THE CHARACTER OF PAUL by J. T. Headley

Publishing Committee · Battle Creek, Mich. · Jan 22, 1857

THE CHARACTER OF PAUL.

By J. T. Headley

PAUL, in his natural character before his conversion, resembles Bonapart more than any other man—I mean both in his intellectual developments and energy of will. He had the same inflexibility of purpose, the same utter indifference, when he had once determined on his course; the same tireless, unconquering resolution—the same fearlessness both of man's power and opinion, and that calm self-reliance and mysterious control over others. But the point of greatest resemblance is the union of strong, and correct judgment, with rapidity of thought and sudden impulse. They thought quicker, yet better than other men. The power, too, which both possessed, was all practical power. There are many men of strong minds, whose forces nevertheless, are in reflection, or in theories to act upon. Thought may work out into language, but not into action. They will plan better than they can perform. But these men not only thought better, but they could work better than all other men.

The same self-control and perfect subjection of his emotions—even terror itself—to the mandates of his will, are exhibited in his conduct when smitten to the earth, and blinded by the light and voice from heaven. John, when arrested by the same voice on the Isle of Patmos, fell on his face as a dead man, and dared not speak or stir, till encouraged by the language—"Fear not." But Paul (or Saul,) although a persecutor and a violent man, showed no symptoms of alarm or terror. The voice, the blow, the light, the glory, the darkness that followed, were sufficient to upset the strongest mind; but master of himself and his emotions, instead of giving way to exclamations of terror he simply said—"Lord, what wilt thou have me to do?" With his reason and judgment as steady and strong as ever, he knew at once that something was wanted of him, and ever ready to act, he asked what it was.

From this time his track can be distinguished by the commotions about it, and the light above it. Straight back to Jerusalem, from whence he had so recently come with letters to legalize his persecutions, he went to cast his lot with those he had followed with violence and slaughter. His strong heart never beat one quicker pulsation through fear, as the lofty turrets of the proud city flashed upon his vision. Neither did he steal away to the dark alleys and streets, where the disciples were concealed, and tell them secretly his faith in the Son of God. He strode into the synagogues, and before the astonished priests, preached Christ and him crucified. He thundered at the door of the Sanhedrim itself, and shaking Jerusalem like an earthquake, awoke a tempest of rage and fury on himself. With assassins dogging his footsteps he at length left the city. But, instead of going to places where, he was unknown, and where his feelings would be less tried, he started for his native city, his father's house, the home of his boyhood, for his kindred friends. To entreaties, tears, scorn, and violence, he was alike impervious. To Antioch and Cyprus, along the coasts of Syria and Rome, over the known world he went like a blazing comet, waking up the nations of the earth. From the top of Mar's Hill, with the gorgeous city at his feet, and the Acropolis and Parthenon behind him, on the deck of his shattered vessel, in the interval of the crash of billows, in the gloomy walls of a prison, on the borders of the eternal kingdom, he speaks in the same calm and determined tone. Deterred by no danger, awed by no presence, and shrinking from no responsibility, he moves before us like some grand embodiment of power. The nations heave around him, and kings turn pale in his presence. Bands of conspirators swear never to drink till they have slain him, and people stone him; yet over the din of the conflict and the storm of violence, his voice of eloquence rises as clear and distinct as a trumpet call, as he still preached Christ and him crucified. The whip is laid on his back till blood starts with every blow, and then his mangled body is thrown into a dungeon; but at midnight you hear that same calm, strong voice which has shaken the world, poured forth in a hymn of praise to God, and lo! an earthquake shakes the prison to its foundations, the manacles fall from the hands of the captives, the bolts withdraw themselves, and the massive doors swing back on their hinges.

One cannot point a single spot in his career where he faltered a moment, or gave way to discouragement or fear. Through all his perilous life, he exhibited the same intrepidity of character and lofty spirit. With his eye fixed on regions beyond the ken of ordinary mortals, and kindling on glories it was not permitted to reveal, he pressed forward to an incorruptible crown, a fadeless kingdom. And then his death, how indescribably sublime! Napoleon dying in the midnight storm, with the last words that fell from his lips a battle cry, and his passing spirit watching in its delirium the torn heads of his mighty columns, as they disappeared in the smoke of the conflict, is a sight that awes and startles us. But behold Paul, also a war worn veteran, battered with many a scar, though in a spiritual warfare, looking back, not with alarm, but with transport, gazing not on earth but heaven. Hear his calm, serene voice ringing over the storms and commotions of life: "I am now ready to be offered, and the time of my departure is at hand, I have fought the good fight, I have finished my course—there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness."