The Messenger (Paperback)

Chapter One

THE SEA IS A LONELY PLACE WHEN IT STORMS.

On calmer days, the sea draws men into natural community. A ship's crew must work together to trim sails and steer a course. Passengers congregate on deck to share stories and pass the hours in the company of others. There is something about the business of traveling by water that throws men together and binds them in common cause.

But in a storm, every man turns inward and becomes a solitary sailor. Hard winds and high waves drive a man onto the reef of himself. Detached, he must face his own private miseries. Isolated, he must confront his own personal fears. In a storm, though others may be present on the boat, each man faces the tempest alone.

* * *

It was storming this day. The ashen skies squatted close to the sea-wind and water locked in tight embrace-with the ship, an unwilling partner, caught between. The gale whipped across the gray swells, taking up foam and spray and hurling them angrily at the boat. Rain blew so cruelly it seemed solid, like small nails, needling exposed faces and piercing the most tightly woven cloak.

The ship bucked and rolled, punching her bow into each oncoming wave, then pausing as if to decide whether to plunge to the sea bottom or shed the water from her decks and ride the surface a while longer. She protested audibly in her exertions. The rigging sang a brave working-song, but the timbers of the hull-bearing as they did the brunt of the labor-could manage only an exhausted groan. Staying afloat in this furious sea was killing work.

But the ship was not alone in its misery. Epaphroditus, a Macedonian from the city of Philippi and the descendant of a long line of men who wisely lived on solid ground, knelt on the open deck with his arms wrapped tightly around the railing. Cold, soaked to the bone, and sicker than he had ever been in his life, he was praying-fervently, sincerely-that God would end his suffering and take him home.

Hours before, the first swells of the storm had sent him to the railing in search of relief. Finding none, despite repeated and wrenching efforts, he turned instead to prayer. At first, he prayed for the storm to cease. It raged on. He prayed for some lesser miracle-healing for his stomach or even a momentary lull in the tempest. But God apparently was in no mood for miracles. Finally, with an earnestness only the seasick can muster, he begged for a merciful end.

But the storm blew on and Epaphroditus remained among the living. Leaning as far over the side as his death-grip would allow, the young man made yet another offering to the sea. He felt the rain running down his neck, collecting in every crevice of clothing and body, and filling his boots. He shuddered at the cold. Wiping a wet sleeve across his mouth, he stumbled back to the hatch to plunge below decks again.

A single lantern swung from the ceiling of the cargo hold, throwing shadows around the walls and adding to the sickening sense of motion. It lit, then silhouetted the green faces of his fellow travelers, who looked up as Epaphroditus clambered down the ladder. In his distress, he imagined them to be tortured souls watching another of the damned descend into dark Hades from the gray and stormy world above.

The stench of vomit and urine rose up to greet Epaphroditus, almost persuading him to sit out the storm on deck. But the thought of the rain and wind and plummeting temperatures somehow made the rankness bearable. So Epaphroditus eased himself to the floor, his back firmly against a beam and his hands spread out on the decking to steady himself.

The flickering light showed him to be in his late twenties, of average stature, with a high forehead and strong jaw. His face was framed by a mass of dark hair-that and his nausea made him seem pale. In better light and on better days, he appeared tanned and healthy. But "pale" was the best he could manage under these circumstances. A potter by trade, his shoulders and arms were muscled by long hours throwing pitchers and bowls on his wheel. Behind the eyes, staring dolefully now around the darkened hold, lurked a bright intelligence.

It was not his habit to talk to himself. But there, in the darkness, he began to do so with quiet intensity, lips moving in silent rebuke. No one in his right mind travels at this time of year. Not by sea. What were you thinking?!

This was the stormy season, the time when cold winds from the north mixed with warmer air over the Mediterranean, causing sudden and violent tempests. The crossing between Nicopolis and Rhegium was famous for its fury during these late-winter months. Survivors of the crossing at this time of year rarely made the same mistake twice. When next they were required to travel in winter, most chose to go by land. Better to hazard the thieves and bedbugs of the Egnatian Way than risk the Adriatic in January.

Epaphroditus would have preferred to walk from Philippi to Rome. The road was well traveled, even at this season, and he was strong enough to give any bandit second thoughts. But the journey by land required two months of hard marching. Since he was on urgent business, Epaphroditus had gone instead to Nicopolis and booked passage on the first ship for Rome-a grain barge whose captain cared less about the weather than about potential profit.

Unconsciously, his hand felt beneath his tunic for the money belt at his waist. The belt was thick with mail and small purses of coin. The letters were all addressed "To Paul." Some were skillfully scripted, the products of careful thought and patient penmanship. Others, though, had been scratched in haste by people as they stood in his pottery shop. And many of the letters were in Epaphroditus's own hand, words dictated to him by illiterate friends. They all contained warm greetings and bits of personal news, the chatty notes people write to loved ones they have not seen for years. There were words of encouragement and prayers for Paul's quick release. A few of the letters were longer, addressing deeper concerns about the church in Philippi, raising issues only an apostle could resolve.

To anyone else, the letters would have little value. But to Paul, they would be words of life.

The money was a different matter. Epaphroditus carried a considerable sum-larger portions contributed by wealthier members of the Philippian church, smaller amounts given with equal sacrifice by the widows and slaves of the congregation. All of it was for Paul, a gift from people who loved him deeply and wanted to help during a difficult time. There was enough money in the belt to make Epaphroditus nervous and watchful. Perhaps it was better to be on a ship after all, where he could keep his back to a bulkhead and his eyes on his fellow travelers.

In truth, the storm made Epaphroditus feel safer about the money. It would take a very determined thief to master his own nausea, overwhelm Epaphroditus in the crowded hold, and relieve him of his money belt.

And, ironically, the money made Epaphroditus feel safer in the storm. Grasping the belt as if it were a lifeline, he comforted himself by thinking of its contents, as though the financial and spiritual support it contained for the Apostle would guarantee its carrier safe passage through any weather. He would have to suffer out the storm. But Epaphroditus felt confident he would survive.

The young potter slowly loosened his grip on the belt and leaned his head against the beam at his back. Cautiously, he closed his eyes and let his mind drift back to Philippi.

* * *

The two of them sat on a hill overlooking the city from the north. It was their custom to walk together as frequently as possible. Where their feet carried them mattered little to either man. The walking was an excuse to conduct important business. Clement was shaping the future of his church. Epaphroditus was learning the bittersweet lessons of caring about kingdom matters.

"That was the first time I felt the weight of it all, the burden of being responsible for these people." Clement picked up a twig and broke it into smaller and smaller fragments. "It has been with me ever since. At first, I resented it, fought it. I didn't realize till later what a blessing it was ... how much I needed it."

Epaphroditus nodded and spoke quietly. "At the shop, I catch myself thinking about our conversations or worrying about someone when I should be attending to customers. I'll sit at the wheel, and my hands take on a life of their own. They're turning the clay, but, in my head, I'm turning the church."

Clement stilled his restless hands and gave himself to the listening.

"Like the other day. I was talking with friends. They were arguing about business and I was bored. I wanted to turn the talk to something that mattered. And then I realized business used to matter to me. I cared about it once. But not anymore. At least, not as much." Epaphroditus rubbed a hand across his face and looked sideways at his companion. "It's getting bad, Clement. I'm even preaching in my dreams. Great sermons. None of those limp lectures I commit in real life! What's happening to me?"

Clement placed his hand on the younger man's shoulder and sat quietly for a few moments. In the plain below them lay the acropolis of Philippi, with its walled defenses and barracks. A spear's throw beyond that, the Egnatian Way divided the city in half. They could see the ribbon of road disappear west toward the setting sun and the distant Adriatic. To the east, they could also see where the road turned south a dozen miles to the Aegean.

Philippi itself sprawled through the narrow valley before them, a haphazard collection of huts and villas and shops and public works. Most of the significant structures-government buildings, temples, guild halls-clustered along the Egnatian Way through the center of town. In the very heart of Philippi, the road opened up into a large square, the agora, where a maze of fountains and shops and public baths crowded together. The two men could see figures scurrying about the marketplace, making the final transactions of the day.

From the vantage of their hilltop, however, nothing in the city caught the eye quite like the theater. In ancient times, the city fathers had cut tiers into a hillside on the eastern edge of Philippi. Since that time, it had served the community as meeting place, concert hall, and sports arena. Now its marble facade and seats glistened in the afternoon sun, catching the late rays and reflecting golds and reds and yellows. It was a sight to make a Philippian proud.

"I know what you're feeling," Clement broke the reverie. "You are in the grip of something larger than yourself. God has placed his hand on you and you cannot shake him off." Epaphroditus nodded almost reluctantly. "You'd think, when God comes knocking, it would be a great joy ... a satisfaction. But it's also a burden, isn't it? His call leaves you feeling heavy ... and a little lonely."

"Yes," Epaphroditus agreed quietly. "I can't just enjoy my work and my friends. I can't just live day-to-day. There's a layer to living now that wasn't there before. I feel responsible. I sense that God wants something more of me."

Clement's hand gripped his young companion's shoulder. "Don't push too hard, son. God does want something of you. I sense that too. But he will reveal it in his own good time. In the meantime, you must learn joy."

The ship rolled and shuddered, breaking the thread of the potter's thoughts and dragging him back to the present. Epaphroditus spread his hands wider on the decking and pressed his back more firmly into the beam. He urged his thoughts back to Philippi, trying to recapture his conversation with Clement. Instead, he heard himself speaking.

"My old friends tell me that joy is an elusive thing, coming and going with the tides of fate. They blame joy on pleasant circumstance and good fortune. When the gods smile, when all is well, then joy breaks out like the sun after a rain." Epaphroditus looked around at the upturned faces focused on him. He stood against the back wall of the room while the congregation sat, tight-packed, on the floor. "Take pleasure in it while you can, they tell me, for soon enough the rain will return, and joy will fade."

Epaphroditus shook his head slowly, as much from sadness as for effect on his listeners. "Tell me. Is joy the result of good circumstances or good character? Do we find joy because things go well with us or because things are well in us? I know people who have every advantage-wealth and power and beauty-who never know joy. And I've seen others who, in the worst of circumstances, are filled with peace and contentment." Many in the audience nodded. They knew people like that as well. They thought of one man in particular, a man who could sing in a dungeon.

"I think my old friends are wrong. Real joy isn't an accident waiting to happen. Real joy doesn't fall on us and then abandon us with changes of fortune. Real joy grows its roots deeper than that. Real joy grows in the soil of contentment and character and commitment. As long as character remains true, as long as faith does not waver, nothing can take away our joy. Not circumstance. Not disappointment. Not adversity." The potter's eyes were shining.

The ship dropped heavily into a trough between the waves, lifting Epaphroditus from the deck and slamming him against the bulkhead. His exhausted body registered the fresh ache and, from some far away place, Epaphroditus became conscious of his stomach again. He tasted a foulness in his mouth and licked dry lips. Resettling himself, he hurried back to the unfinished sermon he had been composing in his dream.

Only this time, it was to another, darker place that he returned.

He could see her lying on a mat pushed into the far corner of the room. His own child-hand rested against the door frame separating her sick room from the work and living quarters of their house. He watched her turn and toss. He heard her moaning. He longed to enter and hold her hand, but was too afraid.

A sour odor washed from her bed, an unpleasant mix of sweat and mold and fever. He could barely stand the stench and had to fight the urge to run from the house to purge his lungs in the clean outdoor air. He resisted, however, and maintained his lonely vigil at the door by breathing shallow, guarded breaths through his mouth. He felt rooted there-afraid to go in, afraid to go away, uncertain and helpless.

Helpless. That was his most powerful memory, a paralyzing impotence that combined with his little-boy dread to sharpen the vision of his mother-wasting and faded-on her mat in the corner. He could watch, but he could not act. He did not know what to do.

Continues...