From Enemy to Missionary: When God's Love Changes Everything
There's something profoundly disruptive about divine love. It doesn't follow our human logic or respect our carefully drawn boundaries. It doesn't wait for us to clean ourselves up or prove our worthiness. Instead, it crashes into our lives like an unstoppable force, transforming hatred into devotion and fear into faith.
The ninth chapter of Acts presents one of the most dramatic conversion stories in Scripture—a narrative so powerful that it fundamentally shifts the trajectory of the early church and offers us a timeless portrait of how God's love operates in the world.
The Destroyer Meets His Maker
Picture a man consumed by religious zeal, breathing threats and murder. Saul of Tarsus wasn't a casual opponent of the early Christian movement—he was its most notorious persecutor. He held the coats while Stephen was stoned to death. He dragged men and women from their homes to prison. His very name struck fear into the hearts of believers throughout Jerusalem and beyond. They called him "the destroyer."
Saul genuinely believed he was serving God. Trained by the greatest teachers of Jewish law, he saw these Jesus-followers as blasphemers who threatened everything sacred. His hatred wasn't born from malice but from misguided devotion—which somehow made it even more dangerous.
On the road to Damascus, armed with official letters authorizing him to arrest more believers, Saul encountered something—or rather, Someone—he never expected. A light from heaven flashed around him, brighter than the midday sun. He fell to the ground, and a voice cut through everything he thought he knew: "Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting me?"
In that moment, Saul's world shattered. The voice didn't condemn him to death, though it had every right to. Instead, it asked a question that pierced his heart: "Why are you persecuting me?"
"Who are you, Lord?" Saul asked, already sensing he was addressing someone far greater than himself.
"I am Jesus, the one you are persecuting."
The Power of Divine Love
Here's what's remarkable: Jesus didn't destroy His enemy. He didn't strike Saul down in righteous judgment. Instead, He loved him to death—the death of the old Saul, that is.
When Saul opened his eyes, he was blind. For three days, he sat in darkness, unable to see, refusing food and water. It was a kind of death, a metaphorical crucifixion. Everything Saul had known, everything he had believed about God and righteousness and truth—all of it collapsed in those three days of darkness.
But here's where the story gets even more interesting. While Saul was experiencing his spiritual death in Damascus, Jesus was simultaneously speaking to another man named Ananias, a disciple in that same city.
Jesus is the ultimate multitasker. At the exact moment He was humbling Saul on the road, He was preparing someone to minister to him. In a vision, Jesus told Ananias to go to Straight Street, find Saul, and lay hands on him so he could regain his sight and be filled with the Holy Spirit.
Ananias's response reveals his humanity: "Lord, I've heard about this man. He's done terrible things to Your people in Jerusalem. He's here to arrest us!"
It's an honest reaction. Ananias was being asked to walk into danger, to extend love to someone who represented a lethal threat. Yet Jesus responded with a prophetic promise:
"Go, for this man is my chosen instrument to take my name to Gentiles, kings, and Israelites."
When Love Casts Out Fear
The love of Jesus accomplished two miracles in Acts 9. First, it overcame the hatred in Saul's heart. Second, it overcame the fear in Ananias's heart.
Both men faced a choice. Saul had to surrender his pride, his theology, his entire identity. Ananias had to surrender his safety, his comfort, his very reasonable concerns about self-preservation.
And both men said yes.
Ananias went. He entered the house, placed his hands on his enemy, and said, "Brother Saul, the Lord Jesus has sent me so that you may regain your sight and be filled with the Holy Spirit."
Brother Saul. Not "destroyer." Not "persecutor." Brother.
Immediately, something like scales fell from Saul's eyes. He could see again. He was baptized. He ate and regained his strength. And then—immediately—he began proclaiming Jesus in the synagogues, declaring that Jesus is the Son of God.
The transformation was so complete, so radical, that everyone was astounded. "Isn't this the man who was destroying the church? Didn't he come here to arrest believers?" Yet Saul grew stronger, proving that Jesus is the Messiah.
The Hallmark of the Church
This story isn't just about one man's conversion. It's about the defining characteristic of the early church—their radical love for enemies.
In the first-century world, this was the marker that identified Christians. Not their miracles, not their spiritual gifts, but their love for people that most wouldn't love. They loved their Roman persecutors. They prayed for those who tortured them. Historical accounts tell of Christians being set on fire as human torches in Nero's Rome, praying for their executioner as they died.
This kind of love doesn't make sense in human terms. It's foolish, dangerous, impractical. Yet it's the very love that Jesus modeled from the cross when He prayed, "Father, forgive them, for they don't know what they're doing."
Love That Transforms
The story of Saul's conversion challenges us with uncomfortable questions. Who are the enemies in our lives? Not necessarily people who threaten our physical safety, but perhaps those who've hurt us, betrayed us, or stand opposed to what we believe?
What would it look like for God's love to transform how we see them?
Before we were followers of Jesus, we were enemies of God. In our thoughts, our hearts, our actions—we didn't want Him, but He wanted us. He pursued us through Christ, loved us while we were still sinners, died for us while we were still His enemies.
If God's love can transform a murderous persecutor into the greatest missionary of the faith, what can it do with our smaller animosities, our justified grudges, our reasonable boundaries that have hardened into loveless walls?
The Invitation
As we approach seasons of gathering with family and friends, we face a choice similar to Ananias. Will we let God's love cast out our fear? Will we allow His love to soften our hearts toward those who've hurt us?
This doesn't mean excusing wrong behavior or eliminating healthy boundaries. It means releasing people from the prison of our judgment and seeing them as God sees them—image-bearers, loved by Him, people for whom Jesus died.
The transformation of Saul reminds us that no one is beyond the reach of God's love. The courage of Ananias reminds us that we're called to be instruments of that love, even when it costs us something.
Perfect love casts out fear. It overcomes hatred. It transforms enemies into family.
And it all starts when we open our hands, lift our hearts, and pray: "Here I am, Lord. Fill me with Your love again."
There's something profoundly disruptive about divine love. It doesn't follow our human logic or respect our carefully drawn boundaries. It doesn't wait for us to clean ourselves up or prove our worthiness. Instead, it crashes into our lives like an unstoppable force, transforming hatred into devotion and fear into faith.
The ninth chapter of Acts presents one of the most dramatic conversion stories in Scripture—a narrative so powerful that it fundamentally shifts the trajectory of the early church and offers us a timeless portrait of how God's love operates in the world.
The Destroyer Meets His Maker
Picture a man consumed by religious zeal, breathing threats and murder. Saul of Tarsus wasn't a casual opponent of the early Christian movement—he was its most notorious persecutor. He held the coats while Stephen was stoned to death. He dragged men and women from their homes to prison. His very name struck fear into the hearts of believers throughout Jerusalem and beyond. They called him "the destroyer."
Saul genuinely believed he was serving God. Trained by the greatest teachers of Jewish law, he saw these Jesus-followers as blasphemers who threatened everything sacred. His hatred wasn't born from malice but from misguided devotion—which somehow made it even more dangerous.
On the road to Damascus, armed with official letters authorizing him to arrest more believers, Saul encountered something—or rather, Someone—he never expected. A light from heaven flashed around him, brighter than the midday sun. He fell to the ground, and a voice cut through everything he thought he knew: "Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting me?"
In that moment, Saul's world shattered. The voice didn't condemn him to death, though it had every right to. Instead, it asked a question that pierced his heart: "Why are you persecuting me?"
"Who are you, Lord?" Saul asked, already sensing he was addressing someone far greater than himself.
"I am Jesus, the one you are persecuting."
The Power of Divine Love
Here's what's remarkable: Jesus didn't destroy His enemy. He didn't strike Saul down in righteous judgment. Instead, He loved him to death—the death of the old Saul, that is.
When Saul opened his eyes, he was blind. For three days, he sat in darkness, unable to see, refusing food and water. It was a kind of death, a metaphorical crucifixion. Everything Saul had known, everything he had believed about God and righteousness and truth—all of it collapsed in those three days of darkness.
But here's where the story gets even more interesting. While Saul was experiencing his spiritual death in Damascus, Jesus was simultaneously speaking to another man named Ananias, a disciple in that same city.
Jesus is the ultimate multitasker. At the exact moment He was humbling Saul on the road, He was preparing someone to minister to him. In a vision, Jesus told Ananias to go to Straight Street, find Saul, and lay hands on him so he could regain his sight and be filled with the Holy Spirit.
Ananias's response reveals his humanity: "Lord, I've heard about this man. He's done terrible things to Your people in Jerusalem. He's here to arrest us!"
It's an honest reaction. Ananias was being asked to walk into danger, to extend love to someone who represented a lethal threat. Yet Jesus responded with a prophetic promise:
"Go, for this man is my chosen instrument to take my name to Gentiles, kings, and Israelites."
When Love Casts Out Fear
The love of Jesus accomplished two miracles in Acts 9. First, it overcame the hatred in Saul's heart. Second, it overcame the fear in Ananias's heart.
Both men faced a choice. Saul had to surrender his pride, his theology, his entire identity. Ananias had to surrender his safety, his comfort, his very reasonable concerns about self-preservation.
And both men said yes.
Ananias went. He entered the house, placed his hands on his enemy, and said, "Brother Saul, the Lord Jesus has sent me so that you may regain your sight and be filled with the Holy Spirit."
Brother Saul. Not "destroyer." Not "persecutor." Brother.
Immediately, something like scales fell from Saul's eyes. He could see again. He was baptized. He ate and regained his strength. And then—immediately—he began proclaiming Jesus in the synagogues, declaring that Jesus is the Son of God.
The transformation was so complete, so radical, that everyone was astounded. "Isn't this the man who was destroying the church? Didn't he come here to arrest believers?" Yet Saul grew stronger, proving that Jesus is the Messiah.
The Hallmark of the Church
This story isn't just about one man's conversion. It's about the defining characteristic of the early church—their radical love for enemies.
In the first-century world, this was the marker that identified Christians. Not their miracles, not their spiritual gifts, but their love for people that most wouldn't love. They loved their Roman persecutors. They prayed for those who tortured them. Historical accounts tell of Christians being set on fire as human torches in Nero's Rome, praying for their executioner as they died.
This kind of love doesn't make sense in human terms. It's foolish, dangerous, impractical. Yet it's the very love that Jesus modeled from the cross when He prayed, "Father, forgive them, for they don't know what they're doing."
Love That Transforms
The story of Saul's conversion challenges us with uncomfortable questions. Who are the enemies in our lives? Not necessarily people who threaten our physical safety, but perhaps those who've hurt us, betrayed us, or stand opposed to what we believe?
What would it look like for God's love to transform how we see them?
Before we were followers of Jesus, we were enemies of God. In our thoughts, our hearts, our actions—we didn't want Him, but He wanted us. He pursued us through Christ, loved us while we were still sinners, died for us while we were still His enemies.
If God's love can transform a murderous persecutor into the greatest missionary of the faith, what can it do with our smaller animosities, our justified grudges, our reasonable boundaries that have hardened into loveless walls?
The Invitation
As we approach seasons of gathering with family and friends, we face a choice similar to Ananias. Will we let God's love cast out our fear? Will we allow His love to soften our hearts toward those who've hurt us?
This doesn't mean excusing wrong behavior or eliminating healthy boundaries. It means releasing people from the prison of our judgment and seeing them as God sees them—image-bearers, loved by Him, people for whom Jesus died.
The transformation of Saul reminds us that no one is beyond the reach of God's love. The courage of Ananias reminds us that we're called to be instruments of that love, even when it costs us something.
Perfect love casts out fear. It overcomes hatred. It transforms enemies into family.
And it all starts when we open our hands, lift our hearts, and pray: "Here I am, Lord. Fill me with Your love again."
Aaron Calhoun
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