Like other older families in Antioch, we traced our ancestry to the Macedonia of Alexander the Great. We were surrounded by Greek literature and art, and were taught to seek the truth where it could be found. My father said there were two kinds of people in the world: Greeks and everybody else.

My name is Lucanus. I remember one summer, when I was twelve years old, my father and I traveled by horse for seven hours to the great Mediterranean Sea. A paved Roman road of stones stretched out before us and, halfway to the sea, we passed through a valley of mountains on both sides. Near the water we marveled at the sparkling harbor below, swarming that day with an armada of ships that displayed on their bows carved figures of half-naked women. At the basin we walked to the edge of a wide stonewall and spotted the island of Cyprus resting serenely on the cloudless horizon.

Later we shared a loaf of Psomi and sweet red wine with four Phoenician sailors, who talked with us about the Greek islands along the coast and the cities of Hellas. The seamen told of women in Tyre, who dyed linens of crimson from shellfish and put the fiber on the ships bound for Rome. they told of men on northern islands with painted faces, who bought hides to trade for fruit.

Heading back to the wharf, passing bulging straw baskets of apricots and figs, I wondered aloud if pirates had ever attacked those sailors. My father didn't think so, although raiders infested these waters and made trade dangerous in days gone by.

My father was one of the merchants who regularly sent money to Italy to pay for soldiers to keep civil order among the poor, the lucky, and the ruthless in Antioch. A number of people living there were Roman citizens, a privilege I also possessed, and I remember going to sporting-events at the stadium with the sons of government officials. There were also many Jews in the city. My father became friends with them and learned about their God. Some of the Jews were open-minded and didn't hesitate to gather with Greeks, as I recall, and even relaxed their food laws when eating with us. My father came to admire the old Hebrew writers, and he taught me their ideas about helping others.

When I was eighteen years old he asked what would be my life's work. I liked to paint on canvas and write stories on parchment, but how could I earn a living doing that? I also thought about being a physician because there was much to do be done to improve the lives of people in Antioch. I especially remember seeing boys my age living in tiny, miserable hovels. Many of them were sick and thin, with no hope. So, I began reading scrolls brought to me from Alexandria about the human body and its diseases. I also studied the wondrous healing power of herbs, balsam, oils, and wine. Later, I was accepted as an intern at one of the temples of Asklepios, where I learned how to prescribe amulet and water cures, give massages, and lead gymnastics for patients. 

It wasn't long, though, until words of compassion become acts of service for those living in need beyond my home in Antioch. The Roman governor, Marius, had marched his legions northward and, since they knew I was training to be a physician, the governor's men ordered me to patch up solidiers brought into camp after each battle. Men came staggering in, exhausted and wounded. I cared for them the best I could, but many died.

In those days superstition swept through the region the way desert storms blew through a tribe's circle of tents, scattering everything in their path across the sand. Peasants and scholars flocked to houses of worship, seeking answers to the mean of life. They sought deliverance from demons. They celebrated Adonis the wheat spirit. They followed Dionysus and Orpheus. They held secret meetings and performed mysterious rituals. Anyone could hang out his sign and go into business as a priest of the supernatural. It seemed nonsense to me.

My Jewish friends taught about a faith in their Jehovah and a new kingdom. They I met me calling themselves followers of the Way, who came to Antioch from Cyprus and Cyrene. These men told about amazing events in Jerusalem and a Nazarene named Jesus, and they claimed to be witnesses not of myth but of truth. They believed this Jesus was their true Messiah and called him the Anointed One.

Who were these people? As a diligent Greek boy I sought to understand what those of the Way told me about this Nazarene. But there was more to following him than just hearing or reading his words. My mind overflowed with knowledge, and my soul yearned for love beyond the human experience. Yet I couldn't quite reach out and touch it. 

Once, in a dream, I searched a long time for a pouch of  lost gold coins. I looked everywhere for the money but finally had to admit that it was gone forever. I did my best to find my life's treasure, but it wasn't good enough. Perhaps I was trying too hard.

One evening I walked briskly through the rain, returning home after visiting a patient. I reached my doorstep and went in, lit a candle on the table, and took off my wet cloak. Shivering, I grabbed a blanket and draped it over my shoulders. As light invaded the room I noticed how warm I felt despite it being the middle of winter. I didn't feel sick or weak--my forehead was cool. I picked up a letter from my good friend, Theophilus, and began reading. I couldn't focus on his words, and suddenly burst out laughing and crying at the same time. It was at that moment a remarkable presence--a comforting radiance--wrapped its arms around me, as if my father were holding me as a little boy again.

Putting on my cloak, I rushed outside and down the street to see an old Jew named Manaean--one of my patients. Raindrops pelted my face as I ran toward his hillside stone house, which was perched in solitude like a white dove watching over Antioch. I went up the muddy path to his place, but slipped and fell. So I removed my sandals and climbed barefoot the rest of the way. I resembled an abandoned, wet dog by the time I reached the door, which unexpectedly opened to Manaean and others of the Way.

With charity, my friends assited me into the house and offered me a cup of wine. But I brushed aside the drink to tell them about my extraordinary encounter with what was surely God's Spirit. With patience, they listened to my long, rambling tale and then warmly welcomed me as a brother, thus beginning an unimaginable journey that finally ended in both tragedy and triumph."