Great Lion of God
Taylor Caldwell
GREAT LION
OF GOD
Taylor Caldwell
First published by
Doubleday & Company, Inc.
1970
With the same color and dramatic power that made Dear And Glorious Physician an international bestseller, Taylor Caldwell now recreates the life of St. Paul in a novel as gigantic as its central figure.
In these pages, Paul is not the wooden statue of traditional biographies, not the poor tentmaker from Tarsus employed as a passive instrument of God, but a man of flesh and blood and strong emotions, the pious and intellectual son of a wealthy Roman-Jewish family who was both a scholar and a poet. He is a man whose entire life was overshadowed by a sense of sin and a desire for forgiveness, and his story is told with compassionate understanding of the forces that made him a righteous persecutor of the early Christians and led him to discover his destiny—and his God—on the road to Damascus.
Taylor Caldwell’s many novels, which include Dear And Glorious Physician, Testimony Of Two Men, and a dozen others, have all received enthusiastic praise for their depth of research and remarkable emotional quality. In writing GREAT LION OF GOD, Miss Caldwell spoke with Jewish scholars in Israel and Catholic scholars in the Vatican and found that these experts held peculiarly similar views of St. Paul. Yet both were strangely different from the traditional picture of the saint, and in that difference, she discovered the real Paul of whom she has written.
Other Books by Taylor Caldwell
1938 DYNASTY OF DEATH
1940 THE EAGLES GATHER
1940 THE EARTH IS THE LORD’S
1941 TIME NO LONGER
1942 THE STRONG CITY
1943 THE ARM AND THE DARKNESS
1943 THE TURNBULLS
1944 THE FINAL HOUR
1945 THE WIDE HOUSE
1946 THIS SIDE OF INNOCENCE
1947 THERE WAS A TIME
1948 MELISSA
1949 LET LOVE COME LAST
1951 THE BALANCE WHEEL
1952 THE DEVIL’S ADVOCATE
1953 MAGGIE - HER MARRIAGE
1954 NEVER VICTORIOUS, NEVER DEFEATED
1955 YOUR SINS AND MINE
1956 TENDER VICTORY
1957 THE SOUND OF THUNDER
1958 DEAR AND GLORIOUS PHYSICIAN
1960 THE LISTENER
1961 A PROLOGUE TO LOVE
1963 GRANDMOTHER AND THE PRIESTS
1963 THE LATE CLARA BEAME
1965 A PILLAR OF IRON
1965 WICKED ANGEL
1966 NO ONE HEARS BUT HIM
1967 DIALOGUES WITH THE DEVIL
1968 TESTIMONY OF TWO MEN
1970 GREAT LION OF GOD
1971 ON GROWING UP TOUGH
1972 CAPTAINS AND THE KINGS
1973 TO LOOK AND PASS
1974 GLORY AND THE LIGHTNING
1975 ROMANCE OF ATLANTIS
1976 CEREMONY OF THE INNOCENT
1977 I, JUDAS
1978 BRIGHT FLOWS THE RIVER
1980 ANSWER AS A MAN
2012 UNTO ALL MEN
For Judge Edward L. and Janet L. Robinson,
with affection
Any resemblance between the world of St. Paul of Tarsus and the world of today is purely historical.
FOREWORD
MANY years of intensive study have gone into this novel about one of the most passionate, intelligent, urban and dedicated Apostles of early Christianity, Saul of Tarshish, or, as the Romans called him, Paul of Tarsus, the intellectual Pharisee and lawyer and theologian, and, finally, the Apostle to the Gentiles.
Saul has had more influence on the Western world and Christianity than most of us know, for Judeo-Christianity, which he sedulously spread throughout the world, is the bedrock of modern jurisprudence, morals and philosophy in the West, and which, through their spiritual and mental power and industry and justice, have literally over the past two thousand years truly created a new society, and advanced the cause of freedom. As we all know, it was Moses who cried, “Proclaim liberty throughout the land, unto the inhabitants thereof!” It was the first time in human history that such a proclamation was uttered, and Saul of Tarshish proclaimed it anew and vehemently. Liberty, above all, has been the most profound ideal of Judeo-Christianity, liberty of mind and soul and body, a new concept among men. It is no wonder, then, that the foes of freedom first attack religion, which liberated mankind.
It may cheer many—and depress others—to realize that man never really changes, and the exact problems of Saul’s world are the same that confront us today.
Cheer, in that man has an indomitable way of surviving his governments and his tyrants and surmounting them, and depressing that he never learns from his own experiences. As Aristotle said, long before Christ, a people who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it. It is obvious that we are repeating it today.
Solomon said, “There is nothing new under the sun.” The Roman empire was declining in the days of Saul of Tarshish as the American Republic is declining today—and for the very same reasons: Permissiveness in society, immorality, the Welfare State, endless wars, confiscatory taxation, the brutal destruction of the middle-class, cynical disregard of the established human virtues and principles and ethics, the pursuit of materialistic wealth, the abandonment of religion, venal politicians who cater to the masses for votes, inflation, deterioration of the monetary system, bribes, criminality, riots, incendiarisms, street demonstrations, the release of criminals on the public in order to create chaos and terror, leading to a dictatorship “in the name of emergency,” the loss of masculine sturdiness and the feminization of the people, scandals in public office, plundering of the treasury, debt, the attitude that “anything goes,” the toleration of injustice and exploitation, bureaucracies and bureaucrats issuing evil “regulations” almost every week, the centralization of government, the public contempt for good and honorable men, and, above all, the philosophy that “God is dead,” and that man is supreme.
All this Saul of Tarshish confronted in his own world, where the word “modern” was deeply cherished. There is a common fallacy that the early Church was one, loving and fervent and devoted and without contention or controversy, united and dedicated. On the contrary! Christ had not been resurrected two years before dissension and protest and dissent wracked the young Church almost to oblivion.
As Saul said, “There is not an obscure little bishop or deacon in some dusty little town who does not have his own interpretation.” These small men also had a multitude of followers who heartily disagreed with—and fought—other Christians, and the bitterness was intense. For many years that bitterness was powerful between St. Peter and St. Paul, and almost destroyed the Church. How they were reconciled is an amusing story in itself—but they never really loved each other! In short, they were all too human and we can all understand them, and as humanity finds itself lovable we can find these two ardent and determined contestants lovable, too.
There is another fallacy, too, that all Christians were “holy martyrs” in a naughty world, and were as pure and long-suffering as lambs. On the contrary, again! They were often insufferable and intolerant of the world about them, and deliberately provoked “the heathen,” and made themselves generally obnoxious.
They were not persecuted, as it has been too long assumed, “for their faith,” for the Roman world was cynical and totally tolerant of all religions and devoted to none. But the early Christians brought themselves dangerously to the attention of the ruling authorities in Rome and in Rome—dominated Israel by their loud and public objections to practically everything, including the “heathen” temples. They were also guilty of invading those temples during religious ceremonies and shouting, “Woe!” and overturning statues and taking o
ver pulpits and denouncing ruling authorities and the Establishment—and where have we heard that since? On the other hand, the Faith was advanced not by these militants who thought Our Lord was about to return the next hour or the next day and set them up in glory and as absolute rulers over the world, but by quiet and devoted and intelligent and peaceful men working often in solitude and in prayer. The militant Christians—who almost destroyed the infant Church with their dissents and protests and belligerence—had already forgotten that Our Lord had said, “I am no divider of men. My Kingdom is not of this world,” and “Render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar’s and to God the things which are God’s.” Alas, like so many millions of us living today, they believed that the establishment of the Kingdom of God meant material affluence—for themselves, and power. It is curious that the militant are rarely spiritual, and are concerned only selfishly with advantages in the world, and the “punishment” of “enemies.”
There is one cheerful thought that emerges: The Church survived its external enemies—which were the least important—and its internal enemies, which were the most disastrous and powerful. So, as the Church is torn by loud “innovators” today, and “dissent,” and “modernism,” to the anxiety and sometimes despair of the truly faithful, so it was in the past, and by its internal rather than external enemies. And as the Church survived then, so it will survive now, finally purged of the “dissenters” who were never truly aware of their Faith and never, in their hearts, fully accepted it. (When I speak of the Church, I speak of all Christian churches, of course.) There is also the depressing thought: We never learn from the past.
Judeo-Christianity is facing its greatest test of history in these days, for in a great and terrible measure it has become secular and preaches “the Social Gospel” rather than the Gospel of Christ. Christ was not concerned with this world, which now so engrosses those who claim to be His followers, and repeatedly said that He would “create a new world.” He, you will notice, not we.
He was not preoccupied with “social problems” and injustices. He constantly preached that justice and mercy would flow from a changed heart, and love, not by man’s laws and ordinances.
Man’s nature cannot be changed in any particular—except by the power of God, and religion. All the “education” in secular institutions and all the secular exhortations will never succeed in civilizing man. As Christ said, “Who, by taking thought, can add one cubit to his stature?” No one, of course.
In this novel, I have capitalized the pronoun of Divinity when the speaker speaks of God and Our Lord in faith and acceptance, and have kept the pronoun uncapitalized when the speaker or writer is skeptical or unconvinced or unaccepting. Many novels and books about St. Paul have told in marvelous detail what he did and accomplished in his life and missionary journeys. I am concerned with what he was, a man like ourselves with our own despairs, doubts, anxieties and angers and intolerances, and “lusts of the flesh.” Many books have been concerned only with the Apostle. I am concerned with the man, the human being, as well as the dauntless saint. I am also interested in what influenced him in his childhood and early life as a Roman citizen and Roman lawyer, as well as a Pharisee Jew of great learning and enormous intellect, and abiding faith. That is why I halted at his last leaving of his beloved country, Israel. We all know his journeys after that and his martyrdom in Rome, but the last sight of his dear country ends, I hope, the novel on a poignant note. Death is not more moving to a man than the final vision of his native land, which he is leaving forever, and his own people. If I can influence, in this book, only ten people who will follow the advice of Our Lord to “study the Scriptures,” both the Old and the New Testaments, I will feel I have succeeded. Therefore, I dedicate this book “Urbi et Orbi.”
TAYLOR CALDWELL
Part One
For he was a veritable lion, a red lion, the great lion of God
—St. Augustine
Chapter 1
“HE is very ugly,” said his mother. “My brothers are all handsome, and my mother was celebrated for her beauty, and I am not, myself, unprepossessing. How is it possible that I gave birth to so repulsive a child?”
“Be thankful we have a son,” said her husband. “Did you not give birth to dead girls before this? We have a son.”
“You speak as a Jew,” said the child’s mother, with a flick of her white and delicate hand. “But we are Roman citizens also, and our conversation is conducted in Greek and not in barbarous Aramaic.” She contemplated the child in his cradle with increased melancholy and some aversion, for she had Hellenic pretensions and had written some poetry in Grecian pentameters. Her father’s friends had remarked on her taste and had mentioned Sappho. Her father, a scholar himself, had been gratified.
“We are still Jews,” said Hillel ben Borush. He stroked his fair beard and looked down at his son. A son was a son, even if hardly beautiful. Too, what was beauty in the eyes of God, blessed be His Name, at least physical beauty? There was considerable controversy, especially in these days, as to whether a man possessed a soul or not, but had there not always been this controversy even among the devout? A man’s function was to glorify God, and whether or not he possessed a soul was irrelevant. Hillel found himself hoping that his newborn son had a lovely soul, for certainly his appearance did not inspire his nurses to raptures. But, what was a body? Dust, dung, urine, itches. It was the light within which was important, and it was not significant if that light endured after death, or if the soul was blinded eternally in the endless night of the suspired flesh. Let the old men ponder uneasily, and hope.
Deborah sighed. Her exquisite auburn hair was only partly concealed by her veil, which was of the lightest and most transparent silk. Her large blue eyes, as vivid as any Greek sky, had both an innocent and a discontented expression, seeking and restless, and fluttering in thick reddish lashes. Everyone but her husband considered her very cultured, and an impressive matron. Hillel ben Borush was a fortunate man, said his friends, for Deborah bas Shebua had brought him a magnificent dowry—and he only a poor scholar, and his wife was famous for her grace, charming smile, learning and style, and had been educated by private tutors in Jerusalem, and was the delight of her father’s eyes. She was tall and winsome and had a lovely bosom and the hands and feet of a Greek statue, and her garments draped themselves about her figure as if grateful for the lovely opportunity. She was nineteen years old and had given birth to three children, the first two dead at birth, and girls, and the third surviving, a son, now in his cradle.
She had a very pale and oval face and her complexion was like marble and her mouth was a folded rose, her chin firm and dimpled, her nose daintily carved. Her stola, arranged in the Roman fashion, was blue with golden embroidery, and her feet were shod in gilded leather sandals. She seemed to carry about her a veritable aura of beauty, a shadow of lucent light. A young Roman of great family and of a rich and ancient house had sought her hand in marriage, and she had desired him also. But tiresome superstitions and prejudices had eventually intervened, and she had been bestowed on Hillel ben Borush, a poor young man famous for his piety and learning, and of an old and honored house.
Alas, thought Deborah, that even her cosmopolitan father had let dead traditions prevail. How most unfortunate for the young! The old refuse to believe that the world changes and the musty gods die, and the temples fall in on themselves in rubble and the altars are overthrown and the names upon them obliterated, and the worshipers are no more. She, herself, was a victim of tradition and arcane ideas now rejected. She had been born before her time. But it was possible that her son would live in a new world of urbane laughter and enlightenment, in an environment where man’s sole pre-eminence in creation was established, as the cultivated Greeks now asserted. The very idea of a God was tedious and absurd in these sophisticated days, and embarrassing. It could not be reconciled with objective phenomena! She, Deborah, was determined that her son’s mind would not be filmed over with superstitions, like an ol
d mirror clouded with antiquated dust and the smearings of unwashed hands.
“Saul,” said Hillel ben Borush.
“Eheu!” cried Deborah. “Saul! It is not a distinguished name, to our friends.”
“Saul,” said Hillel. “He is a lion of God.”
Deborah considered, her ruddy brows drawn together. She hastily relaxed them, for frowning brought wrinkles which even honey and almond meal could not lighten. She was a lady, and ladies do not dispute violently with husbands, no matter how foolish. “Paulus,” she said. “Surely there can be no objection, my husband. Paulus is the Roman translation.”
“Saul ben Hillel,” said the father.
“Paulus,” said Deborah. She smiled musingly. It had an aristocratic sound, Greek as well as Roman.
“Saul of Tarshish,” said Hillel.
“Paulus of Tarsus,” said Deborah. “Only barbarians call Tarsus Tarshish.”
Hillel smiled, and his smile was gentle and winning even to his young wife, for it was filled with tenderness as well as amusement. He put his hand on her shoulder. One must humor women. “It is the same,” he said. He thought Deborah enchanting. He also thought her stupid. But that, regrettably, was doubtless due to having been born to Sadducee parents, who were very shallow and unlearned in the matters which were pleasing to God, and to please God was the reason a man was born and lived and had his being. There was none else. He often pitied the Sadducees, whose lives were firmly fixed in a secular world and who accepted nothing that could not be proved by their five senses, and who mistook mere learning for intellect, and sophisticated prattle for knowledge. It must be, he thought, like a man being born unable to detect the infinite hues and colors and tints of the world, and so had been robbed of mystery and delight and the endless joy of conjecture and meditation, and the majesty of wonder. He often marveled how men could endure a world without God. Such a world was populated only with animals, whose lives are meaningless.
