The choir is singing the Trisagion: "Holy God, Holy Mighty, Holy Immortal…" In a moment the reader will come forth, holding the Epistle high above his head. The priest will proclaim, "Wisdom! Let us attend!" and I will hear the words of my beloved apostle.
Then, quietly and without ceremony, it will seem that an ordinary man has entered the church: a staff in his hand, a kindly smile on his face.
A diplomat, a philosopher, a mystic. He preached without ceasing; he healed bodies and souls; he persuaded, admonished, gave thanks, gave hope, and called people to repentance. For the sake of the Gospel he spared himself nothing: he crossed seas, climbed mountain roads, slept where he could, endured persecution and imprisonment, and kept moving forward as long as he had strength.
Much has been said about him – by those who love and honour him, and even by those who have never understood him. This man is the Apostle Paul.
St Paul speaks with great clarity and simplicity, yet when his words are read aloud in church, their meaning is not always easy to take in at once. They are like hymns. The "hymn to love" in the First Epistle to the Corinthians is like that: so simple to read, and so hard to live.
There are those who find the Apostle Paul difficult. One need only recall his warning: "Let not him who eats despise him who does not eat," or his counsel that women adorn themselves "not with braided hair or gold or pearls or costly clothing," but "with good works."
He wakes those who sleep. He unsettles the passive and the self-satisfied. He desires only two things: that all should belong to Christ as wholly as he himself belongs to Him, and that he might have "a desire to depart and be with Christ, which is far better." Though he had never seen the Messiah in the flesh, he believed with all his heart that "our citizenship is in heaven," with God and with His Son, Jesus Christ.
He entrusted himself so completely to the Saviour that he could help others find their own way to Him. For every true Christian there comes, sooner or later, a moment of awakening. After that, the flower of faith slowly begins to open, releasing its fragrance and startling the soul with its fresh, bright beauty.
Why is St Paul especially dear to me? I first met him in his powerful epistles to the Corinthians. At exactly the right moment in my life, those letters seemed to be addressed to me. They answered hidden questions, showed the way, strengthened me, and warned me. It would have been impossible – and, in the end, ungrateful – not to love the man who had spoken to me in this way.
I want to learn to trust God as he did. I return to his epistles as one returns to a beloved book whose author at times seems closer than family. Among the holy books, his letters touch me in an intensely personal way.
I have seen him in Rembrandt’s paintings. My favourite is the one in which the Apostle Paul is shown in prison. I could not take my eyes off the thoughtful face of this man who had become so close to me: his posture, his bare foot, his inward stillness.
Modern scholars have attempted to reconstruct the saint’s appearance from relics attributed to him, and the result is nothing like the white-haired elder of Rembrandt’s famous canvases. But that hardly matters. An artist always paints something of himself.
How I would love to walk the roads where the Apostle Paul once walked, to touch the stones on which he preached the Gospel of the Kingdom – and to feel him walking beside me, now and always. I have not visited the cities where he preached. But I met him once in another place: in London.
It was an unusually warm July day for England. We had come to the capital to see the sights. Among the places marked on our route – Piccadilly Circus, the Houses of Parliament, Big Ben – the place my heart most longed to see was St Paul’s Cathedral.
By midday we had reached the square beside the cathedral. The heat, the glaring sun, the ceaseless flow of cars and pedestrians, and our own eager curiosity about this unfamiliar place soon left us tired. We decided to stop, rest, and have something to eat.
We sat beneath the spreading trees, surrounded by people hurrying along the paths and by fearless squirrels darting past our feet. Young women sat on the stone steps by a side entrance to the cathedral, tapping at their mobile phones and talking. Some people read books; some lay down to rest in the shade; others sat opposite the cathedral, headphones on, sketching its outline.
And in my mind I saw ancient Rome and my beloved apostle. I imagined myself among his listeners, drinking in his words, burning with faith and love.
What would the Apostle Paul say to people today? What good news would he proclaim in this prosperous and comfortable city, where the language of rights can so easily become a creed of its own? How would he reach hearts dulled by politics, nationalism, self-interest, and passion?
I believe the great apostle to the Gentiles would find the words. He would speak as he always spoke: with fire, with tears, with authority, and with love. And hearts would be set aflame.
Indeed, he is doing it still.
By Olga Alexandrova
