Three random fictitious conversations between Apollos and Balaam about Time Travel. That might have taken place at various times in history… But did not!
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Three random fictitious conversations between Apollos and Balaam about Time Travel. That might have taken place at various times in history… But did not!
Apollos: (smoothing his cloak as if straightening a podium) My dear Balaam, you stride into my century as if you paid the toll at the gates of chronos. Pray tell, did you take the early-bird wormhole or the last-minute vortex?
Balaam: (counting invisible coins) I took whichever one charged a premium for prophecy access. Time travel has a surcharge, you know. Especially if you want front-row seats to a miracle.
Apollos: Front-row? I prefer an amphitheater with good acoustics and fewer plagues. Though I confess, the acoustics of a Roman forum can make a parable sound like poetry.
Balaam: Poetry won’t buy you grain when the drought hits. Coins do. Tell me, Apollos, can your “eloquence” procure a caravan of camels for a Tuesday delivery?
Apollos: Eloquence procures ears and hearts, not camels. But if tongues were currency, I would buy your silence. Besides, I speak of timing — God’s timing — not of time on the coin.
Balaam: (eyes glittering) God’s timing is unpredictable. My clients prefer predictable payments. If I could see the market three days ahead—now that is service. Three days and a widow would pay me double.
Apollos: Ah, the old prophetic ROI. You’d turn Revelation into revenue. Do you also offer evening discounts? Perhaps a two-for-one on doom and gloom?
Balaam: Only on Thursdays. It brings in the high priests from out of town. What about you, Apollos? If you could time-travel, would you not attend the Sermon on the Mount twice? Twice the applause, twice the applause lines.
Apollos: I would attend once, listen, and then preach it so plainly that even a camel would take notes. Besides, the applause is fleeting; the message endures. I prefer to invest in hearts rather than in echoes.
Balaam: (leaning in) Hearts are fine, but have you considered hearts with interest? Compound compassion—imagine the yield.
Apollos: (smiling) Compound compassion sounds suspiciously like compound interest with sandals. You cannot compound what is meant to be given freely. Time travel may allow you to be everywhere, but it does not make you righteous.
Balaam: Righteousness is expensive. I like the idea of attending the feeding of the five thousand and then selling the leftovers. No one wants stale loaves, but everyone pays for a miracle-labeled wrap.
Apollos: (laughs) You would brand miracles. “Balaam’s Miracle Wraps: buy two, get a blessing.” You’d put a toll booth at the Mount of Olives.
Balaam: If I’m going to risk temporal flux, I’m charging for climate control. Have you ever tried preaching in a sandstorm? That should be billable.
Apollos: Preaching in a sandstorm builds character. You should try it sometime—free cleanse for the ego. Also, time travel tends to make theologians impatient. They rush to fix what only God can set in order.
Balaam: (suddenly contemplative) Fixing is profitable. Fixing is neat. You, with your silver tongue, would fix peoples’ doubts. I would fix their purses.
Apollos: We each have our fixes. Mine mends souls; yours mends sacks. But remember, Balaam, when your donkey objected, it was not the beast that made you listen. Sometimes the humble is the only conductor of truth through time.
Balaam: (frowns) Don’t remind me of that donkey. I still owe it a bath and an apology. Also, it ate some important scrolls. I was not pleased.
Apollos: See? Even your donkey had better timing than you. Perhaps if you had been less greed-driven, you might have been carried by grace instead of bargaining with fate.
Balaam: (counting again) Grace is nice, but it won’t buy land. Tell me, would you do the noble thing and go back to stop a betrayal? To save a friend?
Apollos: I would say a cunning orator can convince a traitor to change course without rewriting history. But even if one could go back, would changing one stitch not unravel a whole blessed tapestry? God weaves with patience; we meddle with stitch-cutters.
Balaam: (grudging) You speak well. Your words could tempt a tax collector to repent. If I had such words, I’d be richer in influence. But I prefer the clink of coin—it’s quieter.
Apollos: Influence without charity is hollow. Travel through time and you might gather fame, yet return empty unless you carried love along. Even the apostles treasured nothing but the gospel—and sometimes a good picnic.
Balaam: (sighs, then smirks) Fine. Suppose time travel existed. I’d sell tickets. But I’d also put a free seat in the back for you. To keep me honest. Free publicity.
Apollos: And I would take that seat and speak of mercy until your pockets loosened—for giving, not for greed. Perhaps we’d find a way to spend time wisely: investing in people, not possessions.
Balaam: (reluctant grin) You are maddeningly idealistic. Yet oddly persuasive. Maybe time travel needn’t be only ledger and ledger-lines. Perhaps there’s room for a little charity… at a premium rate.
Apollos: (clapping him on the shoulder) Ah, Balaam, may your heart increase faster than your purse—and may your donkey never again outrank your conscience.
Balaam: (muttered) If my donkey speaks up one more time, I’m putting it on retainer.
Moaral of the story: Time travel might let us visit eras and change events, but Christian wisdom teaches that true stewardship of time is loving others, using gifts to serve (not to exploit), trusting God’s timing, and practicing humility. Whether in ancient courts or future centuries, spend time investing in people and mercy—those returns are eternal.
Apollos: Friends, Romans—well, not Romans, but friends nonetheless—lend me your ears. If time travel were a stage, I would step upon it with a golden tongue and argue for it as the highest of arts: a chance to correct error, to witness truth, to bring the rhetoric of experience to those who have only hearsay. Imagine standing before Socrates and saying, “Sir, your argument might be sharper if you tried Twitter.”—I mean, if you could. Time travel is the ultimate public lecture tour: attend, learn, improve the city.
Balaam: Hearken! Hearken—and bring coin. Time travel, you say? A prophet knows a good thing when it smells like silver. Why travel for truth when one may travel for treasure? See a battle before it begins, place a bet, return with a purse heavy as a harvest. I prophesy profit! If the future is open to the highest bidder, then by my beard I shall be both seer and toll-collector. Tickets for Exodus, anyone?
Apollos: Ah, Balaam, ever the impresario of the improbable! Permit me to respond with clarity: knowledge without wisdom is a noisy gong. To pluck events from their place like figs from a tree risks turning noble lessons into mere curiosities. You propose visiting past triumphs to plunder them for lucre—how vapid. The value of learning is not to be auctioned; it is to refine character. Time travel should be a classroom, not a casino.
Balaam: Character? Nay, Apollos, character will not build you a house nor secure you a stable of donkeys. Besides, why should we be moral when morality is so dreadfully unreliable for turning a profit? Imagine: I send a courier to warn a king of an ambush; the king avoids it, pays me handsomely for the whisper, and history calls it wisdom. Who then will call me greedy? Historians have poor hearing.
Apollos: You fashion ethics as a ledger, Balaam. But tell me—if one were to go back and avert a calamity, would that not increase the sum of human flourishing? Or would it instead unravel the tapestry so that the very thread that taught humility is gone? There is a paradox here, like an echo that answers a question you have not yet asked. The wise time traveler must ask: should we change what made us who we are?
Balaam: Paradoxes are profitable puzzles. If we cannot untie paradoxes, we shall knit them into cloaks and auction them in the market. Besides, consider the fashions one could import: I could go forward, take a look at sandals that do not slip on temple floors, come back, and sell the design. Who cares if a philosopher becomes less melancholic? He will still hire me to arrange his lectures.
Apollos: You treat history as a tailor treats fabric—cutting whatever pleases the eye. But history is not merely clothing for vanity; it is the record of sacrifice, the ledger of lessons. To pluck a single moment is to risk collapsing causes into accidents. And there are other perils: the grandfather paradox, for one. If you travel back and silence your own nascency, who will profit from your cunning then? You cannot buy your own birth certificate with coin.
Balaam: Ha! The grandfather paradox is but a sound that startles timid men. I shall circumvent it easily: I shall never meet my grandfather—only his creditors. I will adjust markets without changing my lineage. And if someone speaks of paradox, I will sell them a paradox-proof warranty with two signatures and my donkey’s hoofprint.
Apollos: Your donkey’s hoofprint will not stop cascading effects. The butterfly effect is subtler than a hoof—more like a gold leaf falling into a storm. A small change, a cough in a courtyard, and entire nations rearrange. Consider the moral responsibility: who are we to play at providence? If a traveller returns having prevented grief for one family but caused exile for another, how shall we tally the books?
Balaam: Ah, responsibility—my favorite bedtime story you tell me for free. I shall hire accountants to tally the books. For every exile caused, there will be a ledger entry, a receipt, and a nice interest-bearing apology note. Besides, who made you the arbiter of providence? You, with your speeches polished like amphorae, would be poor at counting sheep. Give me prophecy and ledgers; I shall be both seer and steward.
Apollos: I do not ask to be arbiter; I ask only for prudence. Suppose time travel were real and mouths of orators could cross epochs. Would you not be tempted to stand in the tomb and speak to silence? To whisper to the wounded—”endure”—or to the corrupt—”repent”? The power would corrupt more readily than wine at a feast. Orators may inspire, Balaam, but the temptation to rewrite rhetoric into fame is strong.
Balaam: Temptation makes good elbow room for commerce. But let us set aside virtue and speak of spectacle. Imagine a tour: “Walk Where Wonders Happened.” See the sea part—not from a distance, mind you—but with a backstage pass. I shall sell you a front-row blessing, an audible miracle with snack vendors. You will claim ethical misgivings; I shall claim profit. The festival will have a prophet-led intermission.
Apollos: A prophet-led intermission, indeed—what an image. Yet spectacle without substance is hollow. I can teach rhetors to speak with humility, to ask not how they might profit from history, but how history might profit them. If time travel allows us to converse with our forebears, let it be for counsel: ask Moses about leadership, ask Deborah about courage, ask the poor about what they truly need. Not for selfies with saints.
Balaam: Selfies, you say? Nay, I shall sell you relics and replicas—the ultimate souvenir: a coin minted in the moment the prophet said a good line. People love relics almost as much as they love saving face with a good story. And if you insist on counsel, I will counsel them—for a fee, naturally. Wisdom has a price; even the best speeches require funders.
Apollos: And even the best funders require conscience. Fine, Balaam—let us compromise as men of debate. If time travel comes, we shall found a school where pupils can learn from the past, led by eloquence and tempered by accountability. Meanwhile you can open a modest stall selling guided reflections—no front-row miracles, no backstage pass to divine acts, and for heaven’s sake, no donkey-hoof warranties.
Balaam: A school, you say? Very well—so long as I am its chair, and there is a toll at the gate. We will call it “The Academy of Timely Investments.” I will teach prophecy and profit; you will teach elocution and ethics. Together—oh, what a spectacle! If time travel exists, we will be ready; if it does not, at least the sign will be profitable.
Apollos: Then let us add a motto: “Use time well.” Yours will be, no doubt, “Pay in advance.”
Balaam: And let the record show: I prefer gold in hand to wisdom in promise. Though, come to think of it—if time travel truly exists, perhaps I’ll go back and convince my younger self to invest in humility. For a modest fee, of course.
Apollos: All right, Balaam—I’ll play twenty questions. You have something about time travel in your mind. I start?
Balaam: You may. I will answer truthfully, though not always plainly.
Apollos: Fine. Question one: Is it a physical object?
Balaam: No.
Apollos: Question two: Is it a person?
Balaam: No.
Apollos: Three: Is it an event or occurrence?
Balaam: In a manner of speaking—yes.
Apollos: Four: Is it a concept or idea?
Balaam: Yes.
Apollos: Five: Is it specifically connected to traveling to the past, rather than the future?
Balaam: Yes.
Apollos: Six: Does it describe a contradiction or logical problem?
Balaam: Yes.
Apollos: Seven: Would most scientists call it a “paradox”?
Balaam: They would.
Apollos: Eight: Does the paradox involve changing family history or ancestors?
Balaam: Yes.
Apollos (smiling): Nine: Does the word “grandfather” appear in the common name for it?
Balaam: Yes.
Apollos (leaning back, theatrical): Ten: Then is it the “grandfather paradox”?
Balaam (a faint, knowing smile): That is the name the curious use. You have it.
Apollos: Brilliant. Classic. So the idea is—if you go back and prevent your grandfather from meeting your grandmother, you prevent your own existence, which is a logical tangle.
Balaam: And yet the tangle is a teacher. It asks what we mean by cause, by possibility, by the thread that binds past to present.
Apollos: As a public speaker, I could turn that into an anecdote about responsibility: change one past action and the audience—poof—no longer exists. Dramatic, but also a bit melodramatic.
Balaam: Melodrama reveals the shape of the question. Are you asking whether time will yield to rhetoric?
Apollos: Only that paradoxes make for good endings. Quick—question eleven for fun: Do any proposed solutions require multiple timelines or branching histories?
Balaam: Yes.
Apollos: Twelve: Is time travel fiction more comfortable with branching timelines because it spares storytellers from murdering their narrators?
Balaam (dryly): Fiction seeks plausible impossibilities. It is comfort, and it is convenience.
Apollos: Thirteen: Do any solutions insist that the past is fixed and cannot be changed, making the paradox impossible in practice?
Balaam: Yes.
Apollos: Fourteen: So in some accounts, the traveler cannot change what has already happened, only fulfill it?
Balaam: Precisely.
Apollos: Fifteen: Final fun one—if you were given a time machine, would you advise me to use it to spice up a speech?
Balaam: I would advise you to first consider whether a speech that erases you would be worth delivering.
Apollos (laughing): Fair. Thanks, Balaam. Good choice—classic, philosophical, and dramatic. Twenty questions done in ten.
Balaam: The fewer the questions, the clearer the sign.
Apollos: a short Christian biography
Apollos was a Jewish believer from Alexandria who appears in the New Testament as a gifted teacher and servant of Christ. The book of Acts describes him as “an eloquent man, competent in the Scriptures” and “instructed in the way of the Lord” (Acts 18:24–25). He knew the baptism of John and was fervent in spirit; after Priscilla and Aquila explained the way of God to him more accurately, he “vigorously refuted the Jews in public, showing by the Scriptures that Jesus was the Christ” (Acts 18:26–28).
Apollos later became a central figure in the church at Corinth, where his preaching and teaching left a strong impression. Some believers there identified themselves as followers of Apollos, which prompted Paul to address party divisions in the church. Paul used the ministry partnership with Apollos as a positive example: “I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the growth” (1 Corinthians 3:6), reminding the church that all ministers are servants working together under the one Lord.
From a Christian perspective, Apollos models several virtues: theological learning grounded in Scripture, powerful speaking enlivened by the Spirit, teachability (he accepted correction and fuller instruction from Priscilla and Aquila), and humble partnership in ministry (he worked alongside Paul and others rather than seeking personal supremacy). Paul’s later note that Apollos was willing to visit Corinth but was discouraged at the time (1 Corinthians 16:12) suggests a man whose ministry was shaped by pastoral wisdom and sensitivity to the Lord’s timing.
Though the New Testament gives only brief glimpses of his life, Apollos’ story encourages believers to combine faithful study of Scripture, bold proclamation of Christ, and humble cooperation with fellow servants—trusting, as Paul says, that it is God who gives the growth (1 Corinthians 3:7).
Balaam is a striking and cautionary figure in the Old Testament. He is introduced as a non‑Israelite prophet or diviner from Pethor who was summoned by Balak, king of Moab, to curse the Israelites as they encamped near Moab (Numbers 22:5–7). Though Balaam initially seems willing to go for the reward, God controls the situation: God forbids him to curse Israel, and when Balaam attempts to go, the Lord opposes him—leading to the famous scene in which Balaam’s donkey sees the angel of the Lord and miraculously speaks (Numbers 22:18, 22:28–30).
When Balaam finally speaks under God’s authority, he refuses to pronounce a curse and instead blesses Israel repeatedly, pronouncing prophetic songs that glorify God’s purposes for Jacob/Israel (Numbers 23–24). These oracles demonstrate that true prophecy is governed by the Lord, not by human commission or payment (cf. Numbers 23:8; 24:2).
Later tradition and the New Testament portray Balaam negatively because, although he spoke God’s words at times, he ultimately put personal gain and compromise above faithfulness. Scripture charges him with “loving the wages of unrighteousness” and notes that he was rebuked by the donkey (2 Peter 2:15–16), and Jude links him with those who promote sinful gain (Jude 1:11). Revelation also uses his name to warn against leading God’s people into idolatry and immorality (Revelation 2:14).
From a Christian perspective, Balaam’s story underscores God’s sovereignty over prophecy and blessing, and it warns believers against the dangers of greed, compromise, and false teaching—showing that speaking for God is a serious calling that must be lived with integrity (see Numbers 22–24; 2 Peter 2:15–16; Jude 1:11; Rev. 2:14).
Time travel fascinates us because it promises a second chance—to revisit mistakes, witness history, or glimpse the future. For Christians, that fascination meets deeper truths: God is Lord of time (Isaiah 46:9–10). He alone ordains the past, present and future, and his purposes are being worked out even when we do not see the end from the beginning.
Thinking about time travel can sharpen faith rather than enable temporal tinkering. Scripture calls us to learn from the past, make wise use of the present, and live in hope of what is to come (Ecclesiastes 3:1; Psalm 90:12; Romans 8:24–25). We cannot rewrite history, but in Christ the past is not irredeemable—there is forgiveness and newness of life (2 Corinthians 5:17).
So the true remedy for regret is repentance, obedience, and trust in God’s providence. Instead of longing for a machine to alter time, Christians are invited to steward the time God gives, proclaim the good news now, and look forward to the promised restoration when God will make all things new (Revelation 21:1).
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Have fun creating a conversation between two Bible characters. One in the Old Testament and one in the New Testament and see what happens!