5. Mission Statements provide a powerful tool for church leaders

If the exercise of your leadership of the church is limited to attending meetings, making policy decisions, maintaining a facility, and managing a budget, you might not have any need for a mission statement.

But if you (as a church leader) think about what God wants to do through your church, ponder the people and gifts he has assembled in your congregation, long for your church to develop unity of purpose, sense the power of shared focus, and get excited about making a difference in the world, then a mission statement may fit you hand-in-glove.

Whether its hearing God’s call and responding faithfully, identifying the central purpose for which the church exists, reminding your people of their shared direction, measuring your effectiveness as a congregation by a missional standard, concentrating the resources of the church, or deciding not to do a good thing because it is not God’s best thing for your church—these are foundational leadership activities. And each of them is supported and enhanced by having a mission statement.

Moses had a clear mission statement: lead Israel from Egypt to the Promised Land. His leadership was authorized and rooted in this understanding of his God-given task. Taking Israel through the wilderness towards the Jordan was not an act of self-will or authoritarian stubbornness by Moses—it was an act of faithfulness. Saying “No” to those who wanted to return to Egypt or pursue a different destination than Palestine was not arbitrary or capricious of Moses—it was a legitimate exercise of his leadership authority based on the mission God gave him to accomplish.

Leadership in the absence of mission becomes an exercise in herding cats. You’re managing the ministerial interests of others, juggling needs and requests, trying to stretch church resources to cover overwhelming and divergent demand. Leadership in the context of mission involves setting direction, blazing trail, encouraging your people along the way, and keeping the church focused on the destination.

In other words, mission permits leadership. Without mission, there is no leadership worthy of the name.

6. Mission Statements provide “identity” for a church

Does your church have an identity? Beyond an address and phone number? More than the name of the church or the personality of your pastor? Can you stand in the foyer and, in sixty seconds, tell a visitor who your church is?

As visitors “sample” your church, as they try to get to know you, they need to find something about your congregation that is unique and compelling. It’s not enough for your church to be visitor-friendly, have a welcome-center in the foyer, and offer an informative website. It’s not enough to give visitors a statement of belief or an explanation of denominational ties. Visitors (and members, for that matter) are looking for something that communicates the church’s heart and purpose.

Nothing does that better than a clear sense of mission.

1. “We’re a congregation full of doctors, nurses, dentists, and pharmacists. We are uniquely equipped to use health services to reach people’s souls. So we operate a medical clinic downtown and sponsor medical mission trips to Guatemala each summer.”
2. “Our church has a long history of ministering to children. Our primary focus is the school we sponsor, the large population of immigrant children in our neighborhood, and a foreign mission effort that reaches street kids in Kenya.”
3. “We are deeply concerned about the fragility of marriage in our culture. We focus on marriage enrichment for the church and community, sponsor a marriage counseling clinic, and emphasize mentoring relationships to help build strong marriages.”
4. “We emphasize worship here. Not worship services or worship forms. Worship as a constant activity of life, 24-7. Worship expressed in our relationship with God, our love for each other, our service of the world. We believe we are what God created us to be when everything in our lives is an expression of worship.”

A mission statement lets you communicate the heart of your church and define your congregation. The result may not be everyone’s “cup-of-tea.” Visitors might not be drawn to a church that emphasizes medical missions or children or worship. They may want something other, something different. But at least you’ll have a way to say, “This is who we are. This is how we make a difference. And if that is of interest to you, if you’d like to partner with us in accomplishing kingdom business in that particular way, we’d welcome your participation in our church.”

As a mission statement defines your church, it also helps to distinguish your church from other congregations around you. Lots of churches within a few miles of your building believe Jesus is the Christ or respect the authority of Scripture. Unless you expect people to make a church choice based on little more than denominational affiliation or preacher-preference, it’s important to define your direction and emphasis in a manner that differentiates you from other congregations. For too long, we have allowed this differentiation to be a negative thing (“We’re better than them.” “We are right and they are wrong.”) A mission statement gives you a way to differentiate your church in a positive way (“Here is our primary calling and emphasis. Other churches are called to different ministries. You have to decide where you want to plug into the kingdom.”)

7. Mission statements build consensus

Many churches are (to all intents and purposes) divided into ministry factions. Because the focus of the church is fractured, often the unity of the church is similarly fractured. We may not be crowing, “I am of Cephas … I am of Apollos … I am of Paul” (as in 1 Corinthians), but we are often pledging allegiance to a particular foreign mission effort, a church school, an urban poor initiative, small groups, or any one of dozens of ministry initiatives. Different ministries vie for the resources, volunteers, and attentions of the church as a whole. A ministry waxes and wanes according to the passion level of its most ardent champion rather than the ministry’s kingdom effectiveness or its contribution to the overall goals of the church.

Ministry statements offer a way to build a sense of consensus in a church and among its members by focusing the church and aligning its various ministries on the goal of furthering that focus.

Let me give an example: I know a church where a high percentage of the members are involved in the medical profession—doctors, nurses, hospital administrators, pharmacists, dentists, and opticians. Taking God’s gifting seriously, recognizing that God has gathered these particular members with these particular skills together as a church for a reason, the church lives out its commitment to Christ by focusing on ministries related to the medical field. They use the vocabulary of health and healing, sickness and wellness, in speaking of the spiritual life. They do blood drives, fitness clinics, and seminars on caring for terminally ill family members in their building. They run a free clinic in a poor section of town—supplied, staffed, and managed by their own people. They do a medical missions trip every summer—performing surgery, pulling teeth, giving screening exams—to a remote area of Guatemala.

To protect this focus, there are some things this church doesn’t do. It doesn’t do divorce recovery groups or job skills training or literacy classes—there are other nearby churches that provide these ministries. It doesn’t send money to missionaries in France or support preaching training in the South Pacific. It doesn’t offer correspondence courses or build houses for the poor or host a daycare in its facility. These are all good works and worthy of support. And all are part of the ministry efforts of other churches in the area. But these good and worthy efforts are not given emphasis in this church … they don’t fall within this congregation’s understanding of its God-given mission. These other missions—good as they are—are not allowed to compete with the church’s primary mission and dilute the church’s focus.

And what if you want to join this church but you don’t have a medical background? Welcome! But this church won’t start a new ministry initiative just to gain your membership. It will ask you to identify skills and gifts that can contribute to the goals and focus the church has already set. If you have a marketing skill set, use it to publicize the free clinic downtown. If you have construction or project management abilities, use them to plan the Guatemala mission trip and set up facilities for examinations and minor surgery. If children are your thing, find a way to work with the kids who come to the inner-city clinic.

This overriding sense of mission can build ministry consensus in a church. We don’t have competing ministries … we have various means of furthering the same end. We don’t have ministry “siloes,” functionally separate from each other, and independently staffed, budgeted, and operated. We have “aligned” ministries, focused on the same goal, cooperating with each other (supporting and enhancing each other) to accomplish God-given business. And ministries do not take on a life of their own … they have continued purpose and life to the degree that the help the church achieve the mission God has given it to do.

[Read the first article in this series.]

[Read the next article in this series.]

He’d barely spoken to Paul since learning the news, wishing he’d never talked to him about the boy. Only once, on a Lord’s Day as he walked past the Apostle, did Achaicus touch on the matter. Even then, he’d simply muttered, “That ain’t exactly what I had in mind, Paul,” before moving on.

But Paul knew Achaicus would get over it. He and Fortunatus would work things out.

Many of Stephanas’s Christian family were present at the proceedings as well. Because this was something to celebrate, and because Stephanas wanted those closest to him to share the event, he asked the whole church to come. They made a motley crew and raised the eyebrows of his other Corinthian associates. But that didn’t bother Stephanas. It only made him acutely conscious of how, in a matter of months, his fellow Christians had grown to mean more to him than Corinthians he’d know his whole life.

The ceremony itself was quite simple. A clerk placed the official documents before both Stephanas and Fortunatus.

The first declared the manumission of ‘Fortunatus, of the household of Stephanas, son of Stephanas, merchant of the city of Corinth.’

The second proclaimed the adoption of ‘the freedman Fortunatus by Stephanas, son of Stephanas, with full rights of inheritance bounded by the stipulations and codicils set out in the adopter’s legal will.’

And a third registered ‘Fortunatus son of Stephanas’ on the roll of Roman citizens—a privilege conveyed through being adopted by a citizen.

The clerk pointed out where each of them was to endorse the manumission document. Stephanas affixed his signature and handed the quill to Fortunatus who signed in a careful, looping hand.

Paul and Gaius stepped forward then and witnessed the document with their signatures.

The two men had not spoken of the disastrous dinner since that fateful evening, and each now found the moment awkward. But two Roman citizens were required to witness the documents. Paul and Gaius were the two Stephanas had asked. He secretly hoped it might start a thawing between them.

The process was repeated for the adoption papers and the citizenship registration, the clerk pointing a bony finger at the proper places and the others dutifully affixing their names. Studying the papers to satisfy himself that everything was correct, the clerk held out his hand for the fee. Stephanas counted the coins into his outstretched palm and waited for his receipt.

Clutching papers and receipt, Stephanas and the boy made their way down the hall to a magistrate’s chamber, who carefully checked the signatures and the receipt before signing his own name, finalizing the procedures.

And that was it.

The two of them stood briefly, facing each other, searching for words appropriate to the moment. Stephanas wanted to throw his arms around the boy and give him a father’s welcome. But Fortunatus was not ready for that yet. He stood stiff and formal, unsure of what to do with his hands, his face carefully neutral. The boy was stunned. Had been for days. He knew he should say something grateful. He knew he should tell Stephanas what this meant to him. But how could he? He didn’t know himself. The only thing he really wanted to say was “Why?”

Exactly ten days before, Stephanas had asked him into his study. “Close the door, please.” He motioned to a chair and they sat in silence for a long while. When Stephanas spoke at last, it was directly to the point.

“Several months ago, after you ran away, I promised that we would visit. I told you then that, if you wanted to be placed in another household, I would make the arrangements. I’d like to have your answer now and will do as you wish. But, before you speak, I want you to know how much I hope you’ll stay. This last year has been difficult for both of us. You lost your father. I lost a friend who was like a father to me. I think about Orantes every day, as I know you do.” He paused and then screwed up his courage.

“You’re the only family left to me, Fortunatus. And I am the closest thing to family you have left. I love you, son, and want only the best for you. And I hope that will count for something when you give me your answer.”

He lapsed into silence and then gestured to Fortunatus.

The boy, who knew his Homer, knew there was a time to cling to anger and a time to let it go. Anger can make a man brave and strong. But too much anger, too long an anger, can rob a man of reason and blind him to what is good. And the boy was haunted by what Paul had told him. The words kept recycling in his mind. “If your father were here, watching you, would he feel honored by your behavior? … How do you honor your father by dishonoring the man he loved?” Those words had cut deeply because there was truth in them, a truth that even the boy in his anger could recognize.

Fortunatus looked down. “I would like to stay, Sir, if that’s possible.”

Stephanas felt his stomach unclench, the tension that had dogged him for a year starting to ease. He felt overwhelming relief. “That’s good news, Fortunatus. It’s what I hoped you would say. Now, let’s discuss your duties in the future.”

“I’d like to be taken off latrine duty, if you don’t mind,” the boy asked. “But if that’s what you want me doing …” He shrugged to show a grudging willingness.

“Absolutely no more latrine duty for you, Fortunatus. No mucking out the stables or washing floors.” Stephanas sat back and watched the boy with a grin. “Those are slave duties and not appropriate to your status in this household.”

“My status?” the boy frowned. “What do you mean …”

“What are you doing ten days from now? We’re on the docket for the city magistrate. I have decided to give you your freedom. And, if you will do me the honor,” Stephanas cleared his throat,  “I mean to adopt you as my son and legal heir.”

For ten days, he’d walked about in a kind of daze. He’d endured the jealous stares and spiteful whispers of the other domestics. Achaicus had treated him with cold silence. He’d sat with Stephanas in his study, going over business holdings and investments, household budgets and client lists. But it was all a blur. For the question that filled his mind and shoved all other matters to the side was the question he could not bring himself to ask. “Why?”

He knew that Stephanas had loved his father. But the son did not deserve this. He knew that Stephanas had a fondness for him. But the last year must have strained that, should have strained that. There were others more worthy of adoption—extra sons of honorable families. Why would Stephanas choose him as an heir? A slave. The son of a slave. A latrine-cleaner with no advantages save a dead father and a love of books.

Freedom. Adoption. Citizenship. Why?

It was the question that pressed itself on him now, standing with Stephanas in a magistrate’s chamber, reaching for words that would be inadequate and could not answer the only question that mattered.

The two of them stood there in awkward silence, the older man knowing there would be a better time for words, the younger wondering whether there would ever be a time when words were enough. When the awkwardness became embarrassing, they turned together and walked out of the courthouse to greet their waiting friends.

It took a while before Paul could detach Fortunatus from the throng of people extending their congratulations. As he waited, he looked back and forth from the pleased new father to the dazed and overwhelmed youth. No wonder he’s overwhelmed, Paul thought. With a few signatures, the boy had passed from slave to freedman, orphan to son, poor servant to wealthy heir, legal nobody to citizen of the Empire. By the look in his eye, Paul suspected he found all those passages too much to navigate.

Seeing his chance at last, Paul drew the boy away, into a quieter portion of the stoa that fronted the courthouse. “Congratulations, Fortunatus,” he offered, though the words did little justice to the emotions both of them were feeling at the moment.

“Thank you,” the youth replied in a distracted way. He was working hard to keep his face controlled, pursing his lips to quell their trembling. But the emotions welling up inside him were unfamiliar and powerful. They had a will of their own.

Paul knew the battle raging in the boy. He’d felt those emotions himself. So he kept his silence, waiting for the question, knowing it would come.

“Why has he done this?” Fortunatus asked through gritted teeth. “I don’t deserve this. Not the way I’ve acted. I ought to be on the slave block, not at an adoption ceremony.”

Paul said nothing. It was a question he could not answer anyway, requiring—as it would—an explanation of the mysteries of grace.

“It’s too much,” Fortunatus protested, his voice shaking. “His name. His fortune. The citizenship. Why has he done this?” he asked again. “How can I ever be worthy of such gifts?”

“You can’t,” Paul answered softly. “But Stephanas hasn’t adopted you because you’re deserving, Fortunatus. He’s done it because he loves you, plain and simple.” He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Just be a good son, Fortunatus. That’s all he wants. You don’t have to earn anything.”

Fortunatus wiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his tunic, trying hard to regain some composure. Paul turned back to watch Stephanas beam as his friends shook his hand and offered congratulations. When he spoke, he was looking not at the boy but at the Christians surrounding Stephanas, celebrating the event with him.

“What do you think of your father’s new friends?”

Fortunatus followed Paul’s eyes. “They’re a strange bunch, aren’t they. Hebrews and soldiers and tanners.”

“Does it surprise you that Stephanas thinks of them as friends?”

The boy looked through the columns of the stoa at the happy group. “No. It surprises me that he thinks of them as family. The Master …” he caught himself and stumbled with new words, “my father … he loves them like they were his own blood.” He shook his head in wonder. “I’m not sure what’s happened to him.”

“That’s a good place to start, Fortunatus … in your duties as a good son.” He nodded again at the group. “Try to understand what’s happening there. Family isn’t about blood or status. It’s about loving each other. That’s why Stephanas can call you ‘son’—he loves you. If you really want to be a worthy son, love him back.”

The two stood side by side for a moment longer, until Fortunatus said they should probably get back to the others. But Paul put a hand on his arm so he could say one more thing.

“You have another Father, Fortunatus, eager to give you what you don’t deserve. You’ve run away from him as well. You’ve been just as rebellious and ungrateful. But he loves you anyway, more than you can imagine. There’s a place for you in his house as well. All he’s waiting for is you to come home and sign the papers.”

The two of them stood facing one another, Fortunatus staring at the ground, Paul looking at the top of the boy’s head.

“Someday, when you’re ready, I’d like to witness that adoption as well.”

[Next Chapter]

[Beginning of the novel]

The only question is whether the statement is intentional, conscious, and explicit or (as is the case with most churches) accidental, ill-defined, and poorly expressed. When you examine what churches actually do, where their resources are devoted, how they make decisions, you can determine what churches understand their primary business to be.

Some churches make it clear that their fundamental business is servicing a mortgage and maintenance of their physical property. Others seem determined to take care of their current membership and do nothing to risk their ire. Still others are determined to keep their pastor or sustain long-loved but largely-ineffective ministries or avoid meaningful interaction with a surrounding community whose demographics are rapidly changing.

Churches that have no explicit statement of mission tend to live out a mission rooted in the past or driven by the interests/biases/preferences of their members or hewing to some denominational party-line. In the absence of a clearly defined mission, it is difficult for a church and for church leaders to swim against the prevailing tides of tradition and comfort zones.

Churches determined to make a kingdom difference and unwilling to simply “go with the flow” need a mission statement that clearly defines who the church is, what the church values, and where the church intends to go. The absence of such a statement dooms churches to a vagueness of purpose that ensures perpetual ineffectiveness.

Here are my “top seven” reasons why every church should have an explicit, clear, specific mission statement (the reasons appear in no particular order):

1. Mission Statements are biblical.

Moses had one.

So now, go. I am sending you to Pharaoh to bring my people the Israelites out of Egypt.  (Ex 3:10)

The judges all had one. Take Gideon’s, for example:

Go in the strength you have and save Israel out of Midian’s hand. Am I not sending you? (Jud 6:14)

Jesus had one.

For the Son of Man came to seek and to save what was lost. (Lk 19:10)

Peter and Paul had one.

For God, who was at work in the ministry of Peter as an apostle to the Jews, was also at work in my ministry as an apostle to the Gentiles. (Gal 2:8)

Jesus gave his disciples one.

Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you. And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age. (Mt 28:19-20; see also Mk 16:15).

Paul charged Timothy and Tituswith specific missions.  

Devote yourself to the public reading of Scripture, to preaching and to teaching. Do not neglect your gift … (1Tim 4:13-14; see also Tit 1:5)

Every significant character you meet in the pages of Scripture had a mission, a calling, a God-directed business to accomplish.

But it wasn’t just individuals who were commissioned. God’s groups were also given their tasks to perform. Israel was expected to travel from Egypt to the Promised Land. Under David and Solomon, the Hebrews were tasked to build the temple. The exiles in Babylon were charged to return to their homeland and rebuild. The Jerusalem church was assigned the task of reaching Hebrews with the gospel while the Antioch church focused exclusively on the Gentiles (see the “Jerusalem, Antioch, and Mission” article). The church in Philippi understood the care and feeding of Paul to be one of its prime responsibilities.

None of these biblical characters and/or groups launched into ministry with a bland and generic assignment to “go forth and do lots of good works.” They weren’t commanded to be “nice” or focus their efforts wherever they were inclined or opportunity arose. Rather, they were given specific tasks to accomplish at certain times and in particular situations for defined groups of people. In Scripture, God called people and formed groups. And then he tasked them … he gave them work to accomplish … he directed their focus and efforts. “Preach to Ninevah.” “Minister to the Gentiles.” “Stay in Crete.”

Modern churches that resist the adoption of a mission statement (or, more commonly, evade mission by insisting that the whole of the Bible is the mission) are missing an opportunity to shape themselves by a clear biblical pattern. If we truly want to be biblical, if we actually trust the biblical model, then we are required to take the subject of “mission” seriously, seek God’s will regarding our mission, and focus on that mission for all we’re worth.

2. Mission Statements force a church to identify its essential business

If you saw the movie “City Slickers,” you might remember the scene where Curly talked about the secret of life: finding your “one thing.”

Many Christians and most churches have yet to discover the value of that same secret for the kingdom. We have found “many things.” We are distracted, diluted, diffused, diverted … running in a dozen different kingdom directions at once … unable or unwilling to discover that “one thing” God has appointed us to do. I’m convinced we’re so busy doing lots of good things, we never have the time or energy to discover the singular focus that is best.

The development of a mission statement forces us to cease our yammering busyness, take a deep breath, listen for God’s voice, and discover the peculiar calling he has assigned to our church. As an instance of Christ’s body and bride, God has made you who you are, put you where you are, placed you in your specific circumstances, and gifted you with certain skills and abilities so that he can accomplish a particular piece of kingdom business through you. Maybe it’s reaching college students. Perhaps your church is uniquely equipped for medical missions or ministry to children. You may have had an influx of Sudanese refuges flood into your neighborhood and can hear God’s clear call in their needy presence. Your mission could be building stronger marriages or mentoring fathers or caring for the urban poor or building a deeply intimate community. Take your pick. But for goodness sake, choose something that represents a faithful response to God’s calling, a clear focus for the church’s attentions, and a particular ministry that constitutes your congregation’s “essential business.” Whatever you pick as a focus won’t be the only thing your church does. But, at last, it will identify the main thing your church does.

3. Mission Statements allow a church to keep the main thing the main thing

Think of a mission statement as a roadmap for your church. It marks the destination towards which you are moving. It suggests ways for getting from “here” to “there.” And—perhaps as important—it indicates when you’ve gotten lost, sidetracked, or diverted.

The old saying is true: “If you don’t know where you’re going, any road will take you there.” But even when churches know where they want to go and have a specific destination in mind, they are persistently prone to distraction. The urgent overwhelms the important. The good takes precedence over the best. The infinite needs of this world capture our attentions and tempt us to do a little of everything—even though faithfulness most often requires us to do one thing well.

A good reason why a mission statement is so important is that it can regularly remind us of our prime business, our understanding of God’s calling, the direction we’ve agreed to travel together, the destination we’re committed to reach. A mission statement provides the church a means of assessing where we are, how we are, and why we are. It permits “course correction.” It can persuade a church to turn around and get back on the right road. When a church’s mission is clearly expressed, highly valued, and regularly consulted, it functions as a rudder that steers the ship of church whatever winds blow or currents run.

4. Mission Statements make it possible for a church to make an effective difference

The world has infinite needs. The church has finite resources: members, time, energy, money, skills/gifts. The church that permits no filter, no means of reserving resources for particular needs, will quickly exhaust itself and its resources.

Sadly, the only filter many churches permit is budgetary: “We just don’t have the money to do that.” Presumably, if they had the money, some churches would gladly do everything, support every mission point, partner with every good work, take up every good cause, throw money at every ministerial opportunity—never realizing that such an approach guarantees ineffectiveness.

Think of something you probably did as a child—using a lens to concentrate the sun’s rays and start a fire. Normally, the sun’s rays are so diffuse (literally shining every direction at once), earth objects don’t overheat and spontaneously combust. But gather those rays with a lens, focus them on a particular object (say, a leaf) and you can cause smoke, burn a hole, start a flame.

That’s what a mission statement does for a church. It allows a church to gather its resources, focus them on a particular need, and generate the kind of heat that makes a difference. It protects a church from the sort of diffuse generality that spreads resources in every direction. It permits a church to bring all its guns to bear on one target, a solitary need, a single goal. It provides an intentional filter by which ministerial decisions can be made: “Is this an opportunity or a distraction?” “Does this fall under our mission as a church?” “Does this work supportively and synergistically with the rest of our efforts?”

Instead of asking whether we have the money or the interest to address a certain opportunity, we ask whether—in conjunction with the other ministerial commitments we have made—this particular opportunity will allow us to make a significant kingdom difference.

[My top seven reasons for bothering with a mission statement continue in the next blog.]

[Read the first article in this series.]

[Read the next article in this series.]

Abi came often to visit. But the fear always came with her, dogging her steps there and back, sitting beside her like an unwanted companion during the course of her stay. The fear was almost enough to keep her away.

But not quite.

At first, she convinced herself the visits were for the sake of friendship. Because of a momentary lapse of judgment, Hester lost her life-long companions. They wanted nothing to do with her now. Except for Abi, whose clandestine visits were a form of benevolence—a mercy shown to an old friend fallen on hard times. That was the reason Abi rehearsed, at any rate … the one she would offer her husband should he ever find out about her presence at Hester’s house. And there was enough truth to it that the pretense would not be difficult. She thought she could at least look her husband in the eye as she gave that excuse.

But the whole truth was something her husband would find much more disturbing. Yes, Abi visited out of friendship. But she also visited out of curiosity. She wanted to know more about this Jesus, the Nazarene. Saul was no longer welcome at the synagogue. But his words lingered long after the man himself left. Every time Abi attended the Sabbath services, she could hear echoes of the heated debates that had taken place there. She could see Saul’s bent form standing before the congregation, frail and tough at the same time. He’d been so persuasive. The story he’d told was so powerful. The Scriptures he used were unsettling … needling … convicting.

It wasn’t Saul’s words or Scriptures that troubled Abi most, however, driving her to Hester’s house time after time—and even to that one worship assembly during a period when her husband was out of town. It wasn’t Saul’s absence from the synagogue.

It was the continued absence of Hester herself … and Crispus.

She’d known the two of them all her life. She’d loved Hester like a sister for as long as she could remember. And she’d admired Crispus for his studious, sincere ways, for the tenderness he showed to everyone. The fact that the two of them would leave the Hebrew community to go with Saul, the fact that they would stay gone and devote themselves to building a new community at the house next to the synagogue, spoke more eloquently to the truth of Saul’s message than anything Saul could say.

Crispus and Hester would not have left so much behind on a whim. They would not have turned their backs on people they loved and a life-time of tradition and faith without a compelling reason. There has to be something to Saul’s story, Abi told herself.

So Abi visited Hester for friendship’s sake. But she also visited to ask questions and learn more about the prophet from Galilee. Both Hester and Crispus sat with her for hours in the study, pouring over the scrolls and explaining why they believed Jesus to be Messiah.

Over the course of time, as was happening for others—for sons and wives and families scattered throughout the Jewish Quarter, for slaves and potters and seamstresses throughout the rest of the city—the Gospel began to do its damage. Abi discovered conviction growing within her. She thought that Hester might just be right, that she might be willing to sacrifice a great deal for the sake of Saul’s story.

And that scared her most of all.

[Next Chapter]

[Beginning of the novel]

Our mission is to carry the gospel, the sacraments, and God’s love and fellowship to the unchurched, the alienated, and the excommunicated (the church’s homeless).

Reaching out to the World…Preaching to the Unsaved…Teaching the Saved to Serve.

At _______ Church, we’re not about “having it all together” or even pretending we do. We’re just a family trying to grow together toward a God who knows us and can help us put all the pieces of this sometimes bizzare world into perspective. We may not have all the answers but we know someone who does. In fact He not only knows the answers…He made up the questions. [I’m not making this up. How awful!]

To connect people to Jesus Christ and to each other.

The mission of the ______ Church is to increase our love for God and to help meet the needs of humankind by “Loving God with all our heart, with all our soul, and with all our mind, and to love our neighbor as ourselves.”

At ________ Church, we “Exalt the Savior,” “Evangelize the Sinner,” and “Equip the Saint.” [A little churchy, but I kinda like this one!]

[For more examples of church mission statements, go to: http://www.missionstatements.com/church_mission_statements.html.]

Some people roll their eyes when talk turns to such statements; they just don’t get it. “Why bother?” the want to know. “What’s the point?”

Others believe the mission for the church—for every church—has already been established by Christ. “Just follow the Great Commission!” they insist. “Here is the church’s mission!” they tell us, hefting their New Testaments. They see any statement containing more (or less) to be presumptuous and, possibly, unfaithful. They are deeply averse to the idea that human beings play any part in setting the direction and goals of the church. And they are deeply suspicious of the kind of intentionality and focus that good mission statements provide.

Still others respond favorably to the notion of “mission” but don’t have a clue how to go about developing one. They hope throwing a bunch of people in a room will allow a functional mission statement to emerge, having (apparently) never heard the joke about the camel (“A horse designed by a committee”) or the computer acronym GIGO (“garbage in, garbage out”). When the result of such “group-think” is a statement so unbiblical as to be worthless (“Better living through positive thinking!”) or so broad as to be useless (“We love everybody and do good works and hate world hunger”), there are those who will suggest simply sidestepping the hard work of developing a mission statement by borrowing a statement from another church (“This one worked for Willow Creek!”).

A Process for Developing a Sense of Mission

Some churches “fall” into their mission quite organically (e.g., campus churches where the focus is naturally on developing faith among college students). Some simply adopt the mission of a charismatic leader (and develop a television ministry or build a preaching school).

For most churches, however, a mission must be shaped and crafted and painstakingly developed. There is a process for doing this. It isn’t easy. It will take a great deal of time and prayer and soul-searching. It will force a church to figure out what its priorities are and how serious it is about its goals. It will require a reengagement with Scripture and the Spirit of God. It will lead a church to move beyond the “tyranny of the nice” to embracing a mission that matters. It will take hard work to fix a focus and develop consensus around it.

The following series of articles addresses this process: the theology behind “mission,” where to begin, who should be involved, important principles to keep in mind, how to build consensus, etc.

It is vital for churches to have a sense of mission. [See the next article in this series.] The only alternative to a clear sense of mission is a muddied and vague commitment to good works … a lack of focus and effectiveness … churches doing lots of nice things but never making a kingdom difference.

[Read the next article in this series.]

“Greetings, Fortunatus! Fine morning, don’t you think?” He squinted up at the heavy overcast skies, pregnant with rain, and grinned back at the boy. “I’ve come to speak with your master.”

Paul was a different man this morning. He’d spent much of the night in prayer, wrestling with his anger and disappointment. And, though he’d slept little, he’d found in the praying a refreshment he rarely experienced from sleep. For, in his prayers, the Spirit reminded him that the church in Corinth—the church everywhere, for that matter—did not depend on him or anyone else for its health and character. It was God’s church and God would look after it.

Paul needed the reminder on occasion. He needed the relief such reminders brought.

The boy ushered Paul inside and closed the door behind him. The house was quiet. The study door was closed.

“Let me tell the master you’re here.”

He began to move towards Stephanas’s study. But Paul caught him by the arm. “I never asked you. Did you talk to Stephanas about using his library?” He gave the boy a mischievous smile.

The boy smiled back, an expression he’d never shown Paul before, and nodded. “He said I could read anything I wanted.” The permission obviously pleased him.

“So what have you been reading?” They conducted the conversation in murmurs and mumbles.

“History mainly. Herodotus. Xenophon.”

Paul raised an approving eyebrow. “Excellent. And which do you like better?”

“Xenophon, no question!”

But Paul shook his head. “No. I mean the reading or the sneaking?”

The question took Fortunatus by surprise. He laughed out loud.

Well! Paul thought. We’re making progress!

At that moment, Stephanas poked his head out of his study door, astonished by the almost forgotten sound of the young man’s laughter.

II

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Stephanas. Again.” Paul moved to the center of the room as Stephanas closed the door behind him.

“Nonsense! How can I help you? Have you come for the scrolls?” He reached to his desk and patted the parchments fondly.

Paul sat and studied the man before him for a moment. “No. No scrolls this morning. I have something important to talk over with you, Stephanas. Personal. But first,” he smiled weakly, “I need to apologize for last night. It was late and I wasn’t in the best mood.”

But Stephanas waved away the apology. “It’s nothing. P-P-Please, don’t give it another thought.”

Paul shook his head. “It wasn’t ‘nothing,’ my friend. My words with Gaius made me doubt you … and Crispus. I should’ve known better. I should’ve had more faith.”

Now it was Stephanas’s turn to study Paul. “That’s true, actually. You should have trusted us. But I understand. Gaius isn’t the first convert to disappoint you. And he p-p-probably won’t be the last.” He gave Paul a small smile. “But I won’t disappoint you, P-P-Paul. I p-p-promise.”

The smile broadened. “So, what do we need to talk about?”

“I think I’ve found a way with Fortunatus.”

Stephanas sat back in his chair. “Really? I’ve been wracking my brain for weeks trying to think of something.”

Paul shifted uneasily. “But to get to him, we’ll need to go through something else.”

Stephanas lifted his hands, an invitation.

Paul stared at him for a long moment. “There was a mistress of this house once, wasn’t there, Stephanas? A wife?”

Stephanas grew very still. He steepled his fingers in front of his face, an unconscious attempt to erect a barrier between himself and a difficult topic. “You really did mean ‘p-p-personal,’ didn’t you?” He looked down at the top of his desk. “Have my servants been speaking out of turn?” he asked softly.

“Let’s call it an old man’s hunch. I can see the hurt she left behind.”

Stephanas took a quill from the desk and twirled it between his fingers, as though he needed something to play with to keep his hands from shaking. He was quiet for a while. Paul could see evidence of an internal debate in the way his eyes fixed on the quill, the way the quill turned and spun. When Stephanas finally decided to tell the story, he determined to tell it all.

“I did take a wife. A few years ago,” he said finally, placing the quill back on the desktop. “The daughter of a business associate. He wanted closer ties between our households and offered the match. She … well … I doubt she was consulted in the matter.” He sighed heavily.

“But truthfully, I wanted the match as well. She was very lovely, you see. I’d watched her for a long time before her father approached me with the offer of marriage.” The telling was difficult for him. He set the quill aside and looked down at his hands. “The fact is, I was quite smitten. Foolish, I know, for a man of my years. But that’s the way it was. I made the mistake of wanting her and hoped she would glad for the match.

“I believed … I thought I could make her happy. I tried to make her happy. And, for the first year, I thought I’d succeeded. She seemed content. But it didn’t last. She started spending a great deal of money, shopping with her friends for the latest fashions from Rome. I asked her once what one woman did with so many shoes. She didn’t speak to me for a week. She took no interest in the household … cared nothing for menus or guests or upkeep. By that time, she was gone most of the time … hardly ever here. My servants annoyed her. She became impatient, critical. Orantes could barely bring himself to speak civilly to her, she treated him so badly.” He paused and took a moment before starting in again.

“I had a servant here, a good man who’d been with me for years. She accused him of stealing some triffle. He wasn’t a thief. He’d made the mistake of crossing her, that was all. But she insisted he be p-p-punished. I had him whipped in the atrium for her sake.” His eyes spoke of the shame he felt. “I was sick for a week. Gave him his freedom after, I felt so bad. But what could I do?” he shrugged and managed a small smile. “It was her word or his. I knew she was being spiteful. But she was my wife.” The small smile became bitter.

“There’s more, but I won’t bore you with the details. It’s enough to say she was spoiled, willful, and unhappy with me. Mostly,” he sighed, “she was very young. And I …” he looked up at Paul, “well, I was born old, or so p-p-people tell me.

“I blame myself, of course. I don’t understand women—they speak in tongues.” He flashed a smile at Paul. “I had my scrolls and started spending more time with them than with her”—he looked around the room at the parchments, old friends—“especially as we grew more awkward with each other … as I felt a gulf between us that I did not understand.” He shrugged. “I traveled a lot. Business trips. She … well … she grew bored with me. She wanted … she needed something more, she told me later. Something exciting and alive.

“Anyway, she began an affair with a man I thought of as a friend.” He closed his eyes to shut out the memory but opened them at once, determined to face the facts. “Discrete at first. I had no idea. And then more flagrant. But, still, I had no idea.” He gave a hard laugh, a damning of his own stupidity.

“Disdain became disgust and disgust became contempt. She grew to loathe me so completely that she flaunted her infidelities. If I were too blind to see what was happening, why not let others enjoy the show? She took a series of lovers. We … well … we were quite an item of gossip around the city for awhile. She and her latest conquest … me and my blissful ignorance.” He picked up the quill again and stared at it, a place to rest his eyes.

“Her father, my old associate … he finally told me what was happening. Can you imagine that conversation?” He smiled bitterly. “‘My daughter, your wife, is a harlot. And you, son-in-law, are a blind fool.’ Actually,” Stephanas glanced briefly at Paul, “he didn’t say that last p-p-part. But he didn’t have to. I know how to read.

“I confronted her. She … she just smiled at me.” He put the quill on the desk and smoothed its feather with his fingers. “She actually smiled. As if I were a bit slow. As if she were glad that I’d finally woken up.” His eyes remained on the quill. “I told her I would forgive her. She said she did not want my forgiveness. I begged her to stop the affairs. She … declined. I asked if there were something I could do to p-p-persuade her. She couldn’t think of anything. She wanted a divorce. She told me her contempt for me was so vast she could no longer stomach the sight of my face, the sound of my breathing, the thought of my touch. Only a divorce would suffice. Unless, she suggested … unless I would consider suicide?” Up came the quill again. Round and round it went. He looked at Paul. “She was lovely, but she was never kind.

“In the end, I gave her the only thing she wanted from me by then. I divorced her. Most of Corinth was laughing their heads off, but I didn’t care. I just wanted it to be over.” He threw the quill on the table and sat back in his chair.

“She quickly remarried. One of her lovers who doesn’t mind her sexual samplings. I hear she’s very happy.”

The two of them stared at each other. Paul could feel the hurt radiating off of his friend … his heart a furnace … his pain rolling waves of heat. He spoke for the first time since Stephanas started his story.

“You were humiliated and heartbroken.”

“Yes, I was. Still am.”

“You felt like a fool … for not seeing who she really was … for not noticing what was happening right under your nose … for not hearing the snickers and whispers of the people around you.”

“Yes, I did. Still do.”

“And so you’ve closed yourself off, in this room and in your heart. You misjudged badly once … you won’t do it again. You were hurt once … you won’t let that happen again. You’ve been closing doors against anything that makes you vulnerable. You married the thing that has broken you. And ever since, you been gouging out your eyes as punishment.”

Stephanas smiled weakly. “We all have a little Oedipus in us.”

Paul studied his friend for a few moments. “What made you trust me? Why would you take the risk of the gospel?”

Stephanas shook his head in agreement. “Yes, I know. It surprised me as well.” He looked at Paul fondly. “P-p-part of it, I think, was that I saw in you someone who had suffered, who understood suffering, but wasn’t crushed by suffering. I wanted to know how you managed that little trick.” He looked at the scrolls for a moment. “P-p-part of it was your story—grace and cross and ungrateful sons.” He looked up at the window, his face bathed in afternoon light. “Mostly, though, I was desperate. I felt trapped. I couldn’t p-p-put her behind me. Beneath all that clap-trap about fate and destiny, I really wanted to choose a different life.” He looked down at his desk. “What she did to me was awful. But that I let her keep doing it, long after she was gone … that I couldn’t find a way to get over her … that was unbearable.”

His eyes wandered over to Paul again. “I looked at you. I listened to your gospel. And I saw hope. I decided to open one of those doors I’d closed, locked, and nailed shut. And I’m glad I did, P-P-Paul. I think it may have saved my life.”

“So what’s changed?”

“I know what to do with her now. I realize I have a choice.” He shook his head, as if in awe. “I can’t change what’s happened. I can’t change how it hurt. But I can change what I do with that. I can forgive her.” His smile was genuine this time. “Not because she wants it. Not because she deserves it. Just because it’s the right thing to do. It’s what Jesus did for me.” He shook his head again. “I never thought I’d find the strength to do that, P-P-Paul. But then you told me about those ungrateful sons. And I realized that it doesn’t matter whether grace changed them. It changed me. And if I’m going to be a grateful son, I have to give to her what I’ve been given—an undeserved grace … forgiveness without conditions.”

He looked down at his hands. “Forgiveness won’t change her heart. It won’t make her love me. But it will do good for me, I think. It will help me let her go.”

“Turn the other cheek,” Paul murmured. “Blessings for curses.”

“Yes. The way Jesus taught us to live. Not an easy p-p-path.” He nodded and sat back. “But I don’t understand what any of this has to do with Fortunatus.”

Paul looked hard at his wounded friend. “I’m going to ask you to do something with Fortunatus that will require great risk. You’ll have to open yourself to being hurt again. Can you do that after what you’ve just told me?”

Stephanas considered the question for a long while. “What is it you want me to do?”

“There were no children?”

Stephanas grunted. “No. And that’s a blessing, I guess.” Though he looked as if he regretted it.

“You have a child, you know.”

He glanced up sharply. “What are you talking about?”

“A son.” Paul permitted himself a small smile. “He likes Xenophon.”

Stephanas stared at him with blank, uncomprehending eyes.

“The boy.” Paul nodded towards the atrium.

“Fortunatus?”

“Yes. Fortunatus. You half raised him. You and Orantes. You love the boy, Stephanas. That’s one secret your servants do not keep well.”

His eyes softened. “I do, you know.” He looked as though Paul had just wrung a confession from him. “Why do I seem to love people who won’t love me back?”

“I think you’re wrong about that,” Paul countered. “He’s seventeen, Stephanas. He’s grieving his father. And he doesn’t know what his future is with this household, with you, now that his father is gone. Do you keep him on just because of his father? Does he have a place of his own here, by his own right? Is he just a slave, valuable because he’s useful? Or is he something more? Those are heavy questions for a young man to bear. You shouldn’t be surprised if he stumbles beneath them on occasion.”

“But of course he has a p-p-place here,” Stephanas spread his hands, a gesture of frustration. “This is his home.”

“You know that. But does he? Especially after what’s happened this past year?”

The question caught Stephanas. He sat back, blinking.

He and the boy had never actually spoken about it. Stephanas assumed he knew. “I’ve tried to give him time. I’ve tried to be p-p-patient with him.” Stephanas spread his hands in a pleading gesture. “What more can I do?”

“Grant the boy his freedom …” Paul began.

“I would … I mean … I’d like to,” Stephanas interrupted with real anguish, “if I could find a way for him to survive outside this household. He’s too young. He has no skills …”

But Paul raised both hands to stop him. “Let me finish. Grant the boy his freedom … and then adopt him as your heir.”

Stephanas sat back in his chair, stunned. It was a thought he’d never entertained. He opened his mouth to list all the reasons why such a thing couldn’t work, but realized he couldn’t think of any that really mattered. He hadn’t thought about because … well … because he hadn’t thought about it. He stared at Paul, shaking his head as though trying to clear his brain after a hard blow.

“Adopt the boy?” he finally croaked.

“Yes.” Paul controlled his facial muscles. But only with great effort. “Give him a permanent place in this household. Give him a family again. Make a partner of him. Show him that he is the son you’ve always wanted.”

“Adopt the boy?” Stephanas asked again, only now he was beginning to see the possibilities. A grace larger than his loss.

“It’s not an uncommon thing.” Paul continued. “Childless Romans do it all the time—to preserve their name, to ensure the stability of their businesses and assets.” He shrugged and swept his hand around the room. “Better than your library being sold off to strangers when you die.”

Stephanas began to laugh. “Oh, far better! P-P-Paul, this could work. This could be the answer.”

Paul smiled. “I thought you might like it, once you got your arms around it.”

“Fortunatus will have his freedom. I will have an heir. And his future … I mean … his p-p-prospects,” Stephanas was getting really excited, “will be tied to this household. He can’t run away from that, now, can he?”

“No. I think not.” Paul was enjoying himself.

The two men smiled at each other across the desk.

But then Stephanas sobered. “Will he agree to this? He’s blamed me for his father’s death, after all.”

Paul nodded. “There’s the risk. He may reject you. And that would hurt. Or he may accept and use his new position in the household to keep hurting you. There are no guarantees with grace, remember.”

“Not every son is changed,” Stephanas recalled.

“But perhaps the few are worth the risk.” Paul smiled. “I think Fortunatus wants to find his way back to you. And gratitude may just be the bridge he needs. He knows you don’t control the weather on the Aegean. Besides, you’ve got seventeen years of history together. So talk to him. Ask him. Whatever’s happened since his father died, Fortunatus understands this is the only home he’s ever known, that you’re as close to family as he’s got.”

They fell silent, each lost in his own thoughts.

“Grace for the sake of his father,” Stephanas whispered finally. “Grace to reach the son.”

Paul smiled again and stood to leave. “The boy knows how you felt about his father. I wonder if he knows how you feel about him?”

“Of course he knows.”

“Really? Have you told him?”

“Well, not in so many words. Such things … such things don’t need to be said.”

“Really?” Paul looked skeptical. “When you talk to him about the adoption, I’d start there.”

“He might throw it back in my face.”

“Like I said, there are no guarantees. But the fact that you love him enough to take this risk is where it has to start.”

He moved towards the door and pulled it open.

“What was her name, by the way?”

“Who?” He was still thinking about adoption.

“Your wife.”

Stephanas blinked at him a few times. “P-P-P-P-Popeia.”

[Next Chapter]

[Beginning of the novel]

When you think about it, though, it’s not differences in language that create this problem so much as difference in people. Even those who share a common language are required to discover common ground and choose common words in order to communicate. Think about talking to teenagers! Most of the teens I know speak some semblance of English. But that doesn’t make communication easy. What do they want to talk about? Will they trust me enough to talk at all? Was that a grunt or a hearty affirmation of their agreement to what I’ve just said?

Communications between Christians and the world are always conducted in different languages, even when the language is shared. The trick, I believe, is to discover common ground, where trust can be established and mutual interests collide.

I’ve always found that movies are a prime common ground, a place where I can meet people who don’t share my faith and talk meaningfully about the important issues of life. Movies are seen to be “neutral territory” by many of us, written and produced with no particular theological ax to grind. In fact, most of “Hollywood” is perceived to have an anti-religious bias (which we, as Christians, have lamented ad nauseam).

That’s certainly true for most movies. There’s not much theological grist to grind in just about any movie starring Will Farrell (to use but one example). Often, you are required to wade through so much profanity and inanity to get to the meagerest “talking point” that touches on faith, you feel permanently sullied by the time you arrive.

There are movies, however, which address important themes that go to the heart of what it means to be human, movies that make attempts to cut the Gordian Knots of our existence. They have “gospel” in them, common ground for talking about faith, if only we are wise enough to see it. Just about any of the later movies of Clint Eastwood is worth seeing and provides wonderful opportunities for talking about the gospel. Unforgiven is one of my all-time favorite movies and contains some powerful scenes that touch on faith.

The Schofield Kid: It don’t seem real… how he ain’t gonna never breathe again, ever… how he’s dead. And the other one too. All on account of pulling a trigger.

Will Munny: It’s a hell of a thing, killing a man. Take away all he’s got and all he’s ever gonna have.

The Schofield Kid: Yeah, well, I guess they had it coming.

Will Munny: We all got it coming, kid.

Often, the movies of Robert Duvall (The Apostle, Tender Mercies) are thoughtful reflections on faith, grace, redemption, and second chances—all ideas at the very heart of the gospel.

A few other favorite movies that offer wonderful opportunities for talking about faith:

Children of Men—a prolonged meditation on hopelessness and the hope that becomes possible with the birth of one, special child.

The Matrix—another world, behind the one we see, that operates on different rules and a different reality.

No Country for Old Men—an incredible movie (about life and the powers that operate on it) where themes about God weave in and out of the entire story. (“I always figured when I got older, God would sorta come inta my life somehow. And he didn’t. I don’t blame him. If I was him I would have the same opinion of me that he does.”)

None of these movies is easy to watch. There is violence and profanity in them all. But if we hope to talk about our faith with people who don’t share it, we must be willing to wade in a little honest human garbage as the price of conversation. Jesus did it all the time and was not desecrated by it.

The kind of people who really want to talk about life rarely go to PG movies or watch the Disney channel. If we Christians walk too daintily through life, keeping our shoes clean and our sensibilities unoffended, we may never meet the sort of people willing to talk for hours about matters that matter.

[This article was published in LookOut Magazine as part of a monthly series on Church and Culture that I write for them. If you'd like to visit their website, click here. For a listing of other articles I've written for this series, click here.]

But it took a couple of months for Gaius to grow exasperated enough to invite Paul to dinner.

II

“It’s really not necessary,” he said, tearing off a crust of bread and dipping it into a plate of seasoned olive oil. “I’d be happy to support you. Take care of your food and expenses.” He gestured at Paul’s worn tunic. “You could buy some decent clothes. You need a proper toga, Paul. Something more fitting for your status as our teacher and guide. You don’t see the philosophers in the agora dressed up like deck hands. Except the Cynics, of course. But who takes them seriously?”

Paul chewed a bite of fish slowly. But it didn’t taste nearly as good, suddenly, now that he knew what Gaius wanted to talk about. He spoke carefully. “I appreciate your offer, Gaius. Really, I do. But I couldn’t take your coin.”

“Why on earth not? There are dozens of teachers and seers and writers wandering around this city who’d jump at the chance.”

Paul wiped his hands on a piece of bread and sat back to look at his host. “True enough. But I’m not one of them. My needs are few. And, besides, I enjoy the work. It makes me feel … honest. I want people to know it’s their hearts I’m after, not their money.”

“But you won’t have to ask them for their money. You’ll have mine!” Gaius beamed at him. “It’s not a burden for me, Paul. I can afford it.”

“I know that. And, again, I appreciate your offer. But I prefer to look after myself, Gaius. I’d rather work and pay my own way.”

Gaius sighed and grumbled inwardly at the man’s stubbornness. He pushed the food away and wiped his hands. “What you prefer isn’t the point, Paul. Your working is just not seemly. Men of learning, men who live in the world of ideas and words, don’t debase themselves with manual labor. It’s …” his face showed his distaste, “It’s beneath you, Paul. It undermines your credibility. It suggests that your message doesn’t have the weight to win the support of a patron.”

Paul grew very still. This was dangerous ground. “I’m not looking for a patron, Gaius,” he said softly. “I’m looking for people who will believe my message.”

“But you should be, Paul.” Gaius leaned forward to argue the point. “You need someone who has the status, the gravitas, to lend respectability to our little group. You need someone who has connections in this city, someone who can offer protection and access. We can’t build a collegium with the riff-raff you collect in the agora, Paul. We need people of substance, people of means. You won’t meet those people in the marketplace. You meet them at dinner parties and in the courthouse and during the morning salutatio. That’s what a patron’s for! To introduce you to the better people of Corinth!” He raised his hands in a gesture that said, It’s obvious.

“I met you without the benefit of a patron.” Paul smiled, trying to keep the conversation light. “You brought your friend Tullius to the assembly, and he seemed to like what he saw.”

But Gaius shook his head emphatically. “You met me because of my connection to the synagogue. But that well’s dried up. And Tullius liked some of what he saw at our worship. But he left with many of the same concerns I have.”

“Which are?”

“We have too many bottom-feeders, Paul! We’ve left the door wide open to the rabble and the misfits. Slaves and common soldiers and whores.” His nostrils wrinkled. “I can barely stand to be in the same room with that tanner! How can we attract the kind of people we want if they have to rub shoulders with the likes of that? Nobody joins down, Paul.”

Paul became even more still. He barely breathed. Even his eyes did not move. “There is no down in our assemblies, Gaius. There is no better or worse, higher or lower. We are a family. And each of us—even the tanner—is a valued member.”

Gaius made an exasperated sound. “And that’s another thing. All this talk about equality and the value of every member. It’s unnatural. It’s unCorinthian. Our city, indeed the whole Empire, is founded on the idea that cream rises to the top, that people of education and wealth and position have a right, a responsibility, to provide leadership for the masses. I, for one, do not consider a whore my equal! I resent having to sit in our assemblies and listen to the ramblings of a slave or a tailor—as if they have something to teach me … as if a man of my blood and standing needs lecturing from people like that! It’s demeaning, Paul.”

Paul could feel his own blood rising in his neck, the hot flush of anger boiling up inside. He forced it down. He deliberately kept his face calm and his hands still. He’d long suspected this of Gaius. But now he was learning how far it went. So he steeled himself for the task of listening, no matter how much the effort cost him.

“Paul,” Gaius pleaded, his hands gesturing for the reasonable path, the sensible way. “I put up with all this because I know you. I like you. And I can see the possibilities in what you’re doing. We have a distinctive message. There is deep and ancient wisdom in it. Our sacred rituals—baptism and the Supper—are enough like the rites of Isis and Demeter to feel familiar to Corinthians. But they have so much more meaning, so much more power. And the spiritual gifts …” he sat back and shook his head in wonder. “From what I’ve seen of the Spirit’s work—the healings and prophecies and tongues—I can’t tell you how exciting that is to me. It’s like being touched by God.”

He sat forward again, Gaius Titius Justus at his most persuasive. “We can build something special here, Paul. If we appeal to the right people. If we win over the best of Corinth. If we can step forward and provide the kind of leadership this group really needs.”

The silence hung between them for a moment, until Paul took the risk of testing his voice. “And what about Stauria and Aquila and Portensus? What about Demeas and his family?”

Gaius waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, they can stay, of course—if the tanner will use a little perfume. As long as we don’t bring in too many others of their kind. As long as they keep their place. Otherwise,” and his voice took on a note of warning, “it will be impossible to get my friends and the people of my class to join us. They won’t put up with it. No matter how much we have to offer.”

“I see,” Paul whispered, nodding to himself. To Paul, the nod was an unconscious gesture of understanding. He’d seen the real Gaius Titius Justus. To his host, though, the nod was a sign of agreement. “Is there anything else you would advise me, Gaius?” Might as well get it all, Paul thought sadly.

“Well, since you asked, there is one more thing.” Gaius sat back a final time, satisfied that Paul was yielding to the logic of his argument. “I think we need to discuss our message—what we emphasize and what we don’t.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I’ve considered this a great deal, Paul. If I know the Corinthians—and I certainly do—there are parts of our message they’ll find very appealing indeed.”

He listed them on his fingers. “The one God, rooted in the ancient Hebrew faith. God taking on human form—that’s not an uncommon theme in the religions of Greece and Rome, you know. The whole idea of resurrection and new life and power—I really like that part. The rituals. The pursuit of spirituality and the spiritual gifts.” He paused to see if there were anything else he wanted to add. “Those are the things we ought to talk about, Paul. That’s what we should emphasize in our assemblies. The people I know will flock to that message.”

“And the other?” Paul asked. “The part we shouldn’t talk about?”

Gaius waved his hand again—a few small things, not really worthy of much discussion. “Well, obviously, we’ve got to rethink this equality issue, as I said before. But you can see the sense in that. And I think we would be wise to downplay how Jesus died.” He rushed on, knowing Paul’s sensitivity on this point. “I realize the cross is an important part of your message, Paul. I’m not suggesting we leave it out. But surely that’s not the first thing people should hear when you talk to them about the Son of God! Can’t we leave the cross till later? After people have seen the more appealing parts of our faith?”

His nose wrinkled again. “I mean, crucifixion is such a nasty business, don’t you agree? ‘The slave’s death.’” He shuddered. “Not really in very good taste, is it? Not the most attractive part of our story. Besides,” and he grew serious, “I think we open ourselves to trouble on that point. Do we really want to blame a Roman procurator and Roman soldiers for the death of God? In Colonia Laus Julia Corinthiensis? I don’t think that’s wise.”

He smiled at Paul, thinking, There! That wasn’t as difficult as I feared.

“So you think our assembly needs a patron, that I need a patron, if we are to succeed in Corinth?”

“Most certainly!” On this point, Gaius was emphatic.

“And do you have anyone to suggest for that role?”

“Well,” he smiled modestly. “Nobody else has offered to provide your support, have they? I’ve already donated the use of my house for our gatherings. Not an unsubstantial favor, I assure you. But most of all, Paul …” he sat forward once again.

Paul found himself wishing sincerely the man would just be still.

“Most of all, the fact that we’ve had this little talk should demonstrate my deep interest in the success of your work. Yes, I’d like to become your patron in this effort. But, more, I want to be your partner, Paul. Together—with your passion and my resources—we can do something powerful here in Corinth.”

“And what would be required of me as your client?” Paul was having difficulty breathing. He felt as though lice were crawling over his body.

“Very little,” Gaius hastened to assure him. “Just keep doing what you’re doing. Take my support so you have more time to do it. Come to my house during the salutatio so I can introduce you to my other clients. Accept an occasional invitation to dinner so I can show you off to my friends,” he smiled, “and so you’ll have a captive audience to talk about Jesus Messiah.”

“Anything else?”

“Not really. Be a little more careful about the people you recruit. Buy some better clothes. Visit a barber. Consult with me before you make any large decisions—we’re partners, after all.”

Paul swung his legs off the dining couch and tugged on his boots. He felt lightheaded from the anger. I’ve been such a fool.

“Thank you for dinner, Gaius. And thank you for sharing your views.” He sat staring at his hands, trying to find his voice. “I should go now. But before I do, I need to share some views of my own.”

He looked up to face his host. “I will not accept your money. I will not change my message. I will not close the door to needy people. I will not make distinctions in our assemblies. If your friends don’t like it, I don’t want them. If you don’t like it, I don’t want you. You are not my patron, Gaius, and you never will be. I don’t consult with you or anyone else about matters of faith. I answer to a higher authority. Do you understand me, Gaius Titius Justus?”

He said this quietly, and the words bit more because of it.

Gaius sat with a stunned look on his face. How could I have misjudged the man so badly? he asked himself. Why didn’t I see he would be completely unreasonable? But then his face hardened. “Yes. I understand you quite well, Paul.”

“I’ll gather my things tonight and move back to the shop. I think it would be best to draw a clear line where you and I are concerned.”

He paused, debating with himself how to proceed. “As to your ‘not unsubstantial favor’ … I’m grateful for the use of the house for our assemblies and for training the brothers. But there will be no strings attached. Is that clear? If I ever hear so much as a whisper of the things you’ve said tonight, I’ll find another meeting place and you will no longer be welcome in our fellowship.”

Gaius was thinking as fast as the food and wine would allow, doing his sums, weighing his options. Finally, he looked up and said with effort, “That will not be necessary, Paul. I’m sorry to have offended you.”

Paul stood and walked to the doorway. “Offense doesn’t begin to cover it, Gaius. I warn you. You think like a Corinthian, not like a follower of Jesus. Take up your cross, Gaius,” he almost shouted it, his eyes fevered. “If you don’t, there is no place for you among us.” Paul turned and walked out.

Gaius sat for a long while afterwards. The servants cleared away the bowls of food and swept the floor. They tried to take the wine bowl, but Gaius waved them off. He sat and drank and thought. And the more he drank, the more his face reflected the internal dialogue—anger … resolve … then calculation.

By the time Gaius stumbled to bed, he was smiling.

III

It was already late. Had Paul been in a better mood, he might have considered the hour and postponed his visit until the next day. Never make an important decision after the sun falls, boy. The world will look different in the morning. But this would not wait. If he did not settle this now, he’d be up all night stewing.

He walked first to Stephanas’s house and asked the startled Greek to find his cloak and follow him.

“What is it, P-P-Paul? Is someone sick?” He asked the question as he hurried after Paul, two burly attendants escorting them in the darkness. Their exhaled breaths frosted in the night air and Stephanas gathered his cloak tightly about himself.

Paul laughed mirthlessly. “In a way, I suppose.” He glanced at the escorts. “We’ll talk when we get to Crispus’s house.”

There was no room for discussion in his tone. Stephanas matched his pace, worried. He’d never seen Paul like this.

They arrived at Crispus’s house where Paul banged impatiently on the door. A servant opened.

“I would see your master,” Paul demanded.

The servant, of course, knew Paul from his many visits. But that wasn’t the issue. “I beg your pardon, sir, but the hour is late. Come back tomorrow and my master will be glad to receive you.” He started to close the door.

Paul put his foot on the threshold and spoke softly, working hard to gain a purchase on his anger. “Tell your master I need to talk to him. Now.”

A voice spoke from inside. “Let him in, Tertius. It’s all right.”

The door opened and Paul stepped through. Crispus greeted him draped in a blanket, his fringe of white hair disheveled, eyes blinking against the torch light. He’d obviously been in bed.

“Good evening, Paul,” Crispus began jovially, despite the hour. But then he saw Paul’s face. “What’s the matter? What’s happened?” He looked from Paul to Stephanas and back to Paul again.

“We need to talk,” was all Paul would say.

“Let’s go into my study. Tertius, some tapers please. Quickly.” He turned to lead the way.

Tertius scurried to collect a flame from the kitchen and then felt his way in the darkened room until he’d lit a half-dozen candles and the lamp standing on Crispus’s desk. “That will be all tonight, Tertius. Go on to bed. We won’t be needing anything else.” Crispus could tell by the look in Paul’s eye he was in no mood for refreshments.

Crispus took his chair behind the desk, motioning Paul and Stephanas to chairs of their own. “What’s this all about, Paul? The last time I received visitors at this hour was when Sosthenes and Berekiah came to give me the bad news.”

Paul sat quietly for a moment, trying to collect himself. Where to begin?

“You are both men of means and influence in this city. Is that correct?”

They looked at each other, confused. Stephanas answered for them. “God has blessed us both, P-P-Paul. You know that. What is it?” He cleared his throat. “Do you need money?”

Paul flared at him. “Most certainly not!” He immediately regretted the outburst. He reached a hand to Stephanas’s arm. “Please, forgive me. I’m not myself.” He took a deep breath and started over.

“I have to know. Does it bother you that I work with my hands for a living? That I dress like this?” He gestured to his ancient tunic.

The two men looked at each other again. This time Crispus answered. “Of course not, Paul. You don’t have to, of course. We’d be happy to help with your expenses.” He looked to Stephanas for confirmation. “But if you want to work…” he shrugged.

“And does it bother you that I’m bringing in people from the agora? People like Portensus and Stauria?”

They were baffled. “Didn’t Jesus befriend … didn’t he spend time with such p-p-people?” Stephanas asked finally. “Didn’t he come especially for the p-p-poor and the blind and the sick?”

Paul watched him carefully. “And the cross? You don’t mind me always talking about the cross?”

Crispus put his elbows on the desk and folded his hands in front of his mouth. “Paul. Why don’t you tell us what’s happened. We’re your friends. We want to help.”

Paul rubbed his eyes and wiped a hand across his face. “I ate dinner tonight with Gaius Titius Justus. It did not go well.” He told them about the patronage offer and Gaius’s concerns and the confrontation that ended their conversation. He recounted as many sad details as he could recall, feeling more glum with each remembered word.

For their part, Stephanas and Crispus listened to the story with a mixture of alarm (How could Gaius say such things?) and amusement (Oh, to have been a fly on the wall!). They cut glances at each other as Paul talked, each seeing a similar reaction in the other. Crispus was glad his hands were in front of his mouth. It was truly sad—though it did not surprise him—that Gaius had missed the gospel so badly. But the thought of Paul’s reaction to Gaius’s proposition made his lips twitch and curl.

“He actually said you shouldn’t talk so much about the cross?” Stephanas shook his head in wonder when Paul had finished.

“Yes. Yes, he did. And all I could think about when I left his house is that I had to find the two of you. You’re the only other people in our group who have money and a measure of influence in this city. And I need to tell you straight up, I have no favors to offer you. I meant what I said to Gaius. We are all equal parts of this family. There will be no distinctions in this assembly.”

Ah, thought Crispus. So that’s what’s bothering him. He and Stephanas looked at each other again.

“Paul,” the ex-synagogue leader said at last. “I gave up a prominent position when I walked out of the synagogue to follow Jesus. If distinction mattered to me, I’d still be there.”

“And as for me,” Stephanas added quietly, “all the honor I need is to have a p-p-place with those who call Jesus ‘Lord.’ Whoever they are. Whatever they’ve been.”

Paul rubbed his eyes again, relieved beyond words. It’s what he’d hoped to hear from them. “I knew it,” he said finally. “But thank you for saying it. I needed to be sure.” He paused once more. “What we’re building here goes against every principle of this broken world. You’ve got to know that going in.”

“We do know it, Paul,” Crispus assured him. “And we’re with you.”

They stood together and walked from the study towards the front door. “Well …” Paul said at the threshold, suddenly embarrassed, awkward. “Forgive me for a moment of doubt. But there are precious few men like you, men of your wealth and standing, who are willing to put it all aside. Gaius reminded me of that tonight and I got nervous.”

“It’s all right, Paul,” Crispus squeezed his arm. “We’re with you,” he said again.

Stephanas sent one of his men to see Paul home through the dark streets. He and Crispus stood together on the threshold watching him walk away.

Hester joined them. “He’s a strange man, isn’t he?” She’d been listening again.

Stephanas lifted an eyebrow at her. “P-p-paul or Gaius?” The three of them laughed.

Crispus put an arm around his wife and said soberly, “Gaius was right about one thing, though.”

Stephanas and Hester looked at him.

“The tanner does stink,” he deadpanned.

Stephanas chuckled about that all the way home.

[Next Chapter]

[Beginning of the novel]

Like climbing a mountain, the higher you climb on the Trust Pyramid, the farther you have to fall. All the hard work that goes into building trust between individuals and confidence in the team can be lost with a single misstep, one false move after so much effort.

The reality, however, is that some misstep is inevitable. Your leadership team will be challenged with unfavorable circumstances, misunderstandings, unmet expectations, strongly divided opinions, or succumb to the stress and fatigue that always accompanies the important work we do. A church might be blessed with leaders who bring to their work the highest levels of character and competence, the greatest commitment to common mission and cooperation. But count on it; something will go wrong. And, when it does, a team must manage one more level of trust if it is to survive: confidence in the ability of the system to handle conflict in an effective manner.

Unless your team members and the team as a whole trusts there is a “system” in place for handling difficulties, that the organization as a whole knows how to address problems and will not lose its character or sacrifice its direction when troubles arise, trust will be a fragile thing … the first victim of any approaching storm.

Embracing Conflict

Conflict can develop in a team for all manner of reasons: personality differences, a failure of character or competence on the part of a team member, an instance of poor judgment, lack of results, stress, differing opinions, external criticism that leads to internal fracture—name your poison. Some churches and church leadership teams expend their energies trying to manage these sources of conflict, hoping to prevent conflict, believing (apparently) that conflict is, itself, a sign of weakness and defeat.

I’m all for proactive prevention of conflict—so long as it doesn’t lead to the suppression of differences, denial of tensions, and a neurotic fear of conflict that causes more difficulties than conflict itself. But prevention should not be the goal of organizations, indicating (as it often does) a perspective on conflict that identifies conflict as the problem rather than as a symptom of other, more fundamental problems.

I suggest that it is far healthier for a team to anticipate conflict, plan for it, and develop strategies for managing it.

As a first step to this, teams need to recognize that some conflict is inevitable. Conflict isn’t a sign of team failure or lack of character or incompetent leadership. “Shit happens” as the bumper sticker reminds us. It does. Even in churches. Perhaps especially in churches.

Church leaders are especially prone to the crippling delusion that conflict shouldn’t happen to them because they are such exceptionally nice people! Of course, that ignores the fact that Jesus Christ—the perfect Son of God—dealt with significant conflict every day of his ministry, that every one of his Apostles (with the exception of John) died a violent death as a result of intense conflict, or that the church of the first century was riddled with conflict.

If, instead, conflict is embraced as a normal part of life—realizing that even the nicest people are required to navigate stormy waters on occasion—we are freed from the notion that conflict is inherently unfair or a sign of personal failing. We might even develop a perspective that sees conflict as the inevitable result of attempting to do work that matters. Such a perspective allows us to focus not on prevention (a noble but unrealistic goal), but on preparation.

Once we give up the illusion that conflict can be avoided, we need to see conflict for what it is: 

1. a winter season in the naturally cyclical rhythm of life,
2. an uncomfortable and sometimes painful process by which differences are recognized and addressed, and
3. a symptom of some interpersonal problem that must be solved, resolved, or reconciled.

Far from something to be avoided or feared, conflict is necessary for health and effectiveness. What pain is to the nervous system and fever is to the immune system, conflict is to organizational systems. Neither pain, fever, nor conflict is particularly comfortable. None is an experience we look forward to and take pleasure from. But all are necessary feedback mechanisms by which more basic problems are discovered, identified, and addressed.

Without conflict, teams cannot be healthy. Without conflict, teams cannot be effective. Conflict indicates that the team is struggling in some more fundamental way. With a little wisdom and patience, conflict can show us where and how the team is struggling. Conflict is the necessary means of identifying organizational infections. It is the price we pay to make an effective difference, to address weaknesses that threaten our ability to do something that matters.

Managing Conflict

To push the somatic metaphor a bit further, conflict (like pain or fever) is a symptom, not a solution. It begs to be managed, directed, and treated. Left to itself, conflict can escalate to fevered levels that burn away trust, friendship, and teamwork. Only when conflict is guided, only when a process is in place that puts conflict to work for healthy ends, can a team develop confidence that—even when things go wrong—there is a way to put things right again.

There are at least four key factors involved in handling conflict effectively in the context of a team. All of them require that the team embrace conflict as inevitable, healthy, and necessary. And all of them must be put into place before significant conflict occurs. (Teams cannot wait for a conflict to explode before agreeing on essential “rules of engagement”—a roadmap for how conflicts within the team will be handled. The seeds of conflict resolution must be sown early—when the sun’s still shining—if they are to take meaningful root. It’s too late to build an effective conflict strategy if storm clouds are already building on the horizon.)

A conflict management philosphy that is understood and agreed on by all team members.

1. At the least, this would mean that team members understand the bases of trust between individuals and within a team (the subject of this blog thread) and how the team is expected to regard the presence of conflict (the subject of this particular article).
2. At the heart of this philosophy could be an assurance that:
   1. conflict is normal,
   2. it will be handled in a principled way when it arises in the team,
   3. resolving conflict is a prime value of the team, and
   4. such resolutions are not a distraction from the team’s work but a validation of it.
3. This philosphy should make clear what the team’s goals are in resolution of conflict, and what sorts of conflictual behaviors are inappropriate. The classic “Conflict Grid” (“What I want” vs “What you want”) is a good place to start in educating a team about conflict goals and landmines. We expect people to be highly committed to their own and others’ objectives in any conflict situation on our team. Conflict behaviors like avoidance, competition, and appeasement are not appropriate because they demonstrate a lack of respect for self or others on the team … or a lack of engagement in the important work we’re doing.
   

   On the other hand, working towards real problem solving, making authentic efforts to resolve conflict with effective solutions, is the goal of the team.

A conflict management covenant that all members of the team sign and commit to respect. This could include a list of statements like:

1. I am committed to the effectiveness of this team and to the accomplishment of our goals, and value this over getting my own way.
2. We are a team and will treat each other accordingly, even when stresses, difficulties, and conflicts occur.
3. I understand the kinds of conflict behaviors are expected of me (or are out-of-bounds to me) in times of conflict in this team. I agree to conduct myself accordingly.

Alternatively, this covenant could focus on Beatitude behavior (“I will practice poverty of Spirit and humility, even in conflict situations”), biblical teachings about how Christians treat “the enemy” (“I promise to pray for those I am in conflict with”), or biblical principles about personal behavior in the context of a team (“I commit to speak only what is helpful for building others up”).

The key is for everyone on the team to know the ground rules, to understand that everyone else knows those rules, and to commit themselves formally to observing those rules of engagement.

A conflict management process that is agreed upon by team members before a conflict occurs. This doesn’t have to be complicated or involved. It could mean little more than a commitment to following Matthew 18:15-17:

1. Going to someone privately to air differences
2. If that doesn’t resolve the conflict, taking someone else with you to repeat the conversation (see below—it needs to be a “designated” someone)
3. If even that fails, take the conflict to the team and ask for group discernment.

Once again, the key here is that everyone is on the same page, everyone knows what is expected, everyone has a path to follow when conflicts arise.

A leadership structure for conflict management that specifies who is ultimately responsible for resolving conflicts among the team. Everything that precedes is dependent on this final point. Someone has to lead in conflict. There must be someone on the team who feels the responsibility for resolution, who evidences some competence with conflict management, and who has been empowered to find a resolution (forcing a resolution, if necessary). Without a designated leader in times of conflict, there can be little hope of productive resolution. 

To return one final time to the somatic metaphor, pain or fever signals that something is wrong in the body. But unless someone is found to treat the problem (“It’s time to go to the doctor”), unless someone is able to diagnose and prescribe for the problem (“Take two aspirin and call me in the morning”), and unless someone is empowered to see the problem through to a satisfactory conclusion (“You cannot be discharged until you take all your medicine”), the fever or pain will result in (often) tragic consequences.

It is a source of constant amazement to me that (in the relational sphere) so many people believe they can be both patient and doctor at the same time. I’ve worked with married couples who are at each other’s throat constantly. Yet each will insist that he or she knows exactly what should be done to fix the marriage (usually involving a change on the others behavior!).

Just because you are in a conflict doesn’t mean you have the knowledge or wisdom to diagnose and resolve the conflict.

The same is true of leadership teams. It is naïve to think that every person on a leadership team is equally equipped, adequately trained, sufficently self-aware, and suitably objective to manage a conflict—especially when they themselves are involved in the conflict. This is yet another instance where a clearly designated leader—someone in a “senior minister” role—can serve the church by exercising leadership in the context of conflict. Having someone capable, willing, and effective in leading through conflict is the single most important factor in creating trust in the “system.”

“System Trust”

This leads us to the final layer in the “Trust Pyramid.” I have used the word “Conflict” to label this layer (because I desperately needed a word starting with “C” to complete my alliterative scheme). But, in fact, I’m referring here to something broader than conflict or even conflict management.  What I’m really addressing is “System Trust”: a layer of trust that differs from trust in individuals (their character and competence) or in the team (commitment to common cause and cooperation). “System trust” is, essentially, confidence in the integrity of the organization and in its competence to handle problems effectively … confidence that even if team members falter or the entire team loses direction, there is a core to the organization itself (in this instance, the church and its leaders) that remains trustworthy and can address problems in an honorable and capable manner.

Think of this “system trust” as the ballast in the keel of a boat. Storms can blow and buffet the boat. Individual crewmen can fail to do their jobs. The boat may lose its rudder and simply run before the prevailing winds. But no matter how hard the boat tosses and turns, there is a feature—a substantial mass built into the very heart of the ship—that keeps the keel in the water and the deck facing the stars.

Although “system trust” is more complicated than I can discuss here, it boils down to how the organization handles problems, difficulties, and conflicts. A system that responds to storms with fear and panic will enjoy very low “system trust” from its people. On the other hand, a system that responds calmly to storms, that sees storms as simply another season of organizational life (to be managed and weathered rather than bemoaned and resented), and that brings effective tools to bear to ride out the storm and minimize damage will enjoy high “system trust” from its people.

In the long-term, leadership teams survive or fail on the basis of how “storms” are handled … how teams and team members conduct themselves when things go wrong. Nothing can destroy trust (and, thus, teams) quite as quickly and thoroughly as conflict. On the other hand, conflict done well—managed properly—can lead teams to new heights of trust: in each other and in the team as a system.

[Go to the first article in this series.]

Late on a frigid afternoon, Achaicus went searching for Paul. He could see thunderclouds building over the Corinthian Gulf, and leaned into the cold, biting gusts pushed before them. He could smell the coming rain.

He found Paul where he expected to find him—in the agora. He was finishing a conversation with a fish-monger, telling stories about John the fisherman. Achaicus stood to the side, not wanting to interrupt, watching.

Paul’s lips were blue, he noticed. His cloak was so worn, it afforded little protection against the cold and wind. And there was so little fat on the man, Achaicus realized, he must feel the cold intensely.

When the fish-monger turned away with a shrug, Achaicus took Paul by the arm and drew him towards a taverna inside the North Stoa. “Ya need some wine to warm you,” he said gruffly. “And I need a bit of yer time.”

Paul followed without objection. Achaicus could feel his trembling.

II

They sat at the back of the taverna, and Achaicus ordered two cups of mulled wine—hot and spiced with honey. He sat one in front of Paul and gestured for him to drink it, all of it. “When was the last time ya ate?” he asked, as though Paul were a naughty boy who had to be carefully watched. But he did not wait for an answer. Gesturing to the proprietor, he ordered soup—“Somethin’ with meat in it! And bread. And another cup of wine.”

Achaicus wrapped his fingers around the warm cup in front of him. “Old men like us oughta take better care of themselves, Paul,” he chided.

Paul smiled his agreement and seized the bowl of stew when it arrived. He could feel the wine warming his stomach. The trembling subsided. He began to relax.

“Thank you, Achaicus. I didn’t realize how cold it was.”

Achaicus leaned forward. Since he’d begun the rebuke, he might as well finish it. “Ya ain’t no good to us, Paul, if yer down with a fever or dead from simple neglect. Ya ain’t no good to us or yer cause. Now I’m gonna bring you one of the Master’s old cloaks. Something thick enough to turn the wind.” He wagged a finger at Paul. “And, yes, you’ll take it. And, yes, you’ll wear it. Do we have an understandin’?”

Paul grinned weakly. “If you insist, my friend.”

“I am yer friend. And I thank ye fer what you’re doing, Paul. For the Master ’specially. But I’m too old to get in a twitter about you. Ya may be a man of God, but yer still a man. And ya can’t carry water if yer neglectin’ yerself. So—one friend t’another—you’ll eat … you’ll watch the cold … and you’ll get yer rest.”

Paul raised his hands in surrender. “Yes, Doctor. I promise to do better.”

“And I’ll hold ya to it. Now finish yer stew.”

Paul did as he was told, wiping the bowl with a crust of bread at the end. “You said you needed some of my time. I assume you have something on your mind apart from my wardrobe and eating habits?”

Achaicus nodded and then raised his hand for two more cups of wine. “I have a story to tell ya. But it ain’t my story. So I find myself betwixt and between.” He frowned. “The Master trusts me. I’m beholden to keep my mouth shut about the master’s personal goin’s-on. But he has a thorn that torments him, and neither of us can seem to pull it.” A pained look passed over his features.

“The boy,” Paul guessed. “Yes, of course. We’ve spoken about Fortunatus several times.”

“Well, yes, there’d be the boy.” Achaicus glanced away and then exhaled. “As ya seen for yerself, Fortunatus serves with me. Though he ain’t no good at it,” he said bitterly.

“Stephanas seems quite fond of him.”

“Oh, he is. Though it’s like lovin’ a stump. Stupid little ox,” Achaicus hissed. He took a deep breath.

“I take it you’re not as fond of Fortunatus as your master.”

The old man snorted. “I’d like to pinch his head off. I cared once, you know. Orantes was my friend. I felt beholden for his boy. But not no more. He troubles the household and causes too much grief to my master.”

“Have things not improved at all?”

“Some. They’ve reached an understandin’, those two. But it’s a devil’s pact, if yer askin’ me.”

“What do you mean?”

“They steer clear of each other. The boy don’t show disrespect as long as the Master don’t speak to him. And the Master walks around like he’s barefoot on glass, tryin’ not to give offense. That ain’t no way to live under the same roof.”

I see,” Paul said again. “What do you want of me?”

“Talk to him,” Achaicus shrugged and took another sip of wine. “Ya done good by the Master. Do something fer the boy.”

“I’ve already tried.”

“Well, try again.”

Paul studied his cup. “I think something more than pleasant conversation will be required in this case.”

Achaicus leaned forward. “Then be unpleasant. But try.”

Paul smiled. “Actually, I have an idea that might work. I hoped to talk to your master about it soon.”

“Good.” Achaicus took a long pull from his cup and sat back. “And while yer talkin’ to the master about that …” He paused and his face darkened.

Paul waited and then realized something. “You didn’t come here to talk to me about the boy, did you?”

Achaicus looked away. “No.” He paused again and then bumbled his way forward. “Actually … I need to tell ya … that is, ya seem to have a way with the Master. He trusts you.” He stopped again, torn by some internal debate. “This be his story, ya see, and he’ll not be thankin’ me for sharin’ it—even with you. So tread careful with what I tell you.”

Paul smiled. “Like I’m barefoot on glass?” He reached across the table and put his hand on the old steward’s arm. “Perhaps you should just say what you came here for.”

Achaicus nodded and took a deep breath. “There was a woman once … a wife.”

Paul sat back and nodded slowly. “I thought so, though he’s never spoken of her.”

The old servant looked up, pleading. “I can’t tell ya what happened, what went wrong. That’s fer him to say if he wants. I can only tell ya that she hurt him. Bad. He’s ain’t been the same since she left.”

“How so … not the same.”

“There is no laughin’ in him anymore. He spends all his time shut up with them books a’his. He’s given up his friends. And like I told ya before, it’s been years since he’s had folks to dinner.”

“I see. What else?”

If possible, Achaicus looked even more uncomfortable. “I catch him, sometimes, starin’ off into the distance, and I know he’s thinkin’ about her. She’s marked him, somehow. And it’s not just the sadness. He don’t trust himself no more. To judge people right. To know who to trust.”

He looked away for a time. “Has he told ya ’bout Oedipus yet?”

Paul smiled. “The ones we kill and the ones we marry?”

Achaicus nodded. “That’s it. Pretty gloomy stuff, ain’t it. But I reckon he believes it—that he married the thing that’s gonna eat him up.”

“I guess he does believe it. And I can see how that would mark a man … make him doubt himself. Although, he’s been very open with me.”

“That’s why we’re even talking ’bout this. You’ve surprised me, Paul. I ain’t seen him like this since she left.”

“I like your master. He’s a good man.”

“And he likes you.” But then his voice turned brittle. “Don’t hurt him, Paul. I wouldn’t stand fer it. Not again.”

Paul looked up to meet the steward’s eyes. The two men stared at each other for a long while.

“I think Stephanas is blessed to have a friend like you, Achaicus.”

Achaicus shrugged off the compliment. “What I seen in the Master these last few weeks has been the best I’ve seen him in a long time. Yer friendship means something to him. And yer message.” He leaned forward again. “But it don’t matter how much fresh water goes through the pond, if there’s a dead body beneath. The water’s gonna turn bad.” He spoke with a sudden intensity. “I don’t want her doing that to him anymore. Poisonin’ him. So ya gotta help him dig her out, Paul. Else she’ll turn this bad too.”

They looked at each other again, until Paul nodded. “I think I understand. I’ll find a way to talk to him.”

Achaicus drained his cup and rose to leave, relieved to be done with the awkward conversation. “That’s all I ask, Paul. For the Master’s sake.”

He threw some coins on the table. “I’ll bring the cloak by later,” he promised and walked out.

[Next Chapter]

[Beginning of the novel]