The Nephew

By Dede Weldon Casad PhD

Few people know that St. Paul had a nephew. This is the nephew’s story as he follows his uncle from Tarsus to Rome on long and dangerous journeys. It’s the story of a young Jewish boy brought reluctantly into an alien world with no knowledge or understanding of the WAY. With his life plans totally shattered, he spent over 35 years in the shadow of the great man he protected, defended and almost died for. Yet his duty to his uncle took him into many dark places of despair as a well as surprising situations.

• Language: English
• Publisher: LifeRich Publishing
• Release date: Jan 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9781489733221

Dede Weldon Casad PhD

Dede Weldon Casad is the author of more than twenty nonfiction, fiction and children’s books, including the Henry the Hard Drive series for children. A native Texas, Casad holds two degrees from Texas Women’s University and a Ph.D from the University of Texas at Dallas. She is an entrepreneur who has served on many corporate boards. She is the mother of three grown children and six grandsons.

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Copyright © 2021 Dede Weldon Casad, Ph.D.

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ISBN: 978-1-4897-3323-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4897-3320-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4897-3322-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021900759

LifeRich Publishing rev. date: 01/12/2021

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Book One

Book Two

Book Three

Book Four

To all those people who never knew

that St. Paul had a nephew.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

T o the many people who thought this was a good idea from the very start. Thanks to my good friend Maryam Mathis and my daughter-in-law, Mary Brooke Casad, for reading and making suggestions. Their help was tremendous.

BOOK ONE

H e called me Lil Lieb. I didn’t mind it at first because I was young. Hearing him call me that after I was grown was another matter. I am sure it never occurred to him that being called Lil Lieb after I was twelve, and especially after I reached twenty-one, did not feel manly, but he never changed, and I was not one to complain. In those days, my mother would have thrashed me with a cedar limb had I asked him to drop the Lil.

So Lil Lieb it was for all those years we were together, and now in my retirement I can still hear his voice calling out to me sometimes with an appeal, other times with a mountain of impatience and a tone as harsh as a bramble, forgetting for a moment who he was.

But to be fair, I also remember when his voice was as mellow as a hummingbird’s wings. Those were the times when he was deep in thought or had just finished praying. Those were the tender times, back then.

The year was AD 36. Tiberius was emperor of Judaea. Caligula (Gaius Augustus Caesar) was traveling to Tarsus to take over as emperor within a year, the next in a long line of Romans prefects who had been recently promoted and given the most undesirable station in all the empire. They considered Judaea the training ground for future Caesars.

The Romans had been ruling now for far too long, but our country was unorganized and poor and lacked the proper resources to defend itself. We had been at the mercy of Rome since before I was born. That was all I knew. I learned later that my uncle, besides being a Pharisee, was also a Roman citizen, since Tarsus was, at the time, considered a free city.

In those early years, I was living with my widowed mother in Tarsus, where both my mother and my uncle had grown up. My father, Lieb, the son of Abra, had been gone since I was four, and I have only wisps of memory of him. However, the memories of my uncle are still as clear as pure water. My mother was his older and only sister, and I was his only nephew.

After my father died, my uncle came to the house often, but after he went away to school in Jerusalem, his visits were rare. I remember longing for his return. Many nights I would lay on my pallet on the roof of our house, dreaming that he would come live with us.

I loved it when he came and remember well the sense of his presence. He was like a giant figure to me then, for he was much heavier than my father, and when he wrapped his arms around me, I felt I couldn’t breathe for the longest time. He was always in a hurry, dashing in and out of the house like a gale of wind, shouting to my mother in a voice so bold it almost blew out the candles. Quickly, he would tell her the news from the center of town in short, crisp words, as if breath was in short supply, but my mother was too busy to pay him much mind and kept doing what she was doing. I guess that since he was younger, she considered him only a boy. But as she told me many times, he was a boy with a future, for he had been a student at the university here in Tarsus before studying in Jerusalem with Gamaliel, and he would one day, when he was thirty, become a Pharisee, an honored position for any Jew. I didn’t know what that meant at the time, but it didn’t matter. All I knew was that I loved my uncle Saul.

Although I was quite young, I remember hearing the gossip about a disturbing young prophet making his rounds among the different communities. It meant little to me at the time. He was never seen in Tarsus, so those rumors fell on deaf ears for most of us. To tell the truth, I couldn’t tell you exactly what the rumors were or why everyone was so disturbed. All I do remember is that the gossip was not favorable, at least from my uncle’s reports. My uncle’s speech always grew callous with contempt when he spoke of this man, and it was best I didn’t ask questions, even if I thought I could. My interests rested elsewhere at the time, for my mother had agreed, now that I was thirteen, that I should learn to ride an Arabian steed. And that was far more exciting to me than following in my father’s footsteps and becoming a tailor. If I could learn to ride an Arabian horse well, I would have a job with the centurions, and even though they were not Jewish, they held a prominent position in the community.

But that was not to be. My uncle had other plans for me. I learned of this the day after my thirteenth birthday, when my uncle Saul bounded into the house like a roll of thunder and announced, I am taking Lil Lieb with me to Damascus. It is time I train him to be a real Jew and not a centurion horseman. I have been given permission to go to Damascus to arrest the followers of this man Jesus and then permanently rid the world of this dangerous cult. It will be excellent training for him.

I was stunned to the core and immediately pleaded with my mother to forbid me to go. I had no interest in hunting down people. My heart was set on riding. But my pleas were useless and totally ignored.

I’m leaving early in the morning, my uncle continued, as if I had said nothing. Have the boy ready. It’s a long journey. He will not be back for some time.

Not be back? My eyes welled up. My chest felt tight, and my heart sank in despair. I was not ready to leave home. I loved my uncle, but I had never been beyond the city limits, and my mind was far from thoughts of travel, much less hunting down renegade zealots. My hopes of being an Arabian horseman were evaporating like water on a hot stone. I looked to my mother to rescue me, but she had turned away. A wall of panic hit me, and I felt helpless.

At first dawn my uncle gathered my sack and led me out our door. My mother handed me a small bundle of food and quickly kissed my cheek.

Waiting for me in the middle of the road were two men, two donkeys, and a cart loaded with gear. Uncle Saul called the men Caleb and Joas. They looked very much like my uncle and showed no interest in my plight. My uncle threw my bag onto the cart and motioned for me to get in step as the asses slowly pulled forward. I stepped into pace and dared not look back. I didn’t want to see my mother standing in the door, nor could I bear for her to see my utter disappointment, much less the tears so close to the surface.

That day was the longest day of my life. At eventide I could not feel my legs or feet. I was weary to the marrow in my bones, and the large blisters on my feet were bleeding. I had no idea how far we had traveled, and when my uncle Saul came around to offer salve for my feet, he complimented me on my endurance.

You have done well, Lil Lieb. This is only the first day. We have many more to go. Your feet will toughen, I promise. Damascus is over four hundred kilometers away. By the time we arrive, you will be a seasoned traveler. He spoke as if I were unaware that we had a prolonged journey ahead of us, and as I listened, my spirit sank into a hollow of loneliness I had never felt before.

By the third day, I had fully succumbed to a full-scale attack of homesickness. My uncle insisted I ride one of the asses the next day, and I rode as if in a daze. He tempted me with an additional piece of bread, but I could not eat. My lanky body was like a gnarled twig as I rode leaning over the body of the donkey, with my arms draped around his neck. The pain of homesickness was as sharp as the knife my uncle wore around his waist, and I pined for home with every step.

On the twelfth day a small caravan approached from the north. They stopped to greet us. I was overjoyed to see them, and my mind raced with much hope that I might be allowed to go with them back to Tarsus. When I broached the subject with my uncle, he dismissed my petition as he might a fly on his sleeve and then turned his attention to the travelers. He asked them if they had seen any of Jesus’s followers, and if so, how far back had they encountered them? They seemed puzzled over the question, as they had not heard of this man Jesus. It was also the first time that I had heard this elusive man’s name— Jesus.

Come and partake in the evening meal with us, and I will tell you all about him, my uncle suggested as he led the travelers to our campsite.

Listening from the edges, I heard Uncle Saul telling them about Jesus and his followers and how the Pharisees had silenced Jesus by putting him to death, but there was still a band of followers who were going around healing sick people in his name. The disdain with which my uncle spoke was frightening, but the travelers hung on to every word. I could tell by their questions that they were disturbed by what they heard. There were words spoken that I did not understand. Words like crucify hung heavy in the air. My uncle’s voice deepened as he told them about this man supposedly coming back to life. He spat on the ground in utter disgust. His followers must consider us imbeciles to think we would believe such folly. No one has ever come back from the dead. We are not fools. He was a false teacher, and he was certainly not a god as some believe. When I heard these words, I envisioned this Jesus to be a titan ten feet tall, with horns like an antelope. I was frightened at the image I had created in my mind.

I crawled closer to the talking men, being careful not to be noticed. I was still hoping my uncle would ask them to take me with them back to Tarsus. He had watched my homesickness eat at me day and night. Surely, he would relent and allow me to go home. However, he could not stop ranting, with venom in his voice, about his obligation to hunt down this man’s evil followers and return them to Jerusalem for execution. As my uncle spoke, his anger deepened, and I could see the veins in his neck swell and pulse with hatred. This was not the uncle I knew, and it terrified me.

Suddenly, he shifted his tone. Let me tell you about the stoning we gave a brash young recruit of Jesus just before I left Tarsus, he offered proudly.

The men leaned closer, not to miss a word.

They called him Stephen, my uncle began. He kept preaching about Jesus being alive even though he was dead and how he would come back soon and rule the world. My uncle hesitated a second to allow that to sink in, then went on. "Of course, he was either deranged or under an evil spell. My men and I were outraged by what he claimed. We decided to stone him to death, even though I thought stoning did not measure fully the weight of the message he was espousing to the people. My fellow Pharisees, fearful of being recognized by this man’s followers, wanted to kill him in secret. Not me. If you could have heard his blasphemy, you would have agreed that a public stoning was too good for him.

Nevertheless, we dragged him to the outskirts of town. The chief priest gave him one last chance by asking him if he was guilty of these charges. Instead of giving a solid yes-or-no answer, he began to lecture us. My uncle stopped again, shaking his head in contempt.

He quoted Moses as if he were a prophet himself and called us fools to our faces. My men gnashed their teeth in indignation, they were so angry. Impatient to shut this man up for good, I ran up and snatched his coat from his body so the rocks and stone would penetrate his flesh deeper and cause a quicker death. Suddenly, with a smile on his face, this young man knelt on the ground and appeared to begin praying. Obviously, it was to show how brave he was. Then, looking to the sky, he spoke words we could all hear: ‘Forgive them. They don’t know what they are doing.’ That enraged me to the point that I ordered the men to throw larger stones. He died with his face toward heaven. I turned away disgusted but satisfied he would no longer be my concern.

The travelers sat silent, probably wondering if what Saul had said was true or an odd man’s idle tale. Finally, one asked, This Jesus, is he like Simon the Sorcerer whom we have been hearing about? He claims he can heal and is known as the Great Power.

No, no, I know about him, answered Uncle Saul as he leaned back and mellowed his voice. They say he is now one of the followers of Jesus. See how pervasive and dangerous this movement is?

How will we know if we run across some of these men? one man asked. And if we do, should we kill them before they kill us?

It’s a strange cult, my uncle responded. These radical people are organizing themselves into what they call a church of some sort. That is why my commission from the high priest is so important—and urgent. They must be stopped before they proselytize any further. They are Jews defying the Law of Moses with ridicule and slander. These people are moral criminals. My mission is clear: death to the followers of Jesus.

I had never heard my uncle speak this fervently against anyone before. His disdain was so foreign to me that I felt I was listening to an entirely different man. I wanted to crawl under the wagon and hide. Fearful of what the future held, I knew now what was uppermost in my uncle’s mind, and it certainly was not me. He had no thought of asking the men to take me along with them back to Tarsus. He was going to train me to become a killer of men. My despondency turned to shivers of fear as all hope of returning to Tarsus disappeared. I was going with my uncle Saul all the way to Damascus.

The days dragged along one after the other, none of them seemingly different. The roads were dusty, the sky was always clear, and the weather was hot. Yet my uncle’s face was set like flint on Damascus, and his heart was on the blood of Jesus’s followers. He continued to question people on the road and in the villages as we passed through them. Most had heard of Jesus’s followers, but no one knew where they were. I repeatedly practiced in my mind what I would do if I ever saw one. The possibilities ranged from stabbing the person in the chest like a hero to running like a coward to escape him. I dreamed at night of how they might look—would I be able to tell?—and I dreamed by day of what action I might take if one showed up on the road.

The road widened as we neared Damascus, and I could feel the tension building in my uncle. He was becoming obsessed. I was becoming paranoid. For the others I was no more than a burden to contend with, a useless tagalong. I was tolerated due to my uncle’s status but kept at a distance from the jokes and frivolity the three men enjoyed at eventide. After all, I was a mere child to them.

Secretly, the fear of what might happen if we did encounter one of the followers took over my mind. I fabricated such terrible images of these people that I became almost paralyzed with