Chapter Ten
PAUL
I would not be beaten, cast aside, and left for dead by the evil Lycaonians without God’s intervention. He had raised me up, allowed me to proceed. I confess, though, I’d been shaken. Was this God’s way of refining my spirit, of tempering my steel? Did I need this abuse? Did I have to stare into eternity at such close range?
One night not long after the hideous events in Lystra, I found myself cursing heaven in my prayers. Who do you think I am, God? What sort of maker would abuse his creation, allow one of his most faithful servants to suffer and nearly die?
Those words had hardly escaped my lips when it occurred to me that Jesus himself had been more frightfully abused, beaten and scourged, nailed to a tree. His flesh had been shredded. He had bled to death. I, on the other hand, had merely been assaulted, left to die by myself beyond the city walls, abandoned. I suffered greatly but did so for his sake. And this helped me think about what had happened without rage and resentment.
It was easy to destroy a man. We are poor creatures, all of us, readily discouraged. We fall short of our divine nature, and miserably so.
Barnabas and I closed the circle of this journey by returning to Antioch, the city where our mission had begun a few months earlier. We had taken ourselves out, begun to test our message about the Kingdom of God. We met resistances, some of them coming from within, such as the difficulties between John Mark and myself. To a degree, I had to resist my own unwillingness to listen to God, to make myself vulnerable, and to fail. I would need to fail again, fail in huge ways, much as Jesus had failed, then found himself through failing.
I could hardly know what fruits might come of my travels with Barnabas, although I saw that we had spread seeds that might put out shoots after a period of dormancy. I would, I swore to myself, return to each of these places in the future. I was like a gardener coaxing delicate plants to life, these fresh gatherings of the Way. But for now, Antioch would absorb my attention.
The Way flourished here, as gentiles came to the gatherings in unforeseen numbers to share the sacred meal on the First Day, to read the scriptures, talk, pray, and sing. The excitement of this drew me forward, and I knew that Luke, Phoebe, and the others would be happy to hear stories about our travels, to tell me what had happened in Antioch in the months of our absence. They did, from the beginning, encourage my presence at their meals, inviting me to offer reflections, and I would attend as many as I could.
Hardly a few days passed without meeting Luke. He had made a little progress on his life of Jesus, and I read some passages. He had such an array of sources now and worked diligently to organize them. In the meantime, Phoebe gave me a lovely room overlooking the garden of her villa, a place where I could recuperate from my injuries in Lystra. My neck had been nearly broken, my head crushed, one ear damaged, and my back had twisted in ways that would cause trouble for years to come. In this refuge I could read quietly and write, pray, and meditate, or spend hours in conversation with Luke. Phoebe suggested I should meet with those who had recently joined us, helping them to understand the message of Jesus and how they might grow closer to the reality of God. It struck me that I could find the Christ in these conversations, as God happens when people of faith meet. “Where two or three are gathered, there you will find me,” Jesus said—a saying that Luke would quote.
But impediments arose, threatening to overwhelm our circle. A small group led by a man named Jacob arrived from Jerusalem, sent to us by James. Like the brother of our Lord, these messengers failed to understand that Jesus was the Logos, present before and after time, and so present before his birth. They questioned the eternal and Godlike nature of his being and, in keeping with James, regarded Jesus as the mortal offspring of Joseph and Mary, a natural child of natural parents, one who gradually discovered the voice of God rising within his breast. By strict obedience to the Law of Moses, he became the Christ. James and those in his sway followed the Law to the letter precisely, as they imagined Jesus did. They insisted on circumcision for all God-fearing gentiles who wished to join the Way and enforced dietary laws, believing that Jews and Greeks could never sit happily together and share a meal. For them, the Jesus movement must be considered a reformed extension of Judaism, and all attempts to move into the Greek community troubled them.
Phoebe took me aside soon after their arrival. “This man, Jacob,” she said, “brings a message from James. He and his friends Enoch and Nachum insist that all Greeks refrain from eating the sacred meal with us. But of course this threatens everything we’ve accomplished here.”
She knew that the whole of our project, taking the Good News into the larger world beyond Palestine, would collapse if we could not admit honest Greeks to the Lord’s Supper, as we had begun to call it. This meal, and the growing rituals associated with it, had become the mystical core of our gatherings, our symbolic community itself. We did as Jesus commanded, remembering him when we came together. As we knew, the Lord had held up the loaf in his hands, saying, “This is my body, given for you.”
It was a complex metaphor, one that drew me toward it eagerly. The sacred circle would be broken if we could not admit into our circle Godfearers, gentiles, pagans, anyone who trusted God and hoped to participate in his coming kingdom. Yet we must take seriously this intervention from James. In the old days, I would have insisted we ignore Jacob and his friends, with their message of exclusion. Now I sensed we must tread carefully.
“Where does Peter stand?” I asked Phoebe.
“You might ask him,” she said. “He is here.”
I thought she must be joking. But Phoebe was not the sort of person to make such a joke. Indeed, the favorite disciple of Jesus sat on a cushion in her tablinum.
She led me into the light-filled room where Peter hunched beside a blue vase of terebinth sprigs with a book in his hands, quite absorbed in thought. I hadn’t seen him in some time but recognized the wide flat nose, rutted as if a cart had trampled over it. His fleshy lips had a purple tint and the skin flaked badly. His ears seemed to have grown, having a vegetable look about them. His hair was silvery white, cut short across his forehead, almost like a cap. And he had put on weight.
“Peter!”
He stood abruptly now, a little sheepish. “Paul, our friend!”
We embraced, and I felt the honesty of his intentions. One could trust Peter.
“How long have you been in Antioch?”
“A few days. I’m staying with Apphia.”
Apphia hosted the only gathering of the Way in Antioch to rival Phoebe’s, and she remained less open to the Greeks than I would have preferred. It didn’t surprise me that Peter had gravitated toward her.
“How is dear Apphia?” I said. “The same as ever?”
Peter heard my astringent note and drew back. “She is always Apphia, yes, opinionated to a fault. A little annoying at times. And yet she has brought any number of Godfearers into our circle in the past year.”
“A change of heart?”
“She has never discouraged Godfearers, not in general.” He looked toward Phoebe knowingly. “Of course they must bow to Jehovah and obey his laws.”
I discovered that, on the previous evening, Peter had dined at the home of Lucius, a wealthy Greek merchant who traded in silks. The resources that men such as Lucius could bring to our movement didn’t escape Peter, who paid close attention to our financial prospects, not only in Jerusalem but everywhere, even though the expansion of our circle to include pagans worried him. He must have known that, soon, he would lose the ability to retain close control over how the Way of Jesus broadened. The Christ principle, the divine spark itself, had set a grass fire that would rush through the world without restraint. I felt the joy of this in ways that Peter could not.
“I’m glad you sat down with Lucius and the others,” I said. “I would suppose not all of the meat at their table was properly slaughtered, but what can one do? Antioch is not a Jewish center.”
“It’s best to avoid that subject,” Peter said.
“The time draws near, and we can’t avoid this conversation. Jesus will return within weeks or months, and we must forge an understanding.”
“There is truth in what you say.”
I found him anxious to please, but awkwardly so, at times ingratiating. For all this, I much preferred him to James or even John or Andrew. That he liked to appease those around him opened the possibility of compromise. On the other hand, I worried I could not trust any arrangements we made. Peter might change his mind to accommodate the next person who spoke to him.
Phoebe invited a large group to a dinner at her house that evening, and I knew the conversation would prove uncomfortable for many. The guests included Peter as well as Jacob and his friends, who had apparently invited themselves. Everyone was seated on low cushions against the eastern wall of the triclinium, while half a dozen slaves moved from guest to guest with large goblets of wine that would surely loosen tongues.
Luke was eagerly talking to a young man called Silas, who had recently joined our ranks, while Barnabas lounged in one corner of the room by himself, fully rested after our exhausting travels. And even fatter than I remembered him. He was barefoot now, his black toes spreading wide, and he lifted a hand to acknowledge me—hardly a robust gesture of friendship, especially given our recent travels. Several leaders of the Way had come from villages on the outskirts of Antioch, and I recognized them and smiled in their direction. That nobody felt comfortable was obvious.
Peter greeted everyone warmly and claimed to have heard “great and marvelous things” about the work of the Holy Spirit in Antioch.
I could sense a level of anticipation in the room, as it meant a good deal to dine with a man who had been a close friend of our Lord. To be frank, I envied Peter his associations. That he had lived beside the Christ, had walked with him in Galilee and Judea for nearly three years, bestowed authority. On top of this, Peter was full of anecdotes, sayings, parables. He carried all of this well, without pomp or undue pretense. And his geniality of manner helped to ease tensions.
The trouble began when the food arrived: grilled lamb and vegetables, figs, loaves of warm bread, roasted pigeons. I noticed that one of the party, a young Godfearer whom I barely knew, took a cluster of grapes from a bowl on one side table and fed himself greedily, licking his fingers, passing a plate to another. I never imagined that the Godfearers among us—including Luke—would retreat to another room for their meal.
But Jacob stood, red-faced and breathless, eager to speak. “You will excuse me, please? We are mostly Jews here and cannot eat with those who are not part of Israel,” he said, pushing the words out as if his teeth formed an invisible fence that must be overcome.
Peter dithered, looking at Barnabas—as if he might help.
“Jacob is right,” Barnabas said, standing. “The scriptures don’t allow for this. The Jew and the Greek must eat separately.”
I restrained myself, though I recalled dozens of occasions where Barnabas and I had eaten with Greeks in recent months. Had he experienced a change of heart?
Jacob nodded, turning to the Greeks. “You must understand, none of us mean to cause offense. We do welcome you to our gatherings, and we feel grateful for your support.” He sniffed and looked around. “As you see, there is another room, adjacent. Phoebe will provide food for you there.”
“I have no plan to send them away,” Phoebe said. “We share the meal together in this gathering. It is our custom.”
I loved her firm stance, the sense of authority and dignity. Phoebe never disappointed.
“I think it might be better, at least for now, if they ate separately,” Peter said to her. “We will sort this out.”
A small fellow, a Jew from Antioch, called out in a loud voice, “These matters do need clarification!”
“But perhaps not tonight,” said Peter.
“Hypocrite!” I said.
My voice bounded off the walls, and eyes swung in my direction. I don’t think anyone could imagine such an accusation hurled at the great disciple, but I had no ability to restrain myself.
“We belong to Jesus, all of us,” I said. “We follow the Way. And everyone is included here.”
“I’m sorry, but we can’t remain in this room if the Greeks must dine here,” said Jacob, and his friends nodded. “Jewish law is quite clear on this.”
“Don’t speak of Jewish law!”
“Think of Daniel, the prophet, who would not eat at the royal table.”
“In Jesus there is neither Greek nor Jew,” I said. “For Daniel, the problem had nothing to do with Greeks but with strange and unaccustomed food.” My time with Gamaliel had not been wasted.
“But we all make distinctions,” said Jacob.
I said again, “Neither Greek nor Jew.”
Phoebe added dry twigs to the blaze. “Before long, Jacob,” she said, “you will insist that Hylos and Glaucon should be circumcised.” These men were prominent Greeks in Antioch and passionate advocates of the Way.
“Of course they must,” said Jacob. “James would never admit them into the circle without this, as you know.”
Glaucon smiled and said, “I shall not be mutilated.”
I turned to Peter. “We have discussed this before, in Jerusalem. I thought we had an arrangement? Godfearers do not need circumcision to join the Way.”
“This warrants further discussion.”
“Discussion!”
Barnabas fell silent, perhaps ashamed. He and I had talked at length on our journey about circumcision, and we agreed that Greeks who became Godfearers and members of our circle did not need to submit to this ritual cutting. It would only discourage them, and Jesus had opened his door wide to the world.
Jacob said, “Do you understand that circumcision is a mark of God’s own?”
I knew very well that every Jewish male underwent this ritual surgery on the eighth day of his life, a gesture of atonement in the shedding of blood. I often heard Gamaliel explain to a roomful of pupils that circumcision was God’s gift to the men of Israel, a way of allowing us to perfect ourselves in the eyes of the Almighty. He said it was “Adam’s curse that drew upon us the need for this intervention.” Born of a woman, in shame, every young male was separated from his mother by what Gamaliel called “this ritual of amelioration, an act of self-perfection.”
“Only God perfects us,” I said, as if answering Gamaliel, who frequently rose in my mind as interlocutor. “We can’t perfect ourselves.”
Luke smiled at me, delighted by my rejoinders. And as he had not been “perfected” in this way, he doubtless appreciated my support.
“Did not Abraham perfect himself?” asked Jacob.
I understood that Abraham had circumcised himself in old age, in order to become part of Israel, a Jew at last. This “fruitful cut” was recommended by God in the context of telling Abraham that his seed would prove abundant. The male children of the patriarch would multiply, filling the earth with his progeny, but this could only occur after the ritual curbing of circumcision, an act of humility before God, a sacrifice of the flesh that signaled obedience to the divine will.
Yet I also understood that Jesus had changed everything by allowing his own flesh to be mortified. A “fruitful cut” indeed…
Not surprisingly, the Greeks in the room felt unwelcome, and they left Phoebe’s house abruptly and without further word. It was sad, and I wondered if we would ever see a number of them again. It was a brief triumph for Jacob and his friends, but it caused disgruntlement and confusion among us, and I determined to reframe the relations of Judaism and the Way of Jesus. There was further work to be done here.
I bid Peter good night and went to my room without eating, determined to pray until dawn. I certainly had no appetite for sharing a meal with this group under these circumstances.
Luke said to me, “Before we go into the West together, you must travel to Jerusalem, sit with James and Peter, and come away with a clear sense of what is possible. We can’t have these confusions.” He insisted that we should settle this once and for all. Do Greeks actually require circumcision to join the Way? Can Jews eat with, consort with, and even marry gentiles and remain within the circle? Everything—the future of God’s kingdom—would depend on the answer to these questions.
And so I went directly to Jerusalem, firm in the convictions that God had laid upon my heart. To set forth without the approval of the Pillars on these matters seemed foolish. And so, for much of an hour, I waited in the foyer of Peter’s rooms above a noisy market in the Upper City. This had once been, for me, a familiar part of Jerusalem, though much had changed since my last visit, when I made a hasty exit, having been so unexpectedly saved by Aryeh. There had been skirmishes and a good deal of unrest in recent years, and now the presence of Roman legions on the streets had multiplied. I found the atmosphere oppressive, even though I remained a citizen of Rome and valued this status, which offered a form of protection.
Voices rose behind the braided curtain, and I could identify James by his pinched, nasal way of speaking. “We have only one Way, and it’s a Jewish Way,” he said. “My brother was a rabbi, a Jew who addressed the Jews.”
Peter said, “We risk confining ourselves, limiting the possibilities.”
Another voice, thin and ethereal, said, “I don’t see why there is controversy. We must pray for the healing of division.” I recognized this speaker as Andrew, who avoided conflict whenever he could. “And we must consider Rome. They will not rest easy. Look about you, friends.”
I liked Andrew, whom I had met several times, but I found him self-serving. It surprised me that Jesus had chosen for his disciples such imperfect men, exasperating men. Today I saw that, in fact, Jesus wished to make a point, suggesting by his choices that nobody was perfect in this life, and that even the most flawed of his followers had the capacity for love. Like God, Jesus worked with the material at hand.
James almost shouted, “Rome will smother us if we lose our grip, if we don’t stand together as the people of Israel. Remember Caligula!”
That summons to memory inflamed the Jews, who never for a moment forgot that the mad emperor had wished to place a statue of himself in the Temple, and had sent Petronius into Palestine with a plan to overwhelm Judea and establish complete Roman domination. Caligula would become their true god, not merely a son of Jehovah. Fortunately for the Jews, he was killed—assassinated by the Praetorian Guard—before this desecration could occur.
Peter worked to appease Paul, but James did not easily give way, reminding everyone that Jesus had been his brother. “Jesus hated Rome, and the emperor’s vanity appalled him. ‘When you see the abomination standing where it should never stand, in the Temple itself, let everyone know: All of Judea must flee to the mountains.’ That’s what my brother said. He loved the Temple. He was a Jew above Jews, with no need for gentiles.”
At that point, unable to bear the drift of his argument, I stepped into the room without the benefit of invitation. It was surprisingly dark and stuffy in there, candlelit in the afternoon, with the curtains drawn. The walls glowed a sickly pallor, and there was something subversive in the atmosphere.
“Welcome, Paul,” said Peter in a most unwelcoming voice. “We didn’t expect you quite yet.”
“I would refer you all to the prophet Isaiah,” I said, avoiding the niceties. “God told the people of Israel not to exclude gentiles from their land. He said to make them joyful.” I looked at each in turn. “ ‘Joyful’ is a strong word, but it’s God’s own word, not mine.”
The truth of the scriptures sounded in the room, and it silenced them.
“Do sit with us,” said Peter, after a few moments, gesturing to an empty cushion. “You raise an interesting point. That doesn’t surprise me.”
Andrew said, “You’ve lost most of your hair.”
I smiled, unhappy with his observation, but I didn’t remark on his gauntness or that look of a man pursued by wild animals. He already had one foot beyond this veil of tears.
“We should avoid discord,” said James. “You and Barnabas did excellent work in Cyprus, this much I’ve been told. We’ve had reports from Paphos.”
“So condescending,” I said. “Do you actually hear yourself when you speak?”
James shook his head in a sad way, as if barely tolerating me. The toga that he wore had not been washed in several years, gritty with the dust of Jerusalem, and he obviously didn’t eat much; his thin body had acquired a skeletal aura, his skull visible beneath the skin. He still spent much of every day in the Temple in prayer, where many regarded him as a kind of fixture, an eccentric who walked the streets at night in conversation with God. I felt more pity toward him now than anger. It was notable that Mary, his mother, had little to do with him, even though he apparently saw to her care.
“James meant no harm,” Peter said. “There is no reason for a dispute.”
“There is every reason. The Way can hardly prosper, even survive, if we simply become like the Pharisees, obsessed by every point of the Law, unwilling to let the Holy Spirit rise among us and lift us.”
Peter sighed, perhaps feeling the force of my logic. “I don’t see that we must choose between the Greeks and the Jews,” he said. “God speaks to the nations in their own tongues. That should be a sign.”
“If we exclude those who wish to join us because they are not circumcised,” I said, “we must content ourselves with small numbers, a mere handful of advocates for the kingdom. But Jesus is the universal lord. He will not reject a man because he isn’t circumcised or fails to adhere to the Law of Moses.”
“My brother, you see, had a deep respect for—”
“Your brother! You had very little interest in your brother during his lifetime.”
“Who says this?”
“Paul, please,” said Peter. “This is pointless. To be personal at a time when—”
“Everything is personal. Jesus was personal.”
“You must consider—”
“No! I’ve come a good distance to meet, to discuss these matters, and you know it’s not safe for me in Jerusalem. We must have a clear understanding. Those we gather into the fold, if Greek, are not subject to Levitical regulation. It could not be more simple.”
Peter sucked in a slow breath, rubbing his temples with his fingers. He didn’t look well.
“I do need clarification,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
Peter replied, “If you don’t mind, I would like to have a few words with James and Andrew. We have only the interest of the Way at heart.” He looked nervously at the others, who showed no sign of agreement or disagreement.
“I, too, have in mind the interest of the Way,” I said.
“I’m sure this is true. Could you possibly return at this time tomorrow?” I saw that sweat dripped from his forehead into his eyes, and that he winced. “We’ll have thought carefully about all of this by then. I promise.”
And so I left them to their deliberations. They knew what I thought. And I would not trouble myself if they decided against me. God stood beside me, so did I require anyone else?
I had found a room in a narrow alley near the Fish Gate in the house of Judah, an old and trusted acquaintance, and I returned there later in the evening. I noticed the jagged roofline of the Temple as I walked through the Upper City, looking about me in every direction, aware that if word of my presence reached the wrong ears, my life could be at risk. It was, of course, difficult to appraise the actual level of risk, but I assumed that any number of influential men in Jerusalem remembered me, and far from fondly.
It worried me greatly that the Way might soon diverge, and this would harm everyone who worshipped God in the spirit of his son. Sadness overwhelmed me, and I stopped by a wall to pray, letting my head sink against the rough stone. Thy will be done, I prayed, over and over as the sun dipped low in the western sky.
Shadows filled the streets with a kind of gold-tinged soot, and I drew a raspy breath, recalling my years in Jerusalem with mixed feelings. It was unlike any other city, with its mingling odors of incense and charcoal, camel dung and cat piss. The residual stench of blood from an infinite number of sacrificial offerings hovered in the air. Slowly I made my way along the worn cobbles, pausing to summon earlier days when I walked these passageways, my head filled with language from the Torah. I had always imagined myself writing commentaries one day, filling empty margins of sewn books with brilliant responses, which generations of scholars would encounter and contradict or, perhaps, confirm as erudite and wise.
In my tiny chamber, I sat at a small table before a pitcher of wine and some cold meat with sesame paste that had been left out for me. But it had been a long day, and I fell asleep in my chair, resting my head on the table.
I didn’t waken until I heard the floorboards creak and, aware of the dangers, sat upright. A figure stood before me in the dusky light and I braced, thinking he would thrust a knife into my breast.
“Who are you?”
“Paul, do you still chatter about Plato and Antipater?”
Even in the dim light I recognized the bent nose, the familiar smell.
“How did you find me here, Aryeh?”
“Our friend Judah, of course.” He paused. “He told me you had come back. As you see, I’ve grown fat.”
We embraced, with his coarse beard pressing against my ear.
“I began to attend gatherings a few years ago,” he said. “For me, Jesus has opened a way to God.”
“Do you belong to the Temple Guard still?”
“That’s for younger men.”
“You’re not so old.”
“Nor you.”
“I began life as an old man,” I said. “You once said that. I won’t forget your insult.”
“You are hunched, bald, and bandy-legged,” he said. “But otherwise appealing.”
I had forgotten that he liked to make these humorous comments, and smiled at him. “You may insult me, dear friend,” I said. “But my loyalty remains. And my affection.”
We crouched together on feathery cushions after I lit an oil lamp, and I poured a cup of wine for each of us. He sipped, explaining to me that Gamaliel, before his recent death, had been a voice for reason in the movement, and that he often spoke of me.
“He is dead then? Gamaliel?”
“Only a month ago.”
I had not heard this, and it shocked me to think of this man’s passing. It had meant so much that Gamaliel had turned to Jesus, and that his great learning had become a part of our tradition. He apparently gave wonderful talks to the Jerusalem circle, bringing his knowledge of the Hebrew scriptures to bear on the story of Jesus. “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord,” Gamaliel would say, quoting the Psalms of David, which he called “a carpet unrolled for the feet of the coming Christ.”
We talked about our teacher’s alluring presence, and I recalled that Gamaliel, more than anyone, had shaped my thinking. His approach to argument—fierce, unafraid—became mine. He understood tradition as a living and ever-shifting body of thoughts and customs, an “accumulation of rhetorical moves,” as he once suggested. God, he declared, speaks now, and to each of us. “The fire still burns,” he said, whenever we spoke of the burning bush and Moses. “Get as close to the flame as you can manage. You won’t fry!”
Perhaps I preferred the afterglow of an emotion to the burn itself, and considered this a fault of mine, not a virtue. I wanted to be somebody who would stand in the fire, in God’s holy flame.
“God in me, God without, God everywhere,” I said, repeating the words of Gamaliel.
Aryeh said, “Those words are…so beautiful.”
“What is your life now?”
“I have a wife and two sons.”
“I would like a son,” I said. “Two sons, even better.”
“You never took a wife?”
“There is no time for marriage.” It seemed pointless to explain.
“You have a mission, a passion.”
“God has chosen me. On my way to Damascus—”
“I heard this story. It circulates still, and I’m glad for you. The sky filled with angels?”
“A gleaming choir,” I said. “And sounding brass. The ground shook, tilting in air. I was blinded by God.”
“You haven’t changed,” he said.
We prayed together before he left, something I never thought would happen.
“God be with you,” I said.
The next day, I woke with barely enough time to make my way back to Peter’s house, and my stomach clenched as I pushed through the curtain into the room where, as before, I must face the Pillars.
Peter and Andrew would deliver the verdict, and I took this as a good sign.
“We have a clear vision,” said Peter.
I raised my eyebrows.
“The Greek must become part of the Way,” he said.
“I agree.”
“We know you do. James disagrees, I must tell you. But we have overruled him. No Godfearer, no Greek must undergo circumcision to join the Way. That isn’t necessary.” He paused. “It would be a choice, of course. And one that we recommend.”
“A sensible approach,” I said, concealing my delight.
“As for diet, they must follow the Law.”
“Which aspects of the Law?”
“We must keep this simple, otherwise there is no way to control whatever happens. If an animal has been sacrificed, or strangled, or has been mauled by another beast, its meat cannot be consumed. And the Greeks shall not drink blood. Blood is forbidden.”
I could see where they were headed. Saving face would mean something to James. He would insist that they had agreed to a compromise. He must bring this news back to his constituents within the Way, who formed a tight influential circle within our movement in Jerusalem. This outcome could hardly please them, as it opened doors that could never be shut.
“We can eat at the same table, however,” I said. It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes,” Peter said, without elaborating. “And one further thing. Fornication is forbidden.”
“And how do we define that?”
I had witnessed the whole range of fornication with my own eyes at the governor’s palace in Cyprus, where mere copulation was the least of it, and was myself subject to urges that unsettled me, producing feverish dreams. I knew I must never relinquish control over my body to these animal spirits within me. Discipline was essential in this, as in all things.
“Do you wish to explain?” I asked.
Peter didn’t answer. Instead, he broke off a piece of barley bread, giving it to me.
“There is a question of judgment in all things,” said Andrew. “I would suggest that you pray deeply about these matters. God will show the way.”
“I shall pray hard and long.”
Peter smiled. “Very well, good.”
He told me that I must try the honey that lay in a small clay pot on the table. “It comes from Ananiah, where we have a small gathering. I can’t recommend it enough.”
“Ah, yes. On the way to the Dead Sea.”
I didn’t mind the deflection. It was better to talk about honey than circumcision or dietary laws or, for that matter, the details of fornication. It had been a mistake to prod. Fornication must remain within the domains of individual judgment, as the word itself covered a range of behavior. Was a light kiss on the forehead enough to cross the line? Could one touch someone from the opposite sex on the bare wrist without hesitation?
I left them as soon as it felt it was polite to do so, and found myself almost rising to my toes, giddy with the success of this meeting and of the journey itself. I had settled these important questions, and to the benefit of the Way. A path forward opened broadly, with the sky’s bright unending blue above the bluest heaven.