Greetje: New page: {{info}}The lantern cast a shadow dim
Across Paul’s face and covered him,
As if just half a man, with light
On his left side. He kept the right
Side of his face turned to the...

Greetje — Mon, 13 Oct 2008 14:11:31 GMT

New page: {{info}}The lantern cast a shadow dim Across Paul’s face and covered him, As if just half a man, with light On his left side. He kept the right Side of his face turned to the...

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{{info}}The lantern cast a shadow dim Across Paul’s face and covered him, As if just half a man, with light On his left side. He kept the right Side of his face turned to the dark So Eunice and her son could mark When he would smile. The last time he Was here he noticed Timothy, Especially the trembling and The awkward twitching in his hand. Paul felt a kinship with the youth And asked his mother if the truth Of Christ had taken root, or made A difference in the way he prayed Or talked about his dreams. She said, “He wants to talk with you. The dread He felt is almost gone. He told Me, when you left last time, ‘He’s bold In spite of how he looks. Do you Think Paul would meet when he comes through This way again?’ ‘I think he would,’ I said. If you and Silas could Come by our house tonight, he’s got Some painful questions that I’ve not Been able to resolve. Perhaps Your story might fill in the gaps Between my son and God.” Paul sat With Silas on his right, and at His left the young man, Timothy, With Eunice sitting quietly Across the table. “Paul, what I Would like to understand is why You’re not self-conscious when you preach In synagogues, or when you teach In schools, or when the crowds surround You in the square? I feel all bound Up in myself whenever I Have tried to speak. I’d rather die Than watch embarrassed faces glance At my bizarre and spastic stance And twitching hands, and then look down In pity, or worse, mock the clown, And laugh at my attempts to speak Of Christ. Paul, how, week after week, Can you make your misshapen face The object of so much disgrace, And not become embittered at Man’s cruelty, or worse than that, The cruelty of God? Has your Face always been that way, before You can remember? Or, was it An injury? I’d gladly sit Here all night long, if you would tell Your story, Paul?” The pleasant smell Of burning lantern oil filled up The empty moments, as a cup Is filled with wine to make one strong And bold to carry out some long And painful task. Paul turned his face A fraction toward the boy. By grace His mother never blinked, or took Her eyes from Paul’s. Her steady look Was trained to see through skin and rest On deeper things and there be blessed, And bless. Paul felt this solid grace And said, “Yes, Timothy, this place, This night, is ripe for hearing tales Of how God beats with beams and nails The rhythm of his gracious plan, And makes a cruel and ugly man His healing branch. It all began In Tarsus, where my father’s clan Has lived two hundred years, disbursed Since mighty Maccabees had burst Against the idols of the Land. My father was a Roman and A Jew, the master of a school That silenced scathing ridicule And rivaled all the Greeks for pride In higher thought. My father tried In every way to make the Jews Outshine the pagans who amuse Themselves with myths and learn, for naught, Philosophy and empty thought. He dreamed of having sons who took The pedestal and without book Or note outshone Demosthenes, And brought all Tarsus to its knees In praise of Jewish rhetoric. My birth turned out to be a trick, It seems, and all the deities Of Tarsus scoffed. The willow trees Beside the River Cyndus speak More fluently than Jews with weak And palsied faces. I was born, I’ve often thought, as with a thorn So deep that none could pull it from Its place. My cheek and eye are numb. The right side of my lips drop out As though I had a constant pout. My right eye never shuts, and drains Incessantly. There are no pains, Nor can I feel the drainage so To wipe my face before I know It’s time from how the people stare. Infections in that eye are there As often as they’re not, and I Can barely use it now. The cry That went up from my father’s heart Was not from pity for my part, But rage against the gods, or God, That they—or he—would rise and trod My father’s dream down into dust. 

He wrote me once and said, ‘I trust You know I named you Saul, but not Because he was a king. His lot Was to be king, but he was born A fool. He couldn’t blow the horn, And never led his troops to war. And ended in a heap before His enemies, impaled upon His own dull sword.” The bitter dawn Of my third birthday I was sent Up to Jerusalem and spent My youth beneath the watchful eye Of one my father knew, Rabbi Gamaliel. My mother wept And tried to help me to accept It as a kind of mission for The Lord, like Samuel who bore The burden of the word when he Was only three, and went to be With Eli in the temple of The Lord in Shiloh. But her love Could not conceal my father’s aim And plan: protect the family name And pride, eliminate the shame, Advance the cause of his acclaim And guard the status of his school. Even at three I was no fool To think my going was a gift To me, or that her words could lift My load. Gamaliel was tough, Just like the Torah in his rough And flawless hands. He looked at me One time and said, ‘Saul, you can be The best rabbinic mind with ease, A Pharisee of Pharisees, The Law and Prophets written on Your mind. God gave you mental brawn To make up for your outward looks. If you will give yourself to books And parchments, and the legacy Of all the oral wisdom we Possess, you will advance above All the contemporaries of Your age, and stop the mouths of strange And foolish men who dare to change The law, and even claim the king Of Israel has come. The sting Such messianic fools will feel From your intimidating zeal Will crush their cause and you will see Why God brought you to live with me.’

Gamaliel could not conceive That all I wanted to receive Was not the talent to transcend My age, but just to have a friend. Why would a boy choose to contend Or fight, if he could have a friend? But then Gamaliel was right. There were no friends. And so both night And day I lived with books. These were My silent friends—no scorn, no slur— They all accepted me. They spoke To me, but never made a joke About my face. And so I built A wall around my world. All guilt And shame remained outside. Inside I had my friends, my Law, my pride, My flags of joy above the world, An echo of my rage unfurled.”

Paul stopped. The hand of Timothy, Before him motionless, lay free Upon the table. Eunice sat Enthralled with Paul, but noticed that The tremors of her son were still. “Paul, you’re not done, are you?” “Let’s fill Our cups before we do the rest.” Paul said, “I’ll get to your request. There’s more. My citadel would soon Be breached and sacred rubble strewn In broken pieces everywhere. Let’s pause, and then I’ll take you there.”

May God in mercy make this flame A crucible for testing blame— This candle one, Lord, let it burn Our blaming soul until we learn How much of it is sin. Burn down The wall around our little town That we have built to keep outside The pain, but found it shelters pride. O let this light expose the stain And guilt of how we make our pain A warrant for our sin, and then Build walls around our guilt, and when They’re up, unfurl the flag of rage. Come, candle one, consume this cage, And set us free. We do not need These walls. The Lord of glory freed Us for himself and our disgrace He took, and he will lift our face.

Paul's Face, Part 1 - Revision history

Greetje: New page: {{info}}The lantern cast a shadow dimAcross Paul’s face and covered him,As if just half a man, with lightOn his left side. He kept the rightSide of his face turned to the...

Greetje: New page: {{info}}The lantern cast a shadow dim
Across Paul’s face and covered him,
As if just half a man, with light
On his left side. He kept the right
Side of his face turned to the...