I had never seen a man so driven by hatred—and I lived in Jerusalem, where hate was practically a language.
I was a young apprentice to an older Pharisee. We spent our days studying Torah, debating law, and whispering nervously about these “followers of the Way”—the ones who claimed Jesus of Nazareth, the crucified blasphemer, had risen from the dead.
Then Saul showed up.
He wasn’t just any Pharisee. He was smart, fierce, and terrifying. An ambitious student of Gamaliel himself—the most respected teacher we had. But Saul didn’t come to debate. He came with letters from the high priest, and soldiers at his side.
He came to end the Way forever.
I followed him. Not because I agreed with him—but because I was curious. I wanted to understand how someone could be so certain he was right, that he’d risk everything to arrest poor fishermen and wandering widows.
So when Saul left for Damascus, I went too. Walking behind the caravan, pretending to be no one.
Three days into the journey, under the heat of a noon sun, it happened.
It wasn’t thunder or flashing clouds. It wasn’t fire or earthquake. It was… light.
A blinding, bursting light so bright it knocked every man flat. We covered our eyes, but that didn’t matter. This light burned through closed lids. It burned into our bones.
“Saul, Saul…”
Every hair on my body stood up. The voice wasn’t angry. That shocked me most. It was calm. Deep. Clear. Full of sorrow.
“Why do you persecute Me?”
Saul was frozen. His mouth opened, but the voice continued.
“I am Jesus… whom you are persecuting.”
The silence after that felt like falling into a canyon.
When Saul finally opened his eyes, he saw nothing.
He was blind.
That fierce, brilliant man stumbled in the dust like a lost child. I watched soldiers—Roman soldiers—touch his shoulders gently and lead him by the hand. That’s how we entered Damascus. No arrests. No vengeance. Just a humbled man with no sight, no direction, and—if I had to guess—no idea who he was anymore.
For three days, Saul didn’t eat or drink. He sat in the house of a man named Judas, praying. That’s what I heard, anyway. I waited outside. All day. All night. I couldn’t leave. Something was happening, and I couldn’t miss it.
Then one afternoon, a new man arrived.
His name was Ananias—a follower of Jesus. Rumor was, he didn’t even want to come. He was terrified. But he said the Lord had spoken directly to him. Told him to lay hands on Saul. To heal him.
I thought, He’s going to die. This is some trick.
But it wasn’t.
I peaked in through the courtyard window. Ananias placed his hands on Saul’s shoulders. I expected shouting. Instead, he whispered:
“Brother Saul, the Lord Jesus, who appeared to you on the road, has sent me… so you may see again.”
That’s when it happened.
Something like scales—real, oily, curling things—fell from Saul’s eyes and hit the stone floor. He blinked. Then blinked again.
And he wept.
Saul! Weeping!
Then he stood up. Unsteady. Still trembling. But something had changed.
He wasn’t Saul the hunter anymore.
A few days later, he began preaching. I heard him with my own ears, standing in a synagogue, saying Jesus was the Son of God. Loud and clear. The same voice that once called us liars now told us the truth.
No one could believe it. But I had seen it with my own eyes.
The miracle wasn’t just the light. It wasn’t even the healing.
The miracle was the change.
That God could take a man full of violence… and fill him with mercy.
That day, I stopped following Saul.
I started following the one who had changed him.
Because if Jesus could turn Saul into Paul… maybe He could change anyone.
Even me.
I had never seen a man so driven by hatred—and I lived in Jerusalem, where hate was practically a language.
I was a young apprentice to an older Pharisee. We spent our days studying Torah, debating law, and whispering nervously about these “followers of the Way”—the ones who claimed Jesus of Nazareth, the crucified blasphemer, had risen from the dead.
Then Saul showed up.
He wasn’t just any Pharisee. He was smart, fierce, and terrifying. An ambitious student of Gamaliel himself—the most respected teacher we had. But Saul didn’t come to debate. He came with letters from the high priest, and soldiers at his side.
He came to end the Way forever.
I followed him. Not because I agreed with him—but because I was curious. I wanted to understand how someone could be so certain he was right, that he’d risk everything to arrest poor fishermen and wandering widows.
So when Saul left for Damascus, I went too. Walking behind the caravan, pretending to be no one.
Three days into the journey, under the heat of a noon sun, it happened.
It wasn’t thunder or flashing clouds. It wasn’t fire or earthquake. It was… light.
A blinding, bursting light so bright it knocked every man flat. We covered our eyes, but that didn’t matter. This light burned through closed lids. It burned into our bones.
“Saul, Saul…”
Every hair on my body stood up. The voice wasn’t angry. That shocked me most. It was calm. Deep. Clear. Full of sorrow.
“Why do you persecute Me?”
Saul was frozen. His mouth opened, but the voice continued.
“I am Jesus… whom you are persecuting.”
The silence after that felt like falling into a canyon.
When Saul finally opened his eyes, he saw nothing.
He was blind.
That fierce, brilliant man stumbled in the dust like a lost child. I watched soldiers—Roman soldiers—touch his shoulders gently and lead him by the hand. That’s how we entered Damascus. No arrests. No vengeance. Just a humbled man with no sight, no direction, and—if I had to guess—no idea who he was anymore.
For three days, Saul didn’t eat or drink. He sat in the house of a man named Judas, praying. That’s what I heard, anyway. I waited outside. All day. All night. I couldn’t leave. Something was happening, and I couldn’t miss it.
Then one afternoon, a new man arrived.
His name was Ananias—a follower of Jesus. Rumor was, he didn’t even want to come. He was terrified. But he said the Lord had spoken directly to him. Told him to lay hands on Saul. To heal him.
I thought, He’s going to die. This is some trick.
But it wasn’t.
I peaked in through the courtyard window. Ananias placed his hands on Saul’s shoulders. I expected shouting. Instead, he whispered:
“Brother Saul, the Lord Jesus, who appeared to you on the road, has sent me… so you may see again.”
That’s when it happened.
Something like scales—real, oily, curling things—fell from Saul’s eyes and hit the stone floor. He blinked. Then blinked again.
And he wept.
Saul! Weeping!
Then he stood up. Unsteady. Still trembling. But something had changed.
He wasn’t Saul the hunter anymore.
A few days later, he began preaching. I heard him with my own ears, standing in a synagogue, saying Jesus was the Son of God. Loud and clear. The same voice that once called us liars now told us the truth.
No one could believe it. But I had seen it with my own eyes.
The miracle wasn’t just the light. It wasn’t even the healing.
The miracle was the change.
That God could take a man full of violence… and fill him with mercy.
That day, I stopped following Saul.
I started following the one who had changed him.
Because if Jesus could turn Saul into Paul… maybe He could change anyone.
Even me.
