Junia: The Forgotten Apostle
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Synopsis
“Greet Andronicus and Junia, my fellow Jews who have been in prison with me. They are outstanding among the apostles, and they were in Christ before I was.” Romans 16:7
Junia: The Forgotten Apostle reimagines the story of the only woman described as an apostle in the New Testament.
Two thousand years ago in Israel, Junia, a woman of noble lineage, lives in the tumultuous era of Roman occupation amidst the grandeur and intrigue of Herod Antipas’ court. Trapped in a loveless marriage, she falls prey to a demon. After Jesus casts out the evil spirit, Junia’s husband hears rumors that the itinerant preacher is an insurgent, and he divorces her to protect his reputation, leaving her disgraced. With nowhere to go, she joins Jesus and his disciples and dedicates her ample resources to funding his mission. Because she witnesses Jesus’ death and resurrection, Junia is honored with the title of apostle. But as her fellow apostle Peter schemes to seize her fortune and strip away her freedom, and the threat of the demon’s return haunts her, Junia must summon her inner strength to fight back—or risk losing herself entirely.
Who Was Junia?
A woman named Junia was an apostle? Really?
You might think, “A female apostle in the New Testament? I’ve never heard of her!” And you'd be right to wonder. Junia’s story has been buried for centuries. Explore the passage in Romans for yourself, but be aware that what you discover depends on the translation. Older, more traditional Bibles use the name “Junias,” a mistranslation first introduced by Martin Luther in 1534. He opposed women in leadership roles, leading him to change “Junia” to a male name. Extensive research has demonstrated that “Junias” was never used as a name in the ancient world. In addition, the early church fathers (some of the first readers of Paul’s letter to the Romans) recognized that Junia was a woman and praised her as a gifted apostle. For a number of other reasons, it has been confirmed that the correct translation is “Junia” and that Paul did describe her as an outstanding apostle in his letter to the Romans. Most recent scholarly Bible translations have corrected Martin Luther’s misrepresentation.
Excerpt
28 CE, during the rule of Antipas, ruler over the provinces of Galilee and Perea
Though I had shelter, I had no home; though others saw me, I remained unseen. Rules and decrees dictated my existence, confining me to mere glimpses over the palace walls, guarding how deeply I drank my wine and how low to cast my gaze. The marble columns cast prison-bar shadows across the mosaic floors where my slippers must tread their set paths. Each morning, a bronze mirror revealed the forced arrangement of my features. Each evening, I dined with my fellow courtiers and Antipas’ guests, our flattery calculated like a jeweler setting gems.
“Joanna, it’s wise to accept gracefully what is beyond our control,” my father said, using my Hebrew name. “God’s creation serves His purpose.” I was sixteen and newly betrothed to Chuza, a Nabatean who scorned the Law of Moses and Antipas’ Minister of Possessions and Chief Steward. The match granted my father access to the spice market, essential for his role as a priest preparing the Temple’s incense offering. Even then, I recognized the truth: the marriage served men’s ambitions, not the Almighty. My wants, my needs, mattered to no one but myself.
In the seventeenth year of my marriage, weeks before the annual Passover pilgrimage to Jerusalem, Antipas summoned Chuza and me to the receiving hall. The tetrarch commanded my husband to inspect his holdings east of the Jordan River, and then we’d join the festivities with the rest of the Tiberian court required to journey to the Holy City. If the tetrarch had to endure the traditions of Israel, so did we, regardless of our heritage or race. The man renowned for his diluted Judean pedigree deceived few, yet all indulged him. Should wood challenge the fire? Should flesh challenge the knife?
“Remind all of Perea who their sovereign is.” Antipas burped out wet debris from his mouth. “And take Junia. I will not have the principal men of Judea think I prevented your wife from obeying the laws of the Feast.”
Chuza bowed. “As you command.”
Privately, my husband lamented the additional expenses incurred by my presence on the journey: another wagon for my chests of garments, couch, palanquin, and bedding; my slaves; more guards; more fodder for the animals; more everything. To him, I was just another sleeping pavilion and bronze brazier. He intended to work from sunrise to sunset, stopping only when the light failed. His schedule forbade banqueting with provincial officials. “This isn’t a pleasure tour.”
I vowed I’d not hinder his work.
On a morning still bearing the bite of winter’s chill, sixty retainers loaded wagons and pack mules burdened with provisions, including ledgers, the tools of my husband’s office. We embarked on the bone-jarring venture through the territory’s plateaus, valleys, and mountains. Chuza collected taxes and disciplined troops while I gawked at the hills purpled by thistles and clothed in flocks, their coats dyed in a patchwork of colors from brushing against the wealth of spring blooms sprouted from the scraggy landscape. Young shepherds paused their talk as we approached, sheepdogs tired from the trail woke and leaped into groggy barks. In my sequestered life, I rarely enjoyed this iridescent and naked wildness.
We arrived at a thicket of reeds and tamarisk pressing in on the thoroughfare along the eastern bank of the Jordan River. The overgrown lane sufficed for the sole passerby, but not our large retinue. Chuza called us to a halt where the Brook of Cherith yielded its pristine flow to the Jordan’s muddy current and ordered the slaves to hack at the thick vegetation.
My stomach grumbled. “Why don’t you join me for a respite while they labor?”
“No.” He didn’t glance at me.
I assembled a dozen bondswomen and men and ensured they had the necessary supplies. “I’m resting further up the ravine.” My husband didn’t respond.
“I know a good place about two bowshots distant,” a driver said. “I’ll show you.”
Ensconced inside, four slaves bore my litter while others carried my furnishings and food. We walked along a narrow corridor hemmed in by steep, tawny cliffs, a ribbon of trees, and the brook until we entered a break in a copse of willows. There, we found a small group congregated around a rock-lined pool. A fiercely bearded man wearing a camel cloak cinched with a black leather belt stood waist-deep in the water and addressed the gathering. His arms swept the air like a thresher’s fan, scattering words while they swayed, caught in his cadence.
“Lower me there,” I said, indicating a flat area offering an unobstructed view of the scene. “Bring the refreshments.” The senior slave oversaw the arrangement and adjusted the canopy’s angle to shield me from the sun as I reclined. Before anyone else noticed, a boy shifted a wine jug’s precarious tilt and wedged a pebble under a wobbly table leg. He resumed his position, his gaze sweeping again and again to the enigmatic figure in the pool. I lifted a spoon to my lips, savoring how the soft egg custard melted on my tongue. The pounded mint and rue woven through it bloomed with each bite, sharp and green against the creamy sweetness. Between bites, I strained to hear the preacher from the other end of the hollow, but the bird song, flies’ buzz, and the rushing stream stole his speech. “Go,” I said to the attentive boy. “Listen carefully to what the man says and find out who he is.”
He slipped through the crowd to perch at the pool’s edge. Except for mutely rehearsing the preacher’s words and storing them away, he stood unwavering. His shoulders, too thin for his rough tunic, rose and fell with his breaths. When he concluded his vigil, his spine straightened, and he returned and dropped to a knee. He erupted in a torrent of marketplace Greek peppered with Aramaic. “Domina, they call him John the Baptizer. He speaks of repentance. Says we have to turn our hearts inside out like…like when we shake out your clothes for cleaning. But bigger. More important.”
“Go on.”
He peeked at John, then at me. “He speaks of washing, but not like the washing we do for you in the baths. Different washing, domina. He says we have to get washed in living water.” He frowned. “He says a kingdom of a god is coming and the paths have to be straightened to prepare the way. I don’t understand.” He shrugged. “No roads are being built.”
“What is this kingdom? Is he a fomenter?” Neither the Roman-appointed Antipas nor my husband tolerated self-proclaimed rulers in the tetrarch’s territory. Had the sheep wandered from the pastures and become food for a wolf?
“I don’t know what he means, but the people, they tremble when he speaks of these things.”
“Is there more?”
The boy’s head slumped. “I can’t remember anything else.”
I waved him off. “Go tend to the donkeys.”
The burden of deciphering the peculiar man’s pronouncements fell on me. My abrupt rise overturned the table, and an attendant rushed to clean up the scattered fare. “You and you. Accompany me.” Gravel slid treacherously under my feet as I tottered toward the pool, each step requiring careful consideration. The two slaves hovered, ready to steady me. From a proper distance, yet within earshot, I studied the simply dressed men and women. Farmers, fishermen, and artisans, I surmised. Several of them peered at me, and with their attention satiated, they drifted back to the man holding court from the pool.
“Change your ways if you have changed your mind,” John said. “Boast not of Abraham as your father nor of his promises. I am telling you, God can raise up children for Abraham from these stones. Every tree that does not bear good fruit is felled and thrown into the embers. This is the final hour!”
His disciples raised their palms, fingers rippling as he continued to build his sermon layer by layer, each metaphor, and scripture interwoven with the next. While his Galilean accent hinted at humble origins, his eloquence defied the image I’d conjured of an unrefined shepherd. Art lived in his raw urgency. He held forth like a practiced orator but without a polished podium, precisely arranged folds of a toga, and subtle gestures taught by Greek tutors. By what right did he claim this authority?
His flock responded as one at the end of the Baptizer’s speech. “God of All Power and Might, we will do as you wish that you may deliver us! May you pour out your spirit upon our flesh.” John beckoned a woman to enter the pool. He slapped the surface to show her where to stand, pleaded with the Lord to bless her, and helped her submerge. Water sluiced from her when she rose, and a girl unlatched a woven cage to free a dove. It fluttered in a shaft of light filtered through the trees, its wings flashing silver-white as it spiraled higher and soared out of sight. Long after the sweep of the bird’s flight, I remained transfixed on the patch of blue where it vanished. Time hung suspended, a song’s last note fading.
The Baptizer cried out, “Soon, the prophet Elijah will walk among us again and exhort us to turn away from sin. Heed his warning and repent! For when the Day of Judgment comes, the wicked will be consumed as dried grass before the flame. Go forth and seek the life of righteousness.”
“Amen,” they said. “Amen,” again, stronger—a chorus of conviction from the men’s bass mingling with the higher tones of the women. Downstream, they unfurled rugs along the bank to enjoy a meal together. The same hands once raised in praise now passed the bread of belonging. They shone with a gold no wealth could purchase. A thought struck me like a fever dream: what if I stepped into the pool, my bare toes gripping the mud to anchor myself, my stola’s hem sharing the water with the peasants’ tunics? The chimera lasted a heartbeat, yet my jewelry grew lighter in that instant.
Elijah’s name stirred the story I’d heard as a child: of the prophet who never died, who ascended in a fiery chariot, a whirlwind of horses and flames carrying him beyond the reach of mortal sight. This tale captivated my imagination more than any of my father’s lessons. He said it occurred on a prominence above the town of Bethabara, near where I stood. My arm stretched toward the neighboring ridges, seeking the ancient miracle where the firmament opened to receive its prophet, and the earth and heaven touched. Leaving without visiting Elijah’s Hill, spending the rest of my life knowing the sacred ground lay within reach...we might find a guide in Bethabara, someone who knew the right place, who kept the old memories. If we hurried and reconvened at the Jordon River before Chuza discovered my adventure, I could keep up the pretense I’d been reposing.
My attendants packed the remnants of my meal and prepared to depart. I settled into the litter and drew the curtains. Through a gap in the fabric, I glimpsed John drawn to the flurry of our activity. For the first time that day, the deep-set eyes of the Baptizer met mine. Instantly, I was the thinnest of parchment, fragile and transparent. He acknowledged me with the slightest incline of his head. I yanked shut the sliver of open curtain and disappeared into my cocoon of embroidered silks. I rapped on the palanquin’s frame to signal our departure, leaving behind fragments of conversation about a coming kingdom.
The bearers lowered the litter beneath a date palm when we reached the town square. Several servants remained to guard the impedimenta, and the others set off to make inquiries. Beside me, a foot-driven potter’s wheel creaked as a man shaped wet clay. The potter hummed while he worked, his lazy tune circling with the kites above. The thumping rotation of the wheel marked the passing hour. Crimson terebinth shrubs dotted the slopes surrounding Bethabara. I searched them for a lingering trace of Elijah’s ascent. Occasionally, I heard my slaves’ voices as they talked to girls drawing water, a burly baker with flour in the dark hairs of his arms, and women weaving baskets while a young boy chased a chicken between their legs. The tree’s shade lengthened. The sun had climbed three hand spans higher. Folly to think anyone might remember the spot where the chariot blazed into view.
The potter began coaxing a fresh vessel. As I prepared to abandon the search, the bondsmen reappeared, stumbling in their haste. A gray-haired woman shuffled in their wake. She carried an olive wood walking stick polished to a sheen by the years, its grip wrapped with strips of purple cloth. When her eyes met mine, a riptide of expressions swirled across her face. She bowed. “This is an unexpected honor.”
I revealed my mission, and she assured me she knew precisely where the whirlwind began on Elijah’s Hill. The fist squeezing my chest unfurled. I’d pay her generously and reached in the pocket hidden in my cloak, pulled out a silver denarius, and presented it to her. She adjusted the herb-stained apron draped over her worn tunic, the dried stems of rosemary and thyme poking from its pockets, releasing their fragrance. “For showing the holy ground? Keep your coins, fine lady. Some things are not for the selling. If I kept this secret, a live coal might as well burn my tongue.” A small scar at the corner of her cheek darkened when she smiled. “Come. The hill has been waiting for your feet to find it.”
Four slaves raised the litter poles in unison and followed her up a path widened by sheep, her stick tapping the scree as she hiked. The lead bearer issued a sharp warning in a rough section. The team grunted and adjusted their hold, lifting the palanquin higher to cross the obstacle. I gripped the wooden frame to steady myself against the Damascene cushions. As we climbed, the older woman’s stick pointed out landmarks. Here, beneath an oak tree, Elisha witnessed his master being taken up. The other prophets stayed in that hollow, a natural amphitheater carved into the hillside. Fifty of them, observing from a safe distance. Afterward, they searched for days, believing Elijah lay broken on the valley floor. Her staff traced an arc. “The air grew heavy, they say, bearing down with the weight of an approaching storm. The sky opened. Fire descended...”
She stilled amid dwarfed acacia trees laden with bee nests at the summit. The bearers lowered the palanquin and plunged me into the heavy scent of honey and pollen. The ancient prophet’s final mortal vista stretched before me. Below, the Jordan River threaded through the panorama, its banks green with ash and poplar. Fields stretched outward from the water, some emerald with new growth, others gold with ripe barley. Low stone walls marked the plots, the legacy of generations dividing the fertile valley. The tiny island of cultivated land ended abruptly, surrendering to the desert’s domain. Rounded hills undulated towards the hazy mountains, changing color from pale ochre to cinnamon. Here, in this wilderness, prophets fasted and prayed. From the heights, prophecies rolled from the weathered flanks. The harsh terrain stripped them of their terrestrial concerns, leaving them pure vessels for visions.
“Here.” Our guide rested her stick on a boulder split in two. “This is where the fiery chariot carried Elijah off.” The thunder of hooves echoed in my bones—even ordinary rocks and soil pulsed with legends.
The prophet heard God in a thin silence, the whisper of a dove’s upward loft, its wings barely making a sound. If the still, small voice coursed through John, I’d misjudged the man. I’d lived surrounded by polished men in marble halls and only seen the Baptizer’s matted beard and disheveled clothing. The prophets of old weren’t perfumed courtiers but wild men who roamed these desert lands. They wore tattered garments and spoke about repentance and the great and final day. Like the Baptizer.
A bee grazed my ear, and I stepped away to the summit’s edge overlooking the ravine carved by the Brook of Cherith. At the foot of the hill, a new prophet proclaimed Elijah’s return to earthly life. No place existed for such ideas my father taught. This was the natural order, the unchangeable way of the world, my father said. The dead stayed dead. But did they? The Baptizer’s message tumbled over and over in my mind.
A lizard darting into a crevice snapped me out of my reverie. I noticed the slaves’ fidgets and a bearer drumming his fingers against a palanquin pole. They watched the sun sink lower, each passing moment bringing Chuza’s inquiry into our absence closer. It was likely too late. My reckless jaunt in the woods left tracks to John for my husband to follow. He’d twist the Baptizer’s message of a godly kingdom into evidence of treason. And that wouldn’t be enough for Chuza. He knew better than to leave visible marks on me, but the slaves…they’d endure his swift and harsh punishments. I could spare none of them. The senior slave cleared his throat, the most daring gesture of urgency he’d allow himself. I nodded. Yes, we had to go.
A low thrum began and built layer upon layer from inside the bees’ waxy fortresses. The sound quivered the acacia branches and grew sharp—the battle cry of an army preparing for its assault. Bees launched from the hives and twisted into a column of smoke, their copper wings mirroring the light until they grew thick enough to turn day to dusk. Pulling their sleeves over their faces, the slaves spun in circles and splashed water from their flasks on their skin. They flailed at the thickening cloud, their eyes pleading with me for permission to save themselves. Without my word, they were bound in place. In my preoccupation, I’d failed to shield them from the approaching swarm.
“Down! On the ground!” Following my lead, we all flattened ourselves into the dust. The grit dug into my stomach as the bees filled the world, their dark mass pulsing above our crouched forms. The drone escalated to such an unbearable pitch that my skull ached from the pressure. A few stray bees dropped and brushed my cheek, and I braced for the onslaught, sweat trickling between my breasts despite the cooling shade of the swarm. I fought the urge to cover my head, as any movement might encourage their attack. Even breathing felt precarious.
These weren’t ordinary honeybees rummaging the yellow and purple thistles. They’d come for me because I’d risked my slaves’ lives. My arrogance had cursed them twice: first by eluding Chuza and then by leading them into this lethal tempest. As surely as God slew those who approached the House of the Lord in their impurity, the bees stood ready to strike me down. They spelled out my judgment in a language older than words, and now heaven’s messengers were delivering the verdict. I’d sought a place to revere, but found a hill of reckoning instead.
Then the throbbing changed pitch, passed over us, and veered off. The all-encompassing rumble diminished and shrank to a distant chorus. Warmth spread in patches over my back, legs, and calves as the shadow of the momentary eclipse retreated.
“You can rise,” I said after the humming coasted into the Jordan Valley. “They’ve gone to find new homes.” Following my example, they scrambled upright just as I obeyed Chuza’s commands, another link in the chain of bodies moving not by choice but by another’s will. They patted themselves, testing for welts, and when they confirmed no stings had landed, they reached to brush the dirt from my clothes. “No. I’ll tend to my own needs.” I deserved the grime after leaving them exposed for so long.
The path to Bethabara beckoned. “I’ll walk until my legs give out. If I stumble, then I stumble. But I’ll walk.” Chuza lay ahead, the man who could demand my servants’ lives as payment for my defiance. Whatever price he extracted for my excursion, I’d meet it on my own feet, not carried as a precious object.