The Man Behind the Letter

Read

Acts 9:1–6 “As he neared Damascus on his journey, suddenly a light from heaven flashed around him. He fell to the ground and heard a voice say to him, ‘Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?’ ‘Who are you, Lord?’ Saul asked. ‘I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting,’ he replied. ‘Now get up and go into the city, and you will be told what you must do.’”

Think

Before we dig into a letter, it helps to know who wrote it. Not just the name on the top of the page, but the person behind the pen. What’s their story? What shaped their voice? What pain or passion burns under their words?

When it comes to the book of Romans, the story of the author is just as powerful as the message itself.

Paul wasn’t always Paul. He was Saul. Zealous, educated, respected, and deadly. If you were a first-century Christian, Saul wasn’t just a name you feared. He was a force you avoided. He wasn’t trolling believers in comment sections. He was hunting them down in real cities with real blood in the streets. Acts 9 says he was “breathing out murderous threats.” The kind of person you pray God would stop, not save.

And that’s what makes his story so unforgettable.

On the road to Damascus, Saul’s entire world collapsed in one blinding moment. Light flashed. He hit the ground. A voice—Jesus’ voice—called his name and confronted his violence. “Why are you persecuting me?” There was no sermon, no debate. Just a holy interruption. Saul, shaken and blinded, was told to get up and walk into a future he couldn’t yet see.

Everything that follows—the churches, the letters, the missionary journeys, the prison time, and eventually this masterpiece called Romans—flows from that moment. One man who thought he was right was brought to his knees by the One who actually is.

This is not just a biographical footnote. It’s the backdrop of the gospel. Because if God can use Paul, no one is off limits. If grace reached that far, it can reach you too.

You see, Paul’s transformation wasn’t surface level. It wasn’t behavior modification. It was identity destruction. Saul didn’t become a better version of himself. He became a brand-new man. His name changed. His mission changed. His heart changed. That’s what the gospel does. It doesn’t make you nicer. It makes you new.

And that’s why Romans hits so hard. Because it’s not coming from a detached theologian in an ivory tower. It’s coming from someone who knows what it means to be completely wrong and still completely loved. Paul doesn’t write about grace as a theory. He writes about it as a man who collided with it at full speed.

We live in a world that celebrates reinvention. New careers. Clean diets. Gym memberships. Makeovers. But there’s a difference between rebranding and redemption. Rebranding is something you do. Redemption is something only God can do. Paul didn’t start a new chapter. He was handed an entirely new book.

Think about that. The most influential author of the New Testament wasn’t a polished pastor or professional Christian. He was a terrorist turned teacher. A murderer turned messenger. That’s not just inspirational. That’s theological. It shows us that the gospel’s credibility doesn’t come from polish. It comes from power.

So when Paul writes, “I am not ashamed of the gospel,” it carries extra weight. He’s not just defending an idea. He’s testifying to the rescue that rewrote his life. And that conviction pulses through every sentence in Romans.

But here’s the tension: many of us still live as if grace is reserved for the people who messed up slightly, not the ones who detonated their lives. Maybe you believe God can forgive mistakes. But what about repeated failure? What about addiction? What about resentment you’ve nurtured for years? What about the abortion you never talk about, the affair, the secret, the lie?

This is why Paul matters. Not just for theology class, but for anyone who thinks they’ve disqualified themselves. If God can turn Saul the persecutor into Paul the preacher, he can turn your past into something redemptive too. The gospel doesn’t avoid your history. It reclaims it.

In fact, Paul didn’t hide his past. He used it. He told it. Again and again. Not as a badge of shame, but as proof of grace. His story became a bridge for others to believe that real transformation was possible. Not because he got his act together, but because Jesus got a hold of him.

Here’s the problem, though: we often see ourselves like a photograph—frozen in time, stuck in a moment we regret. But God sees us more like a mirror in motion. He is continually reshaping us, cleaning away the distortion, reflecting more and more of his image as we surrender to him. Your worst moment doesn’t have to be your identity. Grace keeps the story moving.

And isn’t that what we all want deep down? Not just to be forgiven, but to be transformed. Not just to be tolerated by God, but treasured. Romans was written by someone who had tasted that kind of mercy. Someone who had every reason to be disqualified but was chosen anyway.

So maybe the question today isn’t, “Who wrote Romans?” Maybe it’s, “What kind of person does God write into his story?” And the answer, according to Paul, is anyone. Anyone who is willing to fall off their high horse, admit they were wrong, and say yes to Jesus.

Your story might not start in a dramatic flash of light, but it can be rewritten by the same grace. Because the man behind this letter is living proof of what the gospel can do.

Apply

Write down your story in three simple parts: “This was my life before Jesus. This is when I met Jesus. This is what God has done in my life since.” Don’t worry about how dramatic or polished it sounds. Just be honest. Then ask God to show you someone who needs to hear it. When we tell our stories, we help others see that redemption isn’t just possible—it’s personal. You don’t have to preach a sermon. You just have to be real. Let your life be a living letter of grace.

Pray

Jesus, thank you for turning enemies into family and rebels into messengers. I see what you did in Paul’s life, and I believe you can do that in mine. Forgive me for the times I’ve let my past define me more than your grace has. Help me to walk in the freedom you died to give. Use my story to give someone else hope. In Jesus’ name. Amen.