Thought Tapestries

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The maple outside Walt’s window had finally dropped the last of its leaves. They lay in a wet red drift against the fence, and the kitchen smelled of apples because Amara had brought a bag from somebody’s tree.

Tomás was already seated. Beside his mug lay a sandwich bag of index cards he had cut himself, small and neat, with the edges trimmed straight. He had colored them with highlighters, yellow for Text, green for Suggested, pink for Outside.

“You made your own,” said Denny, hanging his coat over the chair.

“I found the habit useful.”

“Pink?”

“It was the only other color I had.”

Walt did not say anything. He had the look of a man at the back of a classroom who has just watched a student do the thing he’d been hoping for. He set the jar of pencils in the middle of the table, and the old cards beside it, and Denny’s DENNY’S card, which had gone soft at the corners.

“Twenty-four,” he said. “Where did we leave Paul?”

“Five days,” said Amara. She had her phone against the apple bag. “‘After five days the high priest Ananias came down with some elders and a lawyer named Tertullus, and they laid out their case against Paul before the governor.’”

“The same Ananias,” said Denny.

“The same.”

“Verse two,” said Walt.

She read it quickly. Tertullus began by telling Felix that thanks to him they enjoyed great peace, and that reforms were coming to the nation through his foresight. He accepted all of it with gratitude, most excellent Felix, and he would not weary him, only a few words.

“He’s laying it on with a trowel,” said Denny.

“Which card?”

“That’s Text. It’s in the verses.” Denny tapped the blue pencil against his own fourth card. “But a man who butters you up that thick wants something, and that one’s mine.”

“Josephus doesn’t remember Felix’s years as quiet,” said Tomás, and he laid a pink card down.

“Five,” Walt said.

“‘For we have found this man a plague,’” Amara read, “‘one who stirs up riots among all the Jews throughout the world and a ringleader of the sect of the Nazarenes. He even tried to profane the temple, but we seized him.’” She stopped. “That’s where mine ends.”

“Mine keeps going,” said Tomás. “‘And would have judged him according to our law. But the chief captain Lysias came upon us, and with great violence took him away out of our hands, commanding his accusers to come unto thee.’”

“Some old copies carry that extra piece,” Walt said. “Whichever way you land, look at what it does.”

“It puts the blame on Lysias,” said Denny.

“It puts Lysias in the case,” said Amara. “And look what Felix says at the end. ‘When Lysias comes down, I’ll decide.’”

“Suggested,” said Tomás, and set down a green card. “It sets up verse twenty-two.”

“Name every charge anybody has brought against Paul since he started traveling,” said Walt. “Where did each one come from?”

“Philippi,” said Amara at once. “Sixteen twenty. ‘These men are Jews, and they are disturbing our city. They advocate customs that are not lawful for us as Romans to accept or practice.’”

“Thessalonica.” Tomás already had the book open. “‘These that have turned the world upside down are come hither also. And these all do contrary to the decrees of Caesar, saying that there is another king, one Jesus.’”

“Corinth,” said Denny. “‘This fellow persuades people to worship God contrary to the law.’”

“Ephesus doesn’t charge him with a crime,” said Amara. “Demetrius just says he’s ruining the trade and insulting Artemis.”

“And Jerusalem,” Denny said. “‘This is the man who teaches everyone everywhere against the people and the law and this place.’ And he brought Greeks into the temple.”

“Every one of them depends on who’s listening,” said Tomás. “In front of Romans it’s customs and Caesar’s decrees. In front of Jews, it’s the law and the temple.”

“And now,” said Walt.

“Now all three at once,” said Amara, “in front of a Roman. Sedition. The sect. The temple.”

“Where does it end up?” Walt said.

They looked at each other.

“Look ahead,” said Walt.

Tomás went to chapter twenty-five. It took him a minute. “Verse eight. Paul’s answering Festus. ‘Neither against the law of the Jews, neither against the temple, nor yet against Caesar, have I offended any thing at all.’”

“Law, temple, Caesar,” said Denny.

“And eleven,” said Tomás, more slowly. “‘No man may deliver me unto them. I appeal unto Caesar.’”

“That’s the three charges from this chapter,” said Amara. “He’s answering them one at a time.”

“Text,” said Tomás, and set down a yellow card. “Twenty-five eight.”

“So this is where the road to Rome starts,” said Walt.

“Three charges and a boat,” said Denny.

“Ten,” Walt said.

Amara had her finger still pressed into the page, and she read without looking up. “‘I am standing before Caesar’s tribunal, where I ought to be tried. To the Jews I have done no wrong, as you yourself know very well.’”

“That’s the wrong ten,” said Tomás.

She stopped. “I’m in twenty-five.”

“Welcome back,” said Denny.

“I was following you, and nobody said turn back.”

“Back to twenty-four,” said Walt, with a teacher’s patience, and waited while she found it. “Ten.”

Amara read it fast this time, her thumb on the line. Paul answered respectfully. He had been in Jerusalem only twelve days. They had not found him disputing with anyone in the temple, stirring up a crowd, or in the synagogues or the city. They could not prove what they now charged. He confessed that according to the Way, which they called a sect, he served the God of his fathers, believing everything in the Law and the Prophets. He had the same hope in God that they themselves held, that there would be a resurrection of both the just and the unjust.

“Their word for it is a sect,” said Tomás. “His is the Way. It’s the same word, isn’t it, in both places?”

“Sect,” Amara said, scrolling. “Heresy, in the old translations. Yes. Same word.”

“He takes their word and hands it back changed.”

“Seventeen,” said Walt.

“‘After some years I came to bring alms to my nation and offerings.’” Amara stopped. “Alms.”

“What?” said Denny.

“It’s on my napkin.” She pulled a folded paper napkin out of her Bible. It was the one from the week they had argued over pay. “Romans fifteen, twenty-five through twenty-seven. Helping believers in need. ‘Alms to my nation.’ Is that the money?”

“Luke never says,” said Tomás.

“Is there anywhere else in Acts where he mentions it?”

They checked. It took a long time. Nobody found one.

“Not that I can find,” said Amara.

“Suggested,” said Walt. “Careful with it. But hold it.”

“Twenty,” said Denny. “The council part. ‘Or else let these same here say if they found any wrongdoing in me while I stood before the council.’ And twenty-one. ‘Unless it is this one thing that I cried out while standing among them, Concerning the resurrection of the dead I am on trial before you this day.’”

“That’s twenty-three six,” said Amara. “He’s quoting himself.”

“Same sentence in front of a Roman,” said Tomás.

“And the Asian Jews who started it all,” Amara said. “‘They ought to be here before you.’”

“Where are they?” said Walt.

“Not in the chapter.”

“Twenty-two.”

Tomás read it. “‘And when Felix heard these things, having more perfect knowledge of that way, he deferred them, and said, When Lysias the chief captain shall come down, I will know the uttermost of your matter.’”

“More perfect,” said Amara. “Mine says ‘rather accurate.’”

“Mine’s more perfect,” said Tomás. “I’ve seen it before.” He turned back through the book, one finger running down the margins. “Eighteen twenty-six. Priscilla and Aquila ‘expounded unto him the way of God more perfectly.’”

“Apollos,” said Denny.

“And twenty-three fifteen. The plotters tell the priests to ask for Paul ‘as though ye would enquire something more perfectly concerning him.’ And twenty. The nephew says the same.”

“So that’s four times,” said Amara, writing. “Mine says ‘more accurately,’ ‘more thoroughly,’ ‘more thoroughly,’ and ‘rather accurate.’ I’d never have caught it.”

“They’re all one word in the old book,” Tomás said.

“Which card?”

“I’d say Suggested, until somebody checks the Greek.”

“Who in this chapter actually knows more?” said Walt.

“Felix,” Denny said slowly. “Everybody else is pretending. The plotters are faking it. Priscilla and Aquila actually do it. And Felix has the knowledge and does nothing.”

“Walt,” said Amara. “Is that a thing? The word?”

“Go and look at how Luke begins his Gospel,” said Walt. “The third verse.”

“Later,” said Tomás, writing it down.

“How did Felix know?” said Walt.

“Luke doesn’t say,” said Amara.

“Drusilla’s the usual answer,” Tomás said. “He brings her in at verse twenty-four. A Jewish wife.”

“She’s introduced after,” said Denny. “So she can’t be the explanation in the text.”

“Suggested,” said Tomás, and set a green card down. “It’s a good guess. It’s a guess.”

“Where’s he sitting?” said Walt.

“Caesarea.”

“And who else lives in Caesarea?”

Amara stopped. “Philip,” she said. “Twenty-one eight and nine. The evangelist, with the four daughters.”

“And Cornelius,” said Tomás. “A centurion. Chapter ten. His whole household.”

“A Roman centurion in the governor’s own city,” said Denny, “who became a believer. That’s close.”

“Suggested,” said Walt. “But I like it.”

“Twenty-three,” said Amara. “‘And he commanded a centurion to keep Paul, and to let him have liberty, and not to forbid any of his friends to minister to him or come to him.’”

“That sounds like nothing,” said Denny. “Today he’d get meals.”

“Three meals and a bunk,” said Amara. “At the hospital, we’d say that goes without saying.”

“What does the verse give us?” said Walt.

“Liberty,” said Tomás. “And friends allowed to come and serve him.”

“Why would that need to be said?” Walt asked.

They did not answer right away.

“If nobody brought food,” Amara said slowly, “he’d go hungry.”

“That’s what some historians say,” said Tomás, laying a pink card. “That ancient prisons didn’t feed anyone. Friends and family brought food, clothing, whatever medicine there was. It’s Outside, so I’d hold it loosely.”

“If it’s true, that’s a lot of weight on one clause,” said Denny.

“It’s a lot of weight on one clause either way,” said Walt.

“Who are the friends?” said Amara.

“Philip and his household,” Denny said.

“Believers in Caesarea,” said Tomás.

“What about Luke?” Amara said. “The ‘we’ stops in Jerusalem. We don’t hear it again until the ship in twenty-seven.”

“So where’s Luke for two years?” said Denny.

“Luke doesn’t say,” said Walt.

“A man who wanted to write a careful account,” said Tomás, quietly, “could do worse than two years in Caesarea with the people who knew the stories.”

“Suggested,” said Amara, and the green card went down.

“Twenty-four,” said Walt.

Amara read it. “‘And after certain days, when Felix came with his wife Drusilla, who was Jewish, he sent for Paul and heard him concerning the faith in Christ.’”

“Concerning the faith in Christ Jesus,” Tomás read.

“What does Paul talk about?” said Walt.

“Twenty-five.” Amara’s finger ran along the line. “‘As he reasoned of righteousness, self-control, and the coming judgment, Felix was alarmed and said, Go away for now. When I have an opportunity I will call for you.’”

“Alarmed,” said Denny. “Mine says terrified.”

“Mine says ‘trembled,’” said Tomás.

“He’s afraid,” said Amara.

“Why those three things?” said Walt. “To that man?”

“Because he needed to hear them?” said Denny.

“That’s your fourth card.”

“Fine. Mine.”

“There’s something,” Amara said, and picked up her phone. “Josephus says Felix talked Drusilla into leaving her first husband so he could marry her.”

“Outside,” Tomás said, and laid down a pink one.

“I wouldn’t build on it,” said Walt.

“Twenty-six,” said Denny. “Here it comes. ‘He hoped also that money should have been given him of Paul, that he might loose him: wherefore he sent for him the oftener, and communed with him.’ Wherefore.”

“Therefore,” said Amara. “Mine says ‘therefore.’ It’s a hinge.”

“It’s a vague one,” said Tomás.

“Look at what’s on both sides,” said Walt.

“On one side he trembles and sends Paul away,” said Amara. “On the other he sends for him more often because he wants the money.”

“So the shaking doesn’t stop him calling,” said Tomás.

“Why would he expect money from a man in chains?” said Walt.

Denny sat up. “Seventeen. ‘I came to bring alms to my nation.’”

“The money,” said Amara.

“Felix is sitting right there. A man stands up and says I came to Jerusalem with a pile of cash for the poor. And the governor, who is not known for turning down a pile of cash, writes that down.”

“Suggested,” said Walt, and Tomás laid the green card on the stack, then looked at it with an odd expression.

“What?” said Denny.

“That one’s a good guess,” Tomás said. “I wish it were in the text.”

“There’s an old line about Felix,” said Amara. She scrolled. “Tacitus. He ‘exercised the power of a king with the spirit of a slave.’”

“Outside,” said Tomás.

“A man who came up from nothing,” said Denny. “Gets the keys to the whole building and thinks the building’s his.”

“That’s Denny’s,” said Walt, mildly.

“That’s Denny’s,” Denny agreed. He did not sound sorry.

“What does Luke give us about Felix?” Walt asked. “Just the text.”

Amara counted on her fingers. “He hears Paul. He’s afraid. He puts him off. He hopes for money. He keeps calling him back.”

“And never decides,” said Tomás.

“Twenty-seven,” said Walt.

“‘But after two years Porcius Festus succeeded Felix; and Felix, wanting to do the Jews a favor, left Paul in prison.’” Amara looked up. “Two years. In a clause.”

“Like nineteen,” said Denny. “Two years in two sentences.”

“Luke never says what Paul did in that time,” said Tomás.

“Did he write anything?” said Amara. “Paul. Letters.”

“The prison letters,” said Tomás. “Ephesians, Philippians, Colossians, Philemon. Most scholars put those in Rome. A few argue for Caesarea.”

“Outside,” said Amara, and slid a pink card across.

“Acts says nothing either way,” said Walt.

“Why a favor to the Jews?” said Denny.

“Luke gives us the motive and nothing else,” said Amara. “He was leaving office. He wanted to leave on good terms.”

“Josephus says something happened in Caesarea near the end of his time there,” said Tomás. “A clash between Jews and Syrians. Felix sent soldiers. People complained to Rome.”

“Outside,” said Walt. “Close enough to the verse that I’d say it’s worth knowing. I wouldn’t lean on it.”

“Did Lysias ever come down?” said Amara.

Nobody moved.

“Twenty-two said he would,” said Amara. “Felix says when Lysias comes down, I’ll decide.”

They went through the verses. They went through the end of the chapter and the first lines of twenty-five.

“Luke doesn’t say,” said Tomás.

“Two years,” Denny said. “And no Lysias.”

“A man promises to decide when the witness arrives,” said Amara, “and the witness never does.”

“Which card?”

“Text,” said Amara. “It’s what’s missing.”

“If Felix had acquitted him,” said Walt.

“Festus never gets the case,” Tomás said.

“And no appeal.”

“Suggested,” said Denny. “He leaves him bound, and the Lord’s promise stays on schedule.” He frowned at that. “I don’t love it when it comes out that tidy.”

“It’s tidy because the Lord said Rome,” said Walt. “And Luke hasn’t told us how.”

Nobody spoke. The apples sat in their bag on the table, and the wind moved in the dead leaves against the fence.

“Is it a cliffhanger?” said Walt. “The end of twenty-four?”

“No,” said Amara, immediately. “It’s the best place to cut in the whole run. A governor leaves, a governor arrives. Two years go by in between.”

“Honest break,” said Denny.

“That’s two,” said Tomás.

“What does Felix do with what he knew?” Walt asked.

“He hears Paul,” said Amara. “He trembles. He puts it off.”

“He kept calling him back,” said Tomás. “He couldn’t stop listening.”

“Or he couldn’t stop hoping for the money,” said Denny.

“Luke gives us both,” said Walt. “He doesn’t tell us the ratio.”

Amara folded the napkin back into her Bible. Tomás tucked the colored cards into the sandwich bag, and pressed the seal shut with his thumb. Denny stood, picked up his coat, and paused with it half on.

“Convenient season,” he said. “That’s the whole chapter.”

“Hold onto those two words,” said Walt. “Bring a pencil.”