Chapter 1
We don't know who trudged along the dusty track — joining caravans of merchants, government officials, scholars and soldiers — heading towards the crossroads of the world with the news that all was not well in Galatia.
But somebody did.
Somebody carried the letter, or came with the urgent message. Somewhere between the late 40s and early 50s AD, things had gone wrong in Galatia — wrong enough for people to take action and set off. The authorities had to be told what was happening. All was not well in Galatia.
Their destination was Antioch, the bustling, cosmopolitan city. Syrian Antioch (not to be confused with the much smaller Pisidian Antioch) was the place where many cultures met. Down its narrow streets you might spy traders from the Silk Road, businessmen from the Black Sea, or scholars from Alexandria. There were Romans and Greeks, and the recalcitrant Jews. It had all the sights and smells of an exotic, happening trading city. Antioch was the commercial heart of the whole area — the power centre of the region, where the Governor of Syria made his home. A merging of cultures and finance, it was also where the emerging faith of Christianity had taken off.
When Christianity began in the city of Jerusalem, the Jewish authorities stamped on it like someone stamping out a fire, hoping to finish it then and there.
I once wanted to light a fire. I was about ten years old and really wanted to watch a tiny section of the bush burn. It was one of those impulsive urges that come over ten-year-old boys, where the desire for glory banishes every inhibiting thought — especially the thought of informing my parents, which I deemed a particularly unnecessary task. The spot was near our home, and if things got out of control I reasoned my parents would be close enough to help. With my younger brother's help, I gathered some twigs and cleared an area to make sure the fire wouldn't spread — my token of respect for the combustible nature of Australian foliage. I remember informing my brother, in lordly tones, how careful we must be that it didn't get out of control. I lit a match, but the wind blew it out. I lit a second, but the wind blew that out too. This time my brother cupped his hands over the flame. A leaf caught. We cheered with joy. The whole thing was alight — and then it took off. We stopped cheering. It became way too big, way too fast. We had released the Kraken.
"Quick!" I cried, and stamped on the fire. Stamping it again and again. Embers and sparks flew into the air and landed in other parts of the bush. Now there were multiple fires all around us.
This is what happened when the authorities persecuted the fledgling church in Jerusalem. The embers and sparks from the stamping flew far and wide. Far from putting the fire out, the persecutors helped it spread. Thanks to them, fires of faith were starting all over the ancient world. The believers were scattered — first "throughout Judea and Samaria" (Acts 8:1), and then, as the persecution drove them further, as far as "Phoenicia, Cyprus, and Antioch" (Acts 11:19). And the spark that started a veritable bonfire landed on Antioch:
The hand of the Lord was with them, and a great number of people believed and turned to the Lord. (Acts 11:21)
News of this explosion of faith in Antioch reached the church in Jerusalem. Surely someone had to oversee it. But Antioch was so far away (734 km), and there was no Apostle in residence — no authority figure, no leader for "the Way," as the new faith was called. The Apostles in Jerusalem wisely decided to send a representative post-haste. They sent a man named Barnabas to oversee this phenomenon. It was an inspired choice. He was perfect for the situation. The name Barnabas means "son of encouragement," and he lived up to it. The man could see what was happening:
When he arrived and saw the grace of God, he rejoiced and encouraged them all to abide in the Lord with all their hearts. (Acts 11:23)
Barnabas was the sort of fellow many church leaders could use as a model — one of the unsung heroes of Acts. A supreme team player, gracious and giving, he created opportunities for other people. The work grew and grew. He clearly needed help, and it is here that Barnabas revealed his gift for thinking outside the box. When he left Antioch to find that help, instead of going south to Jerusalem as you might expect — after all, most of the Apostles were still living there — he travelled north to look for an Apostle "abnormally born." It is no exaggeration to say that this decision, to go north instead of south, changed the direction of the world forever. Barnabas headed to the town of Tarsus to fetch the man he thought would be perfect for the job: a man named Saul, the once-persecutor of the church, now a convinced follower of "the Way."
Barnabas had first met Saul years earlier in Jerusalem, when the former persecutor was trying to meet other Christians. It must have been a lonely time for the convert, because no one believed that Saul — the young and dangerous hot-head — had actually become a believer. And who could blame them? Saul had been going from house to house in Jerusalem, dragging people out of their homes and throwing them in prison for following Christ. And now, all of a sudden, he was all good with the new faith? The early Christians were many things, but they were not naive.
Enter Barnabas — the first man in Jerusalem to believe that Saul was a true follower of Jesus and not a fake. He risked his life to make contact and present Saul to the church as the real McCoy. It was the beginning of an incredible friendship:
When Saul arrived in Jerusalem, he tried to join the disciples, but they were all afraid of him, not believing that he was a disciple. Then Barnabas brought him to the apostles and described how Saul had seen the Lord. (Acts 9:26–27)
It takes compassion, and trust in the Almighty, to do what Barnabas did — and it seems Saul never forgot it.
As for Saul's time in Jerusalem, he eventually became a target (it never took him long). His life was threatened, and "when the brothers learned of this, they took him down to Caesarea and sent him off to Tarsus" (Acts 9:30), his home town.
So years later, Barnabas knew where to begin his search — the city of Tarsus. Incredibly, he found him. We are not told how, or under what circumstances, though you might suspect that, given Saul's propensity for making waves (especially for himself), the Apostle to the Gentiles was not exactly hiding under a bushel. Find him he did, and he brought Saul back to Syria.
Saul and Barnabas, together in Antioch.
Boom.
Barnabas had chosen wisely. These were halcyon days, when the church grew and a great number of people were brought to the Lord. There were not only Barnabas and Saul, but Simeon called Niger, Lucius of Cyrene, and Manaen (who had been brought up with Herod the tetrarch) — prophets and teachers. Antioch was outstripping Jerusalem. It was here that the people of this faith were first called "Christians" (initially a nickname of derision). It was here that many non-Jewish believers were welcomed into the faith — much to the hand-wringing anxiety of the church in Jerusalem, who felt things were getting out of control. And it was here, in Antioch, that the church — under the guidance of the Holy Spirit — sent out Saul (who had changed his name to Paul) and Barnabas for the work they had been set apart for: the work we now know as Paul's first missionary journey.
And what a journey it was! Cyprus, Pisidian Antioch, Iconium, Lystra and Derbe were all on the itinerary.
But this was a preacher's tour where the opponents were armed and dangerous. Riots, stonings, beatings and persecutions were about to come. This was a serious trip, not for the faint-hearted. Companions like John Mark shot through — not back to Antioch, but to Jerusalem (where a man knew which way was up). Nevertheless, despite the uncertainty and the persecutions, people heard the Word, God opened their hearts, and Jews and non-Jews alike responded in faith. There were people who fully grasped Paul's message, thrilled by it and full of joy. It was life-changing. It was world-changing. And nowhere was this more vividly so than in the region of Galatia.
This first trip was followed by others, longer and more varied. But it seems the first was branded into Paul's memory. Years after leaving Antioch — years and years after that first trip, when he had endured many more experiences of persecution and suffering — he wrote to his beloved protégé, Timothy, from prison in Rome. We know the letter as "2 Timothy."
As he wrote it, Paul knew he was going to be executed under Nero. In this most moving and poignant of all his surviving letters, he reminds Timothy of the sufferings and persecutions he had endured in his life. And what example does he choose? The flogging in Philippi? The shipwreck on Malta? The riot in Ephesus? None of them gets a mention.
After all those years, he chose Galatia.
You, however, have observed my teaching, my conduct, my purpose, my faith, my patience, my love, my perseverance, my persecutions, and the sufferings that came upon me in Antioch, Iconium, and Lystra. What persecutions I endured! Yet the Lord rescued me from all of them. (2 Timothy 3:10–11)
The Antioch he means here is Pisidian Antioch — and Iconium and Lystra: that's Galatia country. A mountainous, forested, fertile region of Asia Minor, settled a few centuries earlier by people from Gaul (hence the name of the region). It was a secular, worldly place, full of pagan temple worship, worship of the Emperor, and bizarre cults.
And it's not only Galatia country — it's Timothy's homeland. Young Timothy himself, the half-Greek, half-Jewish boy, came from Lystra. Perhaps as a boy he witnessed the arrival of Paul and Barnabas as they walked into town — strangers from far away, strangers with a new message. Maybe he saw the miracle of the cripple who got to his feet and started walking. Perhaps he saw the crowd, astonished by that miracle, mistake the two strangers for the Greek gods come down to earth and call them Zeus and Hermes. He may have seen Paul and Barnabas cry out in dismay when they learnt the crowd meant to offer sacrifices to them as deities, and heard their urgent, impassioned pleas to dissuade the people — in which they succeeded, but only just. Perhaps Timothy witnessed how a crowd can take on a life of its own. Maybe he saw the mood change. Perhaps he saw people arrive from Iconium (and Pisidian Antioch) and speak against Paul and Barnabas, poisoning the crowd against them. Maybe he saw the people turn from hero-worship to confusion, to annoyance, to rage — as if someone had called out, "If we can't sacrifice to them, then we'll make a sacrifice of them." Perhaps Timothy saw the crowd turn on them and stone Paul to death — or at least, they thought he was dead. Perhaps he followed at a cautious, safe distance as they dragged Paul's body out of the city. Did Timothy stay to see Paul's bruised body get up, walk back into the city, and leave the next day?
If he didn't, I'll wager his mother did. You can read about it in Acts 14.
No wonder Paul says to Timothy: you know the persecutions I endured. They were seared into the young man's memory. These are the sort of astonishing events by which people gauge their lives.
So Paul and Barnabas finished their journey by sailing back to Antioch. They gathered the church together — one church meeting that people would remember forever. They reported all that God had done through them, and how He had opened a door of faith to the Gentiles. This new faith was spilling over everywhere. Non-Jews were believing all over the place: in Caesarea, in Antioch, in Cyprus, and now in Galatia. Paul and Barnabas's trip to Galatia had been earth-shattering.
Imagine, then, how Paul felt when he heard the breathless news that all was not well in Galatia. Trouble was brewing. After all the work he had done there, after all the suffering, after all the blessings God had poured out, after seeing Galatian lives transformed — here was news that it might all be undone.
"What?" you can almost hear him cry in distress. "How?"
The messengers had come to say all was in turmoil. Paul's message was being undermined. Paul himself was being undermined — and the Galatians, he was told, might be buying into it. After all, Paul's message was very radical. Perhaps too radical. Perhaps too good to be true.
But how had it come about? Was it some Jewish Christians who were wrestling with doubts of their own — those who struggled with the idea of non-Jewish people becoming part of God's family?
For centuries the Jews had been taught that they were a chosen people, a special people, God's people, called to be a blessing to the rest of the world. But would the blessing really come this way? Through this faith? Surely — surely — to become part of God's people in Christ, you had to follow the laws and traditions of God's people. You had to keep the Jewish calendar, with its special feasts and festivals. How could you not celebrate the Passover? And as for circumcision — the very sign that you belonged to God's family — well, to suggest it wasn't important for salvation was crazy.
Or did the trouble come from Paul's outright opponents? Not Jewish Christians merely troubled by his teaching, but those who said it was flat-out wrong — not the perplexed, but the passionate, who claimed they had corrected the faulty teaching Paul had brought. Some of what Paul taught was fine, they might have said, but much of it was way off the mark, taking things too far — way too far. These opponents told the Galatians that Paul was not really an Apostle, not like Peter or James. ("Now Peter and James," one can imagine them saying, "they are apostles. They were with Jesus for three years! They saw the risen Christ!") They said Paul lacked proper authority. He was no "pillar of the church." He had taken the message from them, they claimed, and watered it down to make it sound easier and more attractive for the Gentile dogs.
We don't know for sure.
But what we do know is that when Paul heard the news, he was astonished and distressed. Calling his scribe, he dictated a letter to the churches in Galatia — perhaps the most visceral and urgent of all his letters. No, all was not well in Galatia, and it needed addressing urgently. The passion can still be felt by readers two thousand years later:
I am amazed how quickly you are deserting the One who called you by the grace of Christ… (Galatians 1:6)
O foolish Galatians! Who has bewitched you? (Galatians 3:1)
Tell me, you who want to be under the law… (Galatians 4:21)
As for those who are agitating you, I wish they would proceed to emasculate themselves! (Galatians 5:12)
Did Paul know he was writing a classic? A letter that would be read and re-read, dissected, analysed, reviewed — a letter in which every word would be lifted out, weighed carefully, and set back again by scholars and ploughboys alike, year after year, for thousands of years? A letter so revolutionary in its contents that it transformed societies, uprooted kingdoms, and sparked protests, uprisings and reformations? A letter read not only by its first recipients, but by millions and millions of people ever since, in all sorts of circumstances — by kings and queens, by merchants and tradesmen and housewives, by factory workers, fishermen, diplomats and soldiers. And in this present age, by people in China and Nigeria, Greenland and Paraguay; people in the highlands of New Guinea and the basements of New Jersey. Somebody, at this very moment, is reading Paul's letter to the Galatians.
That is not to say everybody loves it. Many have hated it. Right from the start, Paul had opponents who violently disagreed with him — it's what drove him to grab his scribe in the first place. From the beginning, some viewed his message as so offensive it deserved death. Their reaction came from the depths of their souls. They were willing to beat, whip, stone, imprison and murder anyone who held to it.
Maybe his opponents saw something others didn't. Maybe they saw the threat this message held for them — and they were right to see it. This letter, along with Paul's others, has been the most influential correspondence in the history of the world. There has never been anything like it.
But was Paul aware that the words he was dictating were for the ages? Certainly he knew his message was for everyone, for every era — his proclamation was universal and timeless. But I don't think that, on that particular occasion, as he rebuked the churches in Galatia, he imagined this letter would outlast history and change so many lives down through the centuries.
I've seen people in Bible studies scratch their heads or rub their faces in frustration over this letter, wishing it were clearer — as if hoping for a PowerPoint presentation and diagrams. Sometimes people sneer, "Typical Paul — such a bad communicator. He has trouble making things understandable." (Such people never consider that the problem might not be with the Apostle.) Was Paul being obtuse? Was he a bad communicator? Did he need lessons from a gifted writer? Would he have been asked to give a TED talk?
I believe that, to the original recipients, Paul was only too clear. As his letter was read aloud to the various churches in Galatia, I believe they understood it immediately — and were cut to the heart. It was written at a particular time, for particular people, in a particular situation. The underlying message is universal and timeless, but the letter was not dictated for twenty-first-century readers. Our knowledge of the Old Testament stories is often scanty; our grasp of words translated as "justified," and of terms like "works of the law," is scantier still. That is part of what causes the frustration. Background information can help, and it does aid understanding — but, and I have to stress this, it is not essential. That is what is remarkable about this letter: it was written in antiquity, yet its message still speaks to people in the twenty-first century, resonating in their inner being simply by being read.
Having said that, there are, I think, two things that are critical if this letter is to speak. The first is an open mind, humble enough to consider what Paul is saying. The second — and I say this to everyone, including those who find belief in God difficult — is prayer. Pray that the Almighty might open your eyes to see what all the fuss is about: why Paul was stoned almost to death, flogged, beaten and imprisoned; why he seemed to cause a riot wherever he went. Pray to see what this message means for you. Pray that this liberating message — the one that strikes both joy and outrage in people — might thrill you as much as it thrilled Paul. The core ideas of Galatians are universal, uprooting, wonderful, thrilling, and gloriously life-changing.