Book Two: A Feast of Weeks

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A Feast of Weeks: Priscilla’s Pentecost represents a unique blend of historical fiction and educational non-fiction. Presented as a personal memoir, this second book of the Passover Trilogy provides an insightful perspective on the role of Pentecost (or in Hebrew, Shavu’ot) in the early days of the Messianic faith.

Many themes and biblical-historical references abound in A Feast of Weeks. As a fictional autobiography of the New Testament character of Priscilla (husband of Aquila and ministry companion of Paul), the story confronts many personal challenges that the reader may understand: infertility, division, false teaching, social strife and global tragedy.  

As the story follows the “Count of the Omer” (a Jewish practice which is mirrored in the fifty days between the Christian feasts of Easter and Pentecost), Priscilla finds joy in celebrating the Passover, visiting family in Capernaum, learning from her mentor John, and worshipping with her fellow believers in Ephesus. She also endures the tremendous challenges of grieving her brother-in-Messiah James, processing resentment in her marriage, fending off the infectious teachings of a popular heretic, and working against the clock to provide for hordes of earthquake survivors descending upon her home city. Ultimately, Priscilla and her companions are confronted with the threat of a congregation growing rapidly, but also splitting in two (a picture of the entire first century of the Faith.) Following the story is an enlightening non-fiction exploration of the biblical themes of Pentecost/Shavu’ot, and their contribution to the launch of the Messianic (Christian) faith. At the end, resources for further study and connection are provided.

Spoiler-Free Snippets from the Book

After dinner John and I had a long talk, and he told me about his conversation with James in the prison cell. He went into great detail about it, so I recorded as much as I could. Perhaps we can share the story with the church when we return to Ephesus.

We also prayed—a lot. It was very late when we parted, so I’m exhausted today. (As you can see, my penmanship is horrid right now.) John prayed in the Spirit during most of the first watch, and when he opened his eyes, he told me something shocking.

“Priscilla,” he said, and paused for a long time. “Something new is upon us. A new work of the Spirit.”

“I feel it too,” I replied. And I did feel it.

“He didn’t show me what it is. All I heard was ‘I am doing a new thing. Watch and see.’”

“Just watch?” I asked.

“And write. You, my sister—write what you witness.”

“You want me to do it?”

“God wants you to do it.”

I was stuck. I’ve done more than my share of writing, for a woman. But nothing like this. I had so many questions …

John remained still, his eyes closed. At length, he spoke again. “Today is the first day of the Counting of the Omer. These fifty days will be unlike any before them, culminating in a great wind of the Spirit. Open your eyes, Priscilla. See his work, and show it to the nations.”

 “Oh, John. I want to, but— ” My mind struggled for words. (Aquila could tell you how rare this is.) I fidgeted for a moment before finding myself again. “I mean to say—yes. I will. I’ll start in the morning.”

……………………………

When Hadassah and I were coming up, Abba always talked about the misfortune of a rabbi to have no sons. “If I’m not going to have any sons,” he announced defiantly, “I’ll teach my daughters like sons!” Actually I think he taught us harder than sons. After all, if a woman is going to get any respect as a religious thinker, she’s got to be able to outsmart the men by a long shot.

So Hadassah latched on to my recitation of James’ last Seder, and started asking impossible questions. Fortunately, that’s my favorite kind. “Did James bear false witness by agreeing to the Priests’ plea deal?” she demanded.

“Does every person deserve true witness?” I countered.

“Well, what kind of person deserves to be deceived?” she shot back. (You can tell you’re in a good debate when it’s nothing but questions back and forth.)

“What about the person whose very identity is false?” I proposed. Hadassah frowned at me, then smiled. That was my queue to press forward. “The Temple priesthood has become a Hellenistic charade—a puppet regime. As a result all priests are guilty of misrepresentation and collusion with pagan authorities. What true testimony can be given to a false judge?”

Hadassah smirked. “You still believe John the Baptizer was God’s true high priest, don’t you?”

“Don’t you?”

“Perhaps…” she said slowly. “Either way, there’s no doubt left about the identity of the ultimate High Priest—”

“—in the order of Melchizedek.”

“Yes!” We both laughed joyously, before remembering all the sleeping souls around us. I grabbed her ears and kissed her forehead. She rubbed my arms and flashed me her happiest smile.

Abba taught his daughters to find great joy in midrash, which would make us popular with rabbis if we were men. But we’re not, so we have to keep it to ourselves if we want to have any friends at all.

……………………………

“Hard labor you say!” Poseidon scoffed, in broken Greek. “I been a slave. As young man I been a slave. Was better than this!”  He swiped his knife through the air, in Briarus’ direction. Then he turned to address his co-conspirators. “You who been slaves—shall we be slaves again?”

“Never!” an invisible face in the group replied. John took a step forward, toward Poseidon. Bless Adonai, I thought. If anyone can calm him down, John can.

He took another step forward, then turned right to face the officers. “Captain Briarus!” he bellowed. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself!” We all gasped. John! What are you doing?

“These men have followed you tirelessly through savage waters to godforsaken harbors. They have wintered with you and warred with you. And you show your gratitude with brutal treatment like this?” Briarus’ jaw was on the deck. He blinked aggressively as if trying to wake from a nightmare. John walked toward the crew, but his eyes never left the captain’s.

“Can’t you see these men have spent their final ounce? No rest, no diversion, and nothing to eat but battle rations. I ask you, Captain! What else can you expect but mutiny? Shame on you!”

……………………………

“So what were you seeking here at the Agora?” he asked, changing the subject.

“Oh nothing, just some fabric for Seder tablecloths. The Second Passover is just a few days away, you know. Will you be joining us?” I asked him. He recoiled slightly, then covered his mouth with his right hand as if to stifle a guffaw.

“No, my dear Priscilla. I will not be there.” He collected himself, and paused to weigh his options. “It surprises me a bit that you see any value in that. But if this is how you exercise your freedom, who am I to disparage it?”

……………………………

“Surely you remember those earthquakes we’ve felt over the last two weeks,” Aquila said. I nodded slowly, and felt my heart beginning to seize up within me. “The first one was a massive quake throughout Macedonia and Achaea. Hundreds of cities are damaged.”

I clapped my hand over my mouth. “What about—”

“Yes,” John anticipated. “The church at Corinth. And Athens. And Thessalonica, Philippi, and Berea. But it gets worse.” I took a deep breath and Aquila resumed the news.

“The second tremor came from east of here, in Phrygia. Laodicea, Colossae, Hierapolis—Colossae is completely gone. There’s nothing left. Monstrous tidal waves have even destroyed much of Cyprus. It’s just— It’s absolutely beyond comprehension.”

……………………………

“Is he coming back, John?”

He laughed with a mixture of surprise and frustration—a laugh I know all too well. Hope and pain and grief and wonder and emptiness and love all wrapped up in a muddy cloak, wrung out, uncoiled and clapped against the wind. We are stained but cleansed. Soaked through but dry as a bone. Wrinkled and stretched and weary, but still intact.

At length, John replied. “See how the farmer waits for the precious fruit of the earth, being patient for it until it receives the former and latter rain. You also be patient. Strengthen your hearts because the coming of the Lord is near.”

I sighed. Oh, James. How we miss you.

John took a long, slow breath and returned his gaze to the Temple scene. “Yes, Priscilla, he is coming back.” Then he turned to look at me—to look through me—and his eyes were deeper than the ocean. “But tell me, dear lady. Did he ever really leave?”

……………………………

Aquila finished on a high note, and a time of boisterous worship followed. Brothers and sisters cried out to God together in thankfulness and petition, in repentance and forgiveness. Words of hope were shared with the hopeless, and hands of healing were laid on the sick. With friends laughing and strangers hugging all around us, our little home felt transformed into a festival dinner party, with the whole family invited and Jesus as the guest of honor.

Then I felt a grip on my shoulder. It was John. “Will you step outside with me?” he asked. I consented, and we walked through the courtyard gate and into the street. The sounds of prayer and singing hung above us, blessing the harbor breeze as it wafted by.

“I have some news for you, Priscilla.” Good news? Bad news? I couldn’t read John’s face at all.

“I must go to Rome. Paul is in prison again.” …

“You can’t leave now! What about my promise?”

“Your promise?”

“My children!”

“You were promised children?”

“Yes! The Baptizer—at the Jordan. He promised me children. ‘Many will call you mother’ he said.”

John’s face relaxed knowingly. “Indeed,” he replied. “Many will.”

“But when?” I pleaded. “I’m fifty-two years old, John! I thought I was like Hannah—and the Baptizer was my Eli. But it wasn’t him. Then I thought Paul was my Eli, but it wasn’t him. And now you—”

“Priscilla—listen.” John embraced me fully, and we both fell quiet. I waited for him to speak, but he said nothing. We just stood there in the street and listened together. The sounds from the courtyard returned to my ears. Jews and Gentiles. Men and women. Grandparents and infants. Public officials and day-laborers.

Singing in unison.

……………………………

We sat still for a long time. We watched a ship enter the harbor, and drift all the way to the wharf. Several families with small children had exited onto the pier before he spoke again.

“Some days it hurts to watch other fathers with their little ones.” He took a sharp breath and tossed a small rock into the water below. “But I found myself in my work instead—visiting the sick, caring for widows and orphans. When I bring the love of Jesus to them, I truly feel whole. I wondered if you felt the same. I was hoping that you had.”

“I do. I will.”

“No.” He put both arms around me. “Your journey has been harder than mine. I’ve seen that every day. You carried the Baptizer’s promise so buoyantly at first, but it got heavier. Thirty-five years later, you wear it like a chain around your neck. The promise has become a burden to you.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but couldn’t produce any words.

“Your children were all around you from the beginning,” Aquila continued. “This was Adonai’s gift. But what you have to let go of is something I can never understand. It’s yours to grieve. And it’s yours to take up again. All I can do is walk beside you.” He smiled sadly. “I admit I haven’t always known how to be your husband. I think I am only just learning. I’m sorry for my coldness toward you—for my ignorance. You really do deserve better.”

……………………………

“Religion and marriage. Religion and marriage. Nicolas, you filthy serpent!” I shouted to the air. “You slither up behind us with a forked tongue between your teeth. You whisper sweet and aromatic words in our ears, but the fruit is poison! You taunt us with total grace and total freedom but you have no interest in grace—no interest in anyone’s freedom but your own!”

My rant continued as we passed the Theatre. Patrons nearby stopped to watch, as if we were actors engaged in a pre-show performance. “You pay homage to Messiah but undermine his words!” I shouted. “You call yourself a simple rope dealer, I’ll tell you what you are. You’re an antichrist! On a mission from hell to divide and conquer the children of God. And by the ropes you use to bind the Spirit, you yourself will hang!” A few of the Theatre patrons smiled and clapped.

We turned to climb the hill beside the Theatre, flying up the steps without losing a fraction of our pace. When we arrived at the fancy wooden gates I nearly knocked poor Constantine to the ground. I was ready to tear the heretic apart.

……………………………

Diotrephes strode out to the center of the circular stage, with some twenty-thousand souls teetering over him, expecting something, but not knowing what. He signaled to three men on his left, in full Jewish regalia, and they lifted long shofars to their lips. With a triumphant blast, the crowd quieted. Pentecost had begun.

“Welcome to Pentecost—Shavu’ot—in the Great Theatre of the great city of Ephesus!” Cheers and applause erupted from the audience. Praises arose in Greek, Hebrew, Aramaic and dozens of other tongues. “My name is Diotrephes.”

“Diotrephes the Greek!” three voices shouted in unison, from the far right side of the Theatre. Diotrephes sputtered.

“I assure you, my brothers and sisters, that I am the one properly appointed to—”

 “We were promised equal time!” more voices demanded. “Aquila should lead!” another said. Is this who we are? Who we’ve become? A cracked assemblage of makeshift components, all vying for dominance? An open forum for every ambitious narcissist to shout his demands into the void? I looked at Aquila, sitting next to me with his head in his hands. Trying to be invisible. Meanwhile, more voices bickered back and forth.

“Gaius is ill, so Diotrephes is our leader!”

“No! We want Aquila!”

“Diotrephes!”

“Aquila!”

My head was swooning with bad memories of the Riot at the Artemision. Except this time, it would be entirely perpetrated by Believers. The Ephesian church would never, ever hear the end of it.

……………………………

“You have till the count of fifty. All who remain will be apprehended!”

The captain to his left took a deep breath and bellowed his count for all to hear. “One! Two! Three!”

“This is no rebellion!” Gaius insisted. “It is no riot! We have dismissed the agitator, and wish to remain and worship!”

“Silence!” The centurion commanded. “Not another peep from you.” I looked over at Nicolas, who was smirking now.

The captain continued his count, trying desperately to make every number heard. “Four! Five! Six!”

“If I could only have a word—” Gaius begged, but the centurion was serious. He nodded to a soldier who unsheathed a club. I watched him cock it above his head, ready to smash Gaius’ knees to pieces. I lunged toward him in a panic, but Aquila reached out and gripped me tightly in his arms. “No, my love!”

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