I, Paul, The Last Apostle (a story)

 

I was born into a lineage of scholars and leaders, each generation steeped in the rigorous study of our sacred texts. My father, a Pharisee of considerable reputation, often recited the Law with a fervor that ignited my desire to understand its depths. As a child, I would stay by his side, captivated by the weight of knowledge he wielded as he debated the finer points of our traditions with fellow scribes. There was an electricity in those arguments, a dance of intellect and passion that drew me in like a moth to a flame.

By the time I reached my teenage years, I had become a zealous follower of my father’s path. I thrived on the debates; the thrill of defending our faith was intoxicating. I carefully studied the Scriptures, immersing myself in the writings and oral traditions that shaped our understanding. I remember the day I was finally initiated into the ranks of the Pharisees—a moment of immense pride and the heavy weight of expectation. My father fastened a new tzitzit.¹ to my cloak, a tangible reminder of my commitment to uphold the Law

As I immersed myself into my studies, I began to see the world through my own lens. I developed a keen ability to dissect arguments, finding loopholes and nuances that others overlooked. My passion transformed into a fervent ambition, and soon, I became known not just for my knowledge but also for my fierce dedication to the Law. I stood before crowds, engaging in debates that reverberated through the streets of Jerusalem, where my words could often silence the doubters. I was Saul, a servant of God—unyielding and unshakeable.

Yet, even within my enthusiasm, I felt stirrings of doubt. Sometimes, I would sit in quiet contemplation, troubled by the stories of outcasts, those labeled sinners. While I knew the Law inside and out, I couldn’t help but feel a gnawing sadness for those who struggled under its weight. It was a paradox I wrestled with, for the Law was my life, and yet the heart of God seemed to beckon toward compassion.

Then came the day when everything changed. I had heard whispers of a man named Yeshua, a craftsman by trade, who spoke in parables and drew crowds with his radical interpretations of our sacred texts. At first, I dismissed him as a heretic, a threat to our way of life. He challenged our beliefs, dined with the very sinners I was taught to avoid, and performed miracles that left the masses in awe. His words echoed in the hearts of many and sparked a movement I could not allow to flourish. My aversion morphed into something deeper, a burning desire to extinguish this perceived threat.

Thus, I became a hunter, a scourge against this new sect known as the Followers of the Way. The change in my identity came not just from the names I underlined on scrolls or the decrees I signed, but from a deep-seated mission that took root in my heart. The clarity of purpose became a balm that eased the disquiet of my soul. Each passing day only solidified my resolve to root out what I considered a blight upon our sacred traditions—a growing cancer that threatened to swallow whole the faith of my forefathers.

My reputation soared as I led efforts to imprison those who claimed allegiance to this man—this Yeshua of Nazareth, whose teachings threatened to unravel the very fabric of our society. Whispers of his parables filled the air like distant thunder, unsettling and omnipresent. I gathered intelligence feverishly, transforming irritation into meticulous planning, as if preparing for a grand battle. I saw the Followers of the Way as usurpers, wolves in sheep’s clothing, and I was determined to be the shepherd who would protect the flock.

I remember marching through the narrow streets, adorned in my robes, head held high, an aura of authority radiating from me. As I ordered raids, the fear I invoked began to feel like a hymn sung in my honor. I would enter homes like a storm, where followers gathered to worship or share tales of miracles, eyes shining with a hope I could scarcely comprehend. With the grip of conviction, I would lead my men, storming through doors, chains clinking ominously, ready to bind both body and spirit.

As I stood by and watched stones being thrown at those moments of retribution and agony, a crowd often gathered—a thrumming assembly of doubt and faith turned into frenzy. I felt the relentless beat of my heart in tandem with the shouts thrown high into the air. “Blasphemer!” “Heretic!” These cries fueled me, fortifying my purpose as surrounding faces contorted with both anger and righteousness. For me, it was not merely violence; it was ritual—a cleansing fire that burned away deviation from our sacred path.

With every life shattered, and every cry of despair, I told myself I was purging impurities from our faith. I thought I was serving God, carrying out His unwritten will, enforcing a divine justice in a world spiraling into chaos. I was a soldier of the Law, and my armor was made of conviction. To waver now would be to invite uncertainty, and I had no appetite for that. The fires I stoked did not singe just flesh; they singed the very fabric of belief itself, forging a new order grounded in fear and obedience.

The exhilaration of power coursed through me—hot and intoxicating, a fevered rush as I wielded influence that shaped the lives of many. That authority became an elixir that dissolved all doubt, each victory a fleeting high that left me wanting more. The capstone of my efforts was often marked by triumphal speeches, urgency laced in my commands as I declared that we would not stand idly by while miscreants tainted our heritage. A new kind of zeal took hold of the community; I became a figure heralded in the taverns, a savage hero sworn to protect whatever remained of our faith.

As I glided through the aftermath of my orchestrated chaos, a strange dissonance began to murmur beneath the surface of my zeal. I’d catch glimpses of the faces I had encountered; some were familiar, while others were strangers, yet they were all now etched in my mind. I would recall the piercing gazes of those who had stood before me, not with anger, but with an unsettling serenity that gnawed at my conviction. They had faith enough to face even the gravest danger. In their eyes, I saw something formidable—an unwavering hope that had become as foreign to me as a language not spoken in my house. Yet I dismissed those moments, brushing aside the creeping shadows of doubt. After all, how could they compare to the exhilaration of power? I was on a divine crusade against a blight that could erode the very foundation of our beliefs, and I derived an unsettling satisfaction from the roles we played, like actors in a tragic play, holding the line against the perceived chaos.

But this narrative was destined to unravel, swirling amidst a cacophony of voices as storms of thought and faith collided. I was but a man amidst grand designs, blinded by my own interpretations, and soon, the hunter would find himself ensnared in a web far more complex than I could have ever imagined.

As I sat there, wrapped in the fervor of my own beliefs, I couldn't have known how the events of that day would ultimately shape my future. My heart was steadfast, my convictions unwavering. Perhaps I was blinded by what I believed was a righteous cause. This was the context in which the events surrounding Stephen unfolded.

The atmosphere in Jerusalem was electric with tension. The followers of Yeshua were becoming increasingly bold in their claims, and this young man, Stephen, was one of their most fervent proponents. He spoke with an eloquence that stirred both admiration and ire among the people. His face glowed with an unearthly light as he recounted the history of Israel, pointing to the fulfillment of God’s promises in the person of Yeshua. Stephen’s words resonated powerfully, yet they were met with hostility from the Sanhedrin, the ruling council of the Jews. His speech was audacious, as he accused them of resisting the Holy Spirit, just as their ancestors had persecuted the prophets. He articulated the truth with a fiery passion that infuriated those who heard him.

I was there, standing amidst the crowd, filled with righteous indignation. My heart burned with fury as Stephen continued, unwavering in the face of hostility. He was proclaiming what I believed to be a dangerous heresy, undermining our entire way of life. I could see the anger building in the council as they listened to him, and a part of me was drawn to the possibility of silencing him once and for all.

Then, he did something that shook me to my core. He gazed into the heavens and declared, "I see heaven open and the Son of Man standing at the right hand of God." In that moment, it was as if a dagger had been thrust into my heart. This was blasphemy—a claim no mere mortal should dare to make.

The high priest and the council erupted, tearing their robes and shouting at the top of their lungs. They rushed at Stephen, dragging him out of the city to condemn him. I felt a surge of power as I watched. In that moment, my resolve hardened. I was no longer a mere bystander but an active participant in what was to come.

As they led Stephen outside the city, I found myself caught up in the fervor. I held the cloaks of those who were about to stone him. It was a symbol of my allegiance to the cause, a way to demonstrate my dedication to our shared belief that these followers of Yeshua must be silenced.

The stones began to fly, brutal and unyielding, each one striking Stephen as he knelt and prayed for his executioners. "Lord, do not hold this sin against them," he cried. Those words echoed in my mind, a chilling testament to his faith, even in his last moments.

But my heart was hardened, and the acts of violence only seemed justified in my eyes. I watched as the life drained from Stephen, his expressions shifting from pain to peace,

even as the rocks pummeled him.

When it was over, Stephen lay lifeless on the ground. Hatred coursed through my veins, but I felt a sense of victory. We had silenced a voice that threatened to upend everything we believed. In that moment, I took pride in my role in his execution, thinking myself an executor of God's will.

In the days and months that followed, I soon came to wonder how that moment could haunt me. How could I have participated in such a horrific act? How could I have been so blinded to the truth? Little did I know that the very Yeshua I sought to extinguish would later confront me on the road to Damascus, transforming my life in a way I could never anticipate.

That day, the echo of Stephen’s dying words reverberated through my mind, even as I pursued my zealous mission against the followers of Christ. But the seeds of change were already being sown, destined to flourish in ways I could not yet comprehend.

So, I pressed on, ardent in my resolve, placing the weight of my expectations upon the shoulders of those I deemed unworthy. With every stone thrown, every life shattered, I thought I was preserving not just a faith but a legacy. And in that fervor, unbeknownst to me, I would soon be forced to confront a truth far deeper than I ever anticipated—a truth that would hold me accountable not only as a hunter but as a man standing before the scope of divine justice and mercy.

I can still recall that moment vividly, as if it were etched into the very fabric of my soul. The day had seemed just like any other, a routine pilgrimage fueled by my fervent zeal to extinguish what I believed to be a dangerous heresy. To arrest those speaking, what I thought, was against God’s laws. But then, everything changed in an instant.

The light enveloped me, blinding in its brilliance—a sold-out sunburst flaring at noon. It had erupted from the very heavens, a divine radiance that rendered the midday sun dull and lifeless by comparison. My senses were assailed; the brilliance consumed my sight, washed over my skin, and pulsed through the air with a power I had never encountered before.

In that instant, it felt as if the heavens had opened, and all of creation had come to a complete standstill. I fell from my horse like a marionette cut loose from its strings, momentum failing to govern my descent. The world flipped upside down, my body hitting the ground with an earth-shattering thud. The shock rang out like a knell, resonating within me, leaving me breathless, bewildered, and utterly confused.

As I lay there, the dust enveloping me like a shroud, my heart raced and my mind spun with questions. Who were you, O light? What did you want from me? Memories of my unyielding pursuits, the shackles I had fastened around the necks of others suddenly leapt into sharp focus. I was not simply a witness; I was the architect of so much devastation. And now, none of that seemed to matter in the presence of this overwhelming Presence.

“Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?” The voice emerged from the flashing light—deep, resonant, immediate and piercing to the very core of my being. It was not a voice of anger or condemnation, but rather one of profound sorrow wrapped in an irresistible authority. The world around me melted away, and those words pierced through the haze of my confusion and arrogance, laying bare the truth I had been so determined to evade.

I lay there, stripped of my armor, my confidence—and my sight, obliterated. My previous certainties crumbled as I grappled with the raw power of that voice. It felt as though the very stones I had hurled—arguments and accusations aimed at the followers of this Yeshua—were now being hurled back at me, cutting through my conscience. I could no longer hide behind my beliefs; the futility of my actions flashed before my mind like a series of ghastly images. How could I have been so blinded by my fervor that I failed to see the truth of my actions? In my zeal to uphold the Law, I had become an instrument of cruelty, a desperate hunter intent on eradicating what I did not understand.

“Who are you, Lord?” The words stumbled from my lips, laden with both uncertainty and dawning reverence. In that question lay the birth of transformation—a willingness to confront the very essence of the One I had so fervently pursued to destroy. I was desperately seeking answers as my heart raced in anticipation, trembling both in terror and curiosity.

“I am Yeshua, whom you are persecuting.” The response came with weight and clarity, unfurling like a banner of revelation above me. Suddenly, it was as if all the walls that had encased my heart and mind collapsed under the weight of that truth. I had not merely been opposing a movement or dismantling a falsehood; I was fighting against the very Son of God. There, under the brilliance of that light, I saw it all unfold—the love, the sacrifice, the unyielding grace that coursed through the narratives of the prophets before me.

I was stunned. Who was this voice? What did it mean? I looked around frantically, but all I could see was the bright light. My soldiers were frozen in place, their eyes fixed on me with a mixture of fear and confusion.

One of them, a young man named Timothy, spoke up. "Sir, what's happening?" he asked, his voice trembling. But I couldn't answer. The voice was still echoing in my mind, and I felt myself being pulled towards it. The light grew brighter, and I felt myself being lifted off the ground.

The other soldiers seemed to be in a trance-like state, unable to move or speak. But Timothy took a step forward, his eyes wide with fear. "Sir, are you okay?" he asked again. I tried to respond, but all that came out was a faint whisper. I felt my heart racing with fear and wonder. Yeshua? The Yeshua? The one who had been killed on the cross? How could this be?

As I lay there, frozen in shock and awe, Yeshua spoke again. "Get up," He said. "Go into the city and wait for further instructions." And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, everything went black. The light disappeared, and I felt myself falling back onto the ground.

As I journeyed slowly, being led by my soldiers, who had since recovered from their shock, towards Damascus, my heart burned with fervor, my mind consumed by the singular purpose of eradicating the followers of Yeshua. I envisioned myself arresting them, silencing their blasphemous claims once and for all. My companions—soldiers loyal to my cause—walked alongside guiding me, their faces set with determination.

For three days, I was blind. My companions guided me into the city to an inn, where they helped me settle myself in; yet I felt utterly lost. It wasn’t just my physical sight that was gone; I wrestled with the storm of my convictions, the weight of my actions pressing down upon me like a heavy cloak. I fasted and prayed, the silence around me deafening, as my thoughts dwelled on the man I had condemned to death—Stephen. His last words haunted me, echoing in the void of my mind.

Then, at the end of that tumultuous period, the Lord spoke again—this time through a man named Ananias. He came to me, and I could sense his trepidation, but he approached with the authority of the Lord behind him. "Brother Saul," he said gently, laying his hands on me. "The Lord Yeshua who appeared to you on the road has sent me to you so that you may regain your sight and be filled with the Holy Spirit."

Yeshua had spoken to Ananias before he came to see me. He told him exactly what would happen when he arrived. "Go to the house of Judas on Straight Street, and ask for a man from Tarsus named Saul, for he is praying. In a vision he has seen a man named Ananias come and place his hands on him to restore his sight."

Yeshua had also told Ananias that I would be a witness to Him and all the things He would show me. But Ananias knew that I was not yet ready to accept this message. He was instructed to tell me that it was necessary for him to suffer and be a witness for Yeshua.

As Ananias spoke these words to me, I felt a sense of trepidation wash over me. Suffering? Me? I had always thought of myself as a strong and capable person. But Yeshua had other plans.

Ananias's words were like a gentle rain on parched soil. They soothed my soul and prepared me for what was to come. I knew that I would have to surrender my own desires and ambitions to follow Yeshua' path.

And so, with Ananias's help, I began my journey as a disciple of Yeshua. It was not an easy road, but with His guidance and support, I became a powerful witness for Him, spreading the message of His love and redemption throughout the world.

As I looked at Ananias, I knew that I would never forget this moment—the moment when Yeshua changed my life forever.

As his hands touched my eyes, it felt like something miraculous was happening. In an instant, it was as if scales fell from my eyes, and I could see again! The darkness evaporated, replaced by a clarity I had never known. I gazed into Ananias’s face, and in that moment, I saw not just a man but the embodiment of grace.

I was filled with the Holy Spirit, a wave of recognition washing over me. The zeal that had once driven me to persecute was now redirected, transformed into a passion for proclaiming the very message I had sought to destroy.

As the soldiers watched, confusion still etched on their faces, I began to speak of the very faith that had once been my target. They had seen the blinding light, heard the voice, and witnessed my miraculous healing. I could sense their bewilderment, but I knew my life—and the lives of all those who had followed Yeshua—would never be the same.

In a matter of days, I had gone from a fearsome persecutor to a fervent herald of the Gospel. The mission I had embarked upon transformed before my eyes into one of love and redemption. I was no longer Saul of Tarsus, the infamous enemy of the Church; I was Paul, an apostle ⁱ called to spread the Good News to the world. And as I stepped out into that bright new day, I carried with me not only my restored sight but a renewed purpose that would resonate for the ages.

In the years that followed, I faced peril and persecution for my faith, but I welcomed it as a badge of honor, for I knew I was now on the true path set before me. My letters to the fledgling churches carried the weight of my journey—a testament to transformation, and it was through fostering love and unity that I discovered the real power of being the 14th apostle. The journey had begun with the Law, but it was in the embrace of grace that I truly found my purpose.

As I traveled from city to city, sharing my newfound faith and the message of hope, I was continually reminded of how Yeshua had taken the most marginalized and forgotten and turned their stories into masterpieces of grace. It was as if the very essence of His ministry was to illuminate the shadows that had been ignored by the guardians of the Law—those like me who had lost the ability to see beyond their rigid interpretations.

Everywhere I went, I encountered the residual effects of Yeshua's work. There were the woman caught in adultery, the tax collector despised by his own people, and the lepers shunned by all. Each had a story that had been defined by rejection and shame before Yeshua had entered their lives. "Neither do I condemn you," He had said to the woman, His voice a soothing balm to her battered spirit. With those words, He offered liberation from the very burdens that had chained her.

I met with one of His followers, an ex-tax collector named Matthew, who recounted the day he was called. He had been in a booth, collecting taxes for Rome, when Yeshua passed by and simply said, "Follow me.” In that single beckoning, he left behind a life of bitterness and greed, transforming into a beacon of generosity and companionship for the outcasts of society. Matthew often told me how, despite his past, he felt valued and called to make a difference—a testament to how Yeshua saw not just the surface but the heart.

And there were the Samaritan women at the well, shunned for their status but embraced by Yeshua. His willing conversation with her shattered social norms, and in their dialogue, He spoke words of eternal life. When I met these followers, now digging trenches of understanding and compassion among themselves, it struck me how they were building communities rooted in the acceptance that Yeshua had modeled. These were not communities defined by the Law, but rather by the grace that flowed through every interaction. Each encounter I had reinforced a radical shift in my understanding of righteousness.

During one of my journeys, I met a group of believers in Corinth who had been struggling to understand their own worth amid societal pressures and judgments. I shared the remembrance of how Yeshua had embraced the flawed and built a legacy on love. We practiced communion together, breaking bread and sharing wine, each of us reflecting on our pasts, our messes, and how the grace of Yeshua brought us together.

With every letter I wrote, I echoed the core principles I had learned from Yeshua. Love was now my guiding doctrine. I implored my brothers and sisters to "Bear one another’s burdens," reminding them that our unity stemmed from shared struggles and victories, just as Yeshua had embraced the outcasts and called them family. Through guiding others to see the beauty amidst brokenness, I found my place alongside my fellow believers, holding fast to the truth that Yeshua had embodied for us all.

Yeshua’s legacy was alive in every act of faith. As I learned to preach about his teachings, I realized I was, too, becoming an answer to His call. Each compassionate action was a testimony—a ripple that wound its way through the fabric of humanity, urging others toward faith. When I embraced the essence of His message, I understood that our faith was never meant to stand alone; the beauty of it lay in how it connected us all, transcending boundaries and restoring hearts.

As I traveled, I spoke not only of the Law but challenged my audiences to explore the heart behind it—to listen to their inner calls to love fiercely and forgive readily.

During my journey to Macedonia, I found the stamp of physical need overwhelmingly present in the faces of the people there. As I spoke with them, I witnessed the miraculous unity of believers that echoed the diversity of our Lord’s embrace. It was in this place that a vision became evident in my heart: to provide tangible help. I encouraged the churches I had founded to give generously from what they had as support for the brethren struggling, particularly in Judea.

"God loves a cheerful giver," I wrote, imploring them to reflect on how they had been blessed and now had the opportunity to bless others in return. I believed that generosity would not only meet physical needs but would also bind our hearts together in the understanding of our shared purpose.

However, my travels were not without trials. There were times I faced scoffers, and I cannot forget the nights spent cold and alone, wondering if the road I was on was truly the path to which God was calling me. In those moments, I felt the nagging doubts creep into my mind, but then there were also the visions, the encouragement from newfound brothers and sisters, and often the stunning realization that each experience was molding me into the man I was meant to be.

I still relive the tumultuous journey that brought me to the shores of Rome. As I reflect on those fateful days, my heart swells with gratitude for the unexpected blessings that unfolded.

It was a tumultuous night, filled with the raging fury of the Mediterranean Sea. Our ship, sturdy and seasoned, bucked and heaved against the waves as if trying to break free from its very moorings. I had been taken captive by the Roman authorities and was being transported to Rome to stand trial before Caesar.

As we rode out the storm, I could feel the anxiety building among the crew. Fear and doubt crept in like a cold wind, threatening to consume us all. I knew I had to act, to calm their spirits and reassure them that we would weather this tempest.

Without hesitation, I called out to the centurion in charge, "Take courage! We will all be lost if we don't keep our spirits up!" I knew that even in the midst of turmoil, faith could be a powerful anchor.

But my words were met with skepticism and even disdain. The crew had given up all hope, convinced that we were doomed to perish at sea. Yet I refused to yield. I had lived through many trials and tribulations; I had seen the power of God at work in my life, and I knew that He was still with me.

As the storm raged on, I sensed a stirring within me. It was as if the Spirit of God was urging me to take action. Without hesitation, I called out to the crew once more, "Men, why are you so afraid? Do you not know that there are more than forty of us on board? Yet we are all going down into the sea!"

The centurion's eyes narrowed in suspicion, but I could see the glimmer of hope flickering within him. "What are you doing?" he asked gruffly.

"I'm calling out for help," I replied. "We must pray to God for assistance!"

The crew exchanged skeptical glances, but I pressed on. "Friends, let's not forget our Maker in this moment of crisis! We are His children, and He loves us beyond measure."

With a surge of determination, I led the crew in prayer, pouring out my heart to God for protection and deliverance. The storm raged on, but as we prayed, something remarkable began to happen. The winds began to die down, the waves subsiding as if in response to our cries.

The centurion's face transformed from skepticism to amazement as he gazed upon the sea. "What's happening?" he exclaimed. "Are you sure this is real?"

I smiled, knowing that God had answered our prayers. The storm had passed, leaving behind a stillness that was almost palpable. The crew looked at each other in wonder, their faces etched with gratitude.

As we surveyed the damage done by the storm, we realized that our ship was miraculously intact. Not a single plank had been broken or splintered! It was as if God had shielded us from harm.

The centurion approached me once more, his eyes filled with a newfound respect. "Paul," he said quietly, "I don't know what kind of man you are or what kind of powers you possess. But one thing is clear: you have saved us all from certain death."

In that moment, I knew that my faith had been tested and proven true. The Lord had intervened on our behalf, demonstrating His power and mercy in the midst of chaos. And as we sailed on toward Rome, my heart swelled with joy and gratitude for the privilege of serving Him.

Though we faced many more trials ahead, I knew that God was with us always, guiding us through life's storms and leading us into His loving presence.

As we continued on our journey, the crew's attitude underwent a remarkable transformation. They had witnessed the power of God firsthand, and their hearts were no longer filled with fear and doubt. Instead, they began to look at me with a newfound respect and awe.

The centurion, who had been skeptical of me at first, now regarded me with a sense of wonder. "Paul, you are a strange man," he said, "but you are a man of God. We owe our lives to you."

I smiled humbly, knowing that it was not I who had saved them but the Lord who had worked through me. "We are all servants of God," I replied. "We must give thanks to Him for His mercy and love."

The days passed quickly, and we sailed on toward Rome. The crew's morale had improved significantly, and they worked together with renewed enthusiasm and purpose.

I spent my time sharing the gospel with them, using the opportunities to preach about Yeshua Christ and His love for humanity.

As we approached the shores of Italy, I could sense the excitement building among the crew. They were eager to reach their destination and complete their mission. But I knew that my own journey was far from over.

In the heat of it all, I was taken prisoner in Jerusalem—an event that stripped away the armor I had so carefully crafted. In chains, I often found myself in the company of others imprisoned for their faith. Together, we would remind one another of the hope we found in Christ. There was a fire that burned brightly even in dark places; and leads to my epistle to the Philippians, which I composed under duress. "Rejoice in the Lord always; I will say it again: Rejoice!"

These words echoed through the damp prison walls,reaching not only the believers outside but also those around me—Roman guards and fellow prisoners. My faith became a beacon; my chains became a means for the Gospel to be further spread. I would speak of Christ, and many who guarded me would later accept the message, finding themselves drawn to the truth that ran counter to the world they knew.

When we finally arrived in Rome, I was taken directly to the palace of the governor, where I was met by a stern-looking official named Festus. He was a hard man, but I sensed a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes.

"So, you are the one who's been causing all the commotion in the East," he said, his voice dripping with skepticism. "What's your story, Paul?"

I smiled calmly, knowing that my time was limited. "I'm a servant of God," I replied. "I've been sent to proclaim the gospel to the Gentiles, just as I was commissioned by Yeshua Christ."

Festus raised an eyebrow. "The gospel? You mean the story of Yeshua the Christ?"

I nodded. "The same one. The message of salvation and redemption is for all people, regardless of their background or nationality."

Festus snorted. "you are crazy, Paul. you are playing with fire. But I'll give you credit – you are certainly charismatic."

I chuckled inwardly. It was true that I had been gifted with words and persuasion, but it was not I who had given me this gift – it was the Lord who had empowered me to share His message.

As we spoke, I sensed that Festus was torn between his duty to follow Roman law and his curiosity about this strange new faith called Christianity. I knew my time was limited, but I was determined to use every moment to share the gospel with him and his officials.

And so I spoke on, pouring out my heart and soul to those who would listen. The Lord worked through me, using my words to touch hearts and minds in ways that I could never have imagined.

In the end, it was not my words that changed Festus's heart but the Holy Spirit's work within him. And though my journey came to an end on that fateful day when I faced death on the executioner's block, my message lived on—a testament to the power of God's love and redemption that continues to inspire and transform lives to this day.

In Rome, as I awaited trial, I was overwhelmed by the depth of the community that had risen around me. Many traveled long distances to see me, sharing their stories of faith, filled with struggles, yet blossoming with joy—reminders of why I had embarked on this journey. I spoke with them about the love of Christ, urging them to stand firm, to wear the full armor of God, and to remember that nothing could separate us from the love of God.

In that moment, even as the threat loomed over me, I came to hold a deeper understanding of my purpose—every letter, every journey, every act of faith was woven into a tapestry that told a much grander story, one in which I played a small yet significant part.

And so, I continued to write letters, crafting each with a heart overflowing with warmth and affirmation, reminding the faithful that they were, and still are, beloved children of God. In those final moments, I held to the life that was given to me, knowing that every breath was an opportunity to serve, to love, and to extend the grace that had so miraculously transformed my existence.

Thus, my identity was no longer rooted in the rigidity of my past but in a vibrant faith that flourished in community, shared struggles, and the unwavering belief that through Christ, we could all be made new. In every corner of my heart, I carried forth the truth: our faith was always a journey toward love, a call to embody the very heart of God in a world that desperately needed His grace.

As I stood before Festus, I could sense the weight of the Roman authorities bearing down on me. They had been watching me for months, trying to pin me down with charges that would stick. But I knew that my message was not of this world and that the Lord had called me to be a witness to the truth.

"So, Paul," Festus said, his voice dripping with skepticism. "you are saying that Yeshua Christ is the Son of God, and that He died on the cross to save humanity?"

I nodded, my heart pounding with conviction. "That's exactly what I'm saying. And I'm not just saying it—I know it to be true. The Lord has revealed Himself to me, and I've seen the power of His love and redemption firsthand."

Festus raised an eyebrow. "you are a peculiar man, Paul. But even if what you say is true, why should we believe you?"

I smiled calmly. "Because I've lived it, Festus. I've seen the hand of God at work in my life, and I've experienced His love and mercy firsthand. And I'm not the only one—thousands of people have come to faith in Christ through my ministry."

The governor's eyes narrowed. "Go on," he said.

I took a deep breath. "The Lord has given me a vision of a world where all people can live in harmony with each other, where there is no more poverty, no more suffering, and no more pain. And He has given me a message to share with the world—a message of hope and redemption through faith in Yeshua Christ."

Festus snorted. "you are talking about a utopia, Paul. It's never been possible for humanity to live in perfect harmony."

I shook my head. "It's not about human effort or achievement, Festus—it's about the power of God working in people's lives. And I know that it's possible because I've seen it happen time and time again."

The governor's expression turned skeptical once more. "Well, Paul, even if what you say is true, why should we care? We're Romans—we're used to being in charge."

I smiled quietly. "Because, Festus, you are wrong. You are wrong about who you are and what you are capable of. You are made in the image of God, and you have a purpose that goes far beyond your own personal ambitions or desires."

Festus's eyes flashed with anger, but I could see the spark of curiosity still burning within him. And in that moment, I knew my time was running out—but I also knew my message would live on long after I was gone.

As the guards dragged me away to face my execution, I couldn't help but think about the conversations we had just had. Festus may have thought he was just doing his job as a Roman governor, but deep down, he knew that something was stirring within him—something that could change the course of his life forever.

As I stood before the executioner's block, ready to face my own mortality, I knew my message would live on through the hearts and minds of those who had heard me speak. The Lord had given me a gift—a gift of words and persuasion—and He had used me to touch hearts and minds in ways that I could never have imagined.

My mind flooded with memories—each city I had visited, every believer I had met, and the countless letters I had written to encourage, admonish, and uplift the churches. I barely noticed the jeers and shouts from onlookers, the scornful faces twisted with disdain. Their words could not penetrate the peace that enveloped my heart. My purpose had always been clear: to proclaim the name of Yeshua. No threats, no chains, and certainly no death would change that.

The guards were brusque, moving me swiftly toward a place outside the city walls—a stark contrast to the vibrant gatherings of worship I so cherished. Here, the sun was rising to its zenith, casting long shadows that danced like memories of my past. I thought of the letters I had penned while imprisoned, reminding my brethren that even in chains, we were free in Christ. I had always said, "For me, to live is Christ, and to die is gain," but now those words took on a weight that settled deep in my soul.

As I stood there, the world faded, and I embraced the light, knowing in that divine presence that love was eternal, transcending even this moment of sacrifice.

And so, I surrendered, heart and soul, to what lay ahead, a journey into the depths of grace and glory promised to those who dared to believe in the name above all names.

With that, I felt the blade touch my neck, and my breath caught in my throat.

I was aware of the pain that came, but it was nothing like I had feared. Instead, there was a sudden coldness and then an enveloping warmth, a gentle release that drew me away from this world. I was sinking softly into a sleep that felt more peaceful than anything I had ever known.

In that surrender, I realized that my time had come. As my consciousness dimmed, I thought of the countless followers I had met, the communities I had seen transformed, and of Yeshua Christ, my Savior. My heart swelled with gratitude for every moment of love and grace I had experienced along my journey.

As my eyes closed for the last time, I felt a profound peace settle over me. I knew that I would sleep in death, not to awaken until Christ's return. It was a restful slumber that awaited the glorious day when I, along with all believers, would rise to meet Him in the air, then united with our Lord forever on earth, in the New Jerusalem.

And so, as the veil of unconsciousness draped over me, I whispered a silent prayer of thanksgiving—for my life, my journey, and the promise of resurrection. In that moment, I entrusted my spirit to the one who had called me, content to await the day of His returning, knowing my legacy would endure in the hearts of those who dared to believe.

1Tzitzit (צִיצִית) — Fringes commanded in Numbers 15:38–39 as a visible covenant reminder to obey God's Word. Traditionally worn by men, though the text does not forbid women—some choose to wear them in holy devotion, remembering they too are called to keep His commandments.

apostleⁱ  And let me make this perfectly clear while we’re at it—there have been no apostles since Paul. Not one. That office ended with those personally chosen by Yeshua, who saw Him alive after the resurrection with their own eyes. Anyone claiming to be an apostle today is lying. They are not sent by Messiah—they are sent by hasatan to deceive. The foundation was already laid. You don’t keep laying foundation stones once the building’s already standing. The Word said there would be false apostles—and here they are. Test them. Reject them. Walk in truth.