king - and the king was so fat he lost his blade. One dude even killed 600 men with the jaw bone of a farm animal. A woman won an entire WAR by herself during a time when women were considered lowly property. Another guy spent an entire night in a hole in the ground with ravenous starved lions - and survived. God temporarily blinded someone and ended up changing their entire personality. 

By April of next year, I will be married to the coolest guy in the world. I love him so much. He grew up as a pastor's kid as well, but spent more time outside studying worms and birds than inside reading. He went to public schools and he is absolutely brilliant - but he doesn't know all of the cool stories. He knows the main ones that are the most important, but he never paid attention to the tiny details in our Book that point to incredible and seemingly-fantasy happenings. I have told him a few already, but he suggested that I teach a class on rudimentary Bible stories for grownups who didn't care for the stories when they were little. I have no time to teach a class. Even though he doesn't like to read, I have decided to start a blog.

On this blog, I will be re-writing ancient stories to make them easier to understand. I do not have special insight into the word of God, and this is NOT a replacement to digging into his own word on your own. 

The purpose of these articles is to peak an interest, stir curiosity, and maybe even vaguely entertain. I might add my own commentary from time to time, or I might not. I might write something dramatic, or something witty and cute. It might suck, or it might be useful. You might hate it, and that's totally okay.