On the Road to Damascus

Rebekah felt the vibration of pounding hoofs through the hard-packed dirt floor of the cottage, even before she heard them. As the rider drew up to the door, she realized it could not possibly be Amos returning with his donkey cart and she became alarmed. When Amos dismounted and rushed through the door, he found his sister holding a large flat cooking stone, ready to swing it at her intruder. She dropped it to her side upon seeing him.

“What has happened?” she said, confused and astonished. When Amos told her about the angry mob and the murder of Stephen, she wept bitterly. After a time, when tears would no longer come, anger replaced her sorrow. Amos had brewed a fresh pot of tea. The two sat at the table in the kitchen and talked. With the setting of the sun, the room was illuminated only by the dull glow of the fire’s embers, and the yellow flame of a small clay oil lamp.

“They are such evil men, Amos. Why do they hate us for following the teachings of Jesus? What have we done that Caiaphas and the other temple priests despise us so?”

“They fear us, Rebekah. They fear us as they feared Jesus. As the number of those who follow Jesus grows, fewer will follow them.

They can see their power and influence evaporating like water spilled on a hot stone.” He refilled each of their cups and set the pot of tea off to one side.

“But to kill us, Amos? They cannot have Pilate’s approval to murder us like Stephen, can they? Surely the Romans would not approve the killing of so many—not without proper trials. Would they risk the peace in Jerusalem to be broken in such a way by the Sanhedrin?”

“I cannot say. All I know is that they were bold in their stoning of Stephen. Many were involved and it took place in the light of day, just outside the city walls.” He brought the cup of tea to his lips, took a sip, and placed it down again.

“I heard one man call Stephen a blasphemer,” Amos said. “If they say to Pilate that they killed him in the name of keeping pure the Jewish faith and maintaining civil order, then perhaps the procurator would overlook their actions. It could be seen as a temple matter, of no concern to him.” Rebekah was silent for a moment. She rubbed her eyes, red and sore from her weeping. The hour was growing late and her body ached from shock and exhaustion. She picked up the cup before her unconsciously, and then set it down again without drinking from it.

“I wish that Lucius were here,” she said quietly. “I feel we are so alone and helpless in the midst of this. I miss him so, especially now.” Rebekah looked away as if lost in thought for a moment, before turning again to her brother. “What are we to do, Amos?”

“Judith feels it may not be safe for us to stay here. Bartholomew will go to the Sanhedrin tomorrow to see if he can learn more. She may be right. Perhaps some of those who murdered Stephen will have recognized my cart, and will know me. I travel that road often. If this is indeed the beginning of a persecution of all those who follow Jesus, they may come here looking for me—and find and seize both of us.”

Rebekah looked around the room. The light from the fire and the flickering lamp cast unsettling shadows on the walls.

“But this is our home, Amos. It is the only one we have known. We were born in this house. Our parents lie buried not far from here. This is our life…” Rebekah’s eyes were drawn to the little workspace alongside the kitchen that Amos had built for her, to the potter’s wheel she had used since a girl. “Are we to just leave this behind? Is this the price we must pay because we love and follow Jesus?” Amos felt the same sense of loss within him, but also a gnawing pain within his chest for being the bearer of this troubling news. He felt responsible for bringing this burden upon his sister.

“I pray that we will be able to return here, Rebekah. I only want you to be safe until we know for certain what is happening. I could not endure it if we did nothing and somehow I was the reason you were arrested…or worse.” He could not bring himself to say more. “Please, come with me to Judith’s house. We should be safer there than here. Caiaphas will not so easily intimidate or arrest Bartholomew, or those under the protection of his household. Judith’s husband, after all, is a respected magistrate within the Sanhedrin.”

Rebekah rose and stood in the dim light, the fire’s hissing and crackling punctuating a long silence. She rubbed her cheek absent-mindedly while she remained lost in thought. Then, she began to walk slowly through the rooms of their home, looking about, the memories of a lifetime flooding through her. After a time she returned to Amos.

“I will pack a few things for us and return with you to Judith’s home in the morning,” she finally said softly. Amos stood by the kitchen table, their tea long turned cold. Rebekah again moved quietly through the house, as if she were seeing it for the last time. She looked wistfully about the cottage they had shared these many years, the home their father had built and Amos had repaired. She placed her hand on the potter’s wheel, giving it a gentle push, watching it turn slowly. She stared at it until it stopped. Will I never sit at this wheel again, my hands wet with clay, shaping pretty cups and bowls?

Amos could see that it pained Rebekah to leave their home in such haste, perhaps abandoning forever all that they had, the life they had known. But he could see no other course to take. Perhaps tomorrow, he thought, Bartholomew will find this was not the onset of a planned persecution, but only the unfortunate murder of one man by a resentful mob.

“It could well be that our fears are unfounded, that there is no persecution, Rebekah,” Amos called to her, voicing the thoughts he hoped were true. “We will likely return in a few days and everything will be as it was. Perhaps we will just have to be more circumspect in our worship of the Lord…” But there was no answer.

Rebekah had stepped into the little yard behind the cottage. In the shadows, she ran her hand lovingly across the rows of pottery that even now lined the drying racks. She felt the cool smoothness of the clay, the familiar shapes of her bowls, pitchers, cups and plates. When she returned to the kitchen, Amos could see her tears had returned. She wiped them on her apron.

“You’d better see to the horse’s needs before you go to bed,” she said to Amos, her voice weak. “And then you should try to sleep. You will need your rest if we are to leave at dawn.” Amos felt his heart grow heavy. He knew from Rebekah’s words that she would find neither peace nor sleep this night. And then she turned again to her brother, new tears fresh in her eyes.

“What of Lucius?” she said. “If we have to leave here and not return, if we have to flee Jerusalem…how will he ever find us? How will he ever find me?”

Amos could give her no answer.