Fire and Sword (2 page)
Authors: D. Brian Shafer
“Paul! You have a visitor,” called out the familiar voice of Camius, the jailer.
Paul looked up to see the face of the only man who remained loyal to him—or so it seemed. The figure moved down the narrow stairs that hugged the wall. A rush of joy filled Paul as he smiled wanly at the good man who had accompanied him on so much of his ministry throughout the Roman world.
“Luke,” Paul greeted.
The door above shut.
“Thank you, Camius!” Luke called up.
“You’re welcome in as much as this man will soon be dead,” said Camius gruffly. He was a man of about 50 who had been working at the prisons for the past 26 years—ever since he himself had served time in Paul’s very cell. Camius stopped and turned.
“Do you…need anything else, Paul?” he asked, this time with a hint of compassion. “More oil or…”
“No, Camius, my friend,” said Paul. “My brother Luke lights up this cell for me. But thank you, and may the Lord bless you!”
“Don’t bless me with your God!” cried Camius. “See what trouble He has brought upon you and the others.”
Luke and Paul laughed.
“Bless you anyway,” called Paul. He coughed.
Since he was a regular visitor, Luke no longer had to go through the formalities of answering lots of questions—the prison guards simply let him in. After all, what did it matter if a condemned man received his friends? Luke carried with him a small sack from which he produced a few small luxuries for Paul, including a fresh cloak to help guard against the constant dampness. Paul coughed again—a long, deeply seated cough.
For a moment or two they exchanged cordial greetings. Luke updated Paul on his latest appeal—no new intelligence there—as well as other reports from the empire. Paul enjoyed his frequent visits with this kind physician. As for Luke, he was concerned that Paul seemed physically much more taxed these days—a strange blend of being both weary and at peace. How like the man!
“Another letter?” said Luke, indicating the tablet on the little table.
Paul nodded.
“I’m writing to Timothy one more time,” Paul said. “But the lamp is so weak, and my eyes are as well…”
“Ah, that reminds me!” Luke said, smiling. He reached into his kit and pulled several oil vials out.
Paul took them and set them next to his lamp. Luke also had a medicine vial with an herbal mixture for Paul’s cough—and there was bread and fruit from some of Paul’s friends in Rome who wanted to give something but were afraid to be seen visiting him in prison. Paul tried to share the meal with Luke, but Luke refused.
“Timothy is doing well in Ephesus,” Luke commented. “The church is blessed there.” He looked at Paul. “He had a great teacher.”
Paul laughed, finishing off the coarse bread.
“The Lord is his teacher,” Paul said. “And, yes, he is a great pastor. I want to encourage him one more time. He was heartbroken when we parted last. I think that when he saw me arrested it became very real to him.”
“Perhaps your time is not yet,” said Luke. “Perhaps your appeal will…”
“Not this time, my friend,” said Paul, shaking his head. “I have fought the best fight a man can. And now I am ready.” He sat back in the chair and closed his eyes for a minute.
“I have been thinking about my life,” Paul continued. “Since organizing my thoughts for this final letter I have thought of God’s grace in bringing me here. Just as you have detailed the events of our Lord’s life in your writings. We have been through much together, my brother.”
Luke nodded his head. “I have begun writing a new record of those events,” he said. “From the notes I kept of our journey together. The story of our Lord’s Church must be remembered. I am dedicating these to Theophilus as well.”
Paul smiled. “Theophilus is a good man,” he said. “And not without influence in Rome. He is indeed most excellent.”
“Quite an encourager,” agreed Luke. “He supported my first rendering of our Lord’s life. And now he will support the record of the Lord’s Church—its birth, its spread throughout the empire. He is a good and noble Roman. Such a work of grace!”
Paul agreed. “And where does your account begin?” he asked. “I have thought of my own dramatic encounter with the Lord that began my incredible trek of grace. The years fly by in the face of it all.”
He looked at Luke, whose face was reflecting the bit of light from the lamp.
“I cannot help but contemplate my life as I write this letter to my son in the spirit, Timothy,” Paul said. “But where shall your record begin?” He looked poignantly at his surroundings as the sound of a man crying pierced the chilly evening. He smiled at Luke. “And where shall it end?”
Luke considered for a moment.
Had it really been 35 years? As Paul said, the time had flown by. History had been made. And surely the Church of Jesus Christ would continue writing its story long after he and Paul were gone. Where does one begin the story of the birth of God’s Church? Where did it all start?
He then expressed to Paul that there were many possibilities, but that the Spirit of God had already spoken to him. He knew exactly where he should begin…in an upper room…in Jerusalem.
T
HE
G
ATHERING
Chronicles of the Host
Glorious Reunion
Most Gracious Eternal Sovereign of the Universe,
I have attempted, in the previous four volumes of these writings, to include as many of the pertinent details as possible in bringing to You, as You commanded, a thorough and faithful history. Thus these Chronicles of the Host have brought us from the early times before the Rebellion to the prophesied culmination of the Resurrection of Your Great Son. May Your Name be forever glorified! Permit me then, O King, to continue these chronicles so they may serve witness forever of Your grace and greatness in Your creation.
As was foretold, the Lamb slain before the foundation of the world did indeed emerge in the woman’s Seed to bring liberty to all who might call upon His name. After the terrible ordeal at Calvary, the Most High Father and the Most High Son were reunited again as one—and all of Heaven shouted with joyous celebration. Even so, the end was far from over—in fact, we were soon to discover that we were merely at a new beginning—a new chapter of an old war…against an ancient adversary…with an ancient grudge.
Not only were the hopes of men realized in the Christ’s death and resurrection, but the hopes of our dark foe were forever compromised. Lucifer realized that he had indeed lost the fight to stop the Seed of the Woman from rising up and fulfilling its awful edict—and now a greater peril awaited him—the complete and final crushing of the serpent’s head.
Thus like a wounded animal and just as deadly, Lucifer reorganized and readied his legions for a very new war. His followers, scorned and disgraced, defeated yet defiant, remained hopeful that somehow their leader would craft a strategy that would bring the war to a satisfactory conclusion. He had little hope to offer, though they relished in the Son’s departure if even for a season. But His promise to return one day for a final resolution hung over them all like a death knell.
Lucifer reasoned that now that the Son had come and gone, the attack must be directed not against His Person but against His Body—the Church. He vainly discounted the infant group of Christ followers as a fledgling band of “misguided brothers and a few simple women supporters” that would dissolve or decay with a bit of prompting. And so hell watched and waited as some 120 followers of Jesus met in prayer as they had been instructed. Lucifer also watched … awaiting his opportunity to destroy the mission once and for all…
Jerusalem, A.D. 33
Peter’s eyes moved around the room, looking over the people who were in prayer or conversation with one another. He was one of the oldest among them. Oh, there were James and a few others. But Peter was definitely one of the senior members of the little group who remained loyal to their risen God. He had aged in the last three years. His work with Jesus, while glorious, also had taken its toll on him. Though he was strong in heart and mind, and even physically strong, his hair had become much greyer and his face more careworn. Ah, but what a wonderful three years!
How fitting, he thought to himself as he looked about the room, that they should await the Lord’s promised Holy Spirit in the same place where only weeks before they had received the final Passover supper with Jesus. He could almost see them all again—seated around the Passover and wondering which of them would betray their Lord.
Is it I, Lord?
How those words rang with a sharpness that would never be repeated nor forgotten. All of them had stood with Jesus. They had witnessed His miracles and seen His teaching open the hearts of men and women. They had ridden with Him in triumph only weeks before as the people shouted “Hosannah! Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord!” And they were with Him a few days later when this same crowd turned on Him like wolves, demanding His death. Peter was ashamed that it was one of Jesus’ own who was the traitor.
How could you, Judas?
Peter looked to the place where Judas sat that night and thought back to that last Passover. How Judas had led the priest’s men to where Jesus was praying; how Peter rose to fight, cutting off the servant’s ear; how Jesus healed the man and submitted to His captors. But it wasn’t really Judas’ betrayal that stung—that had been prophesied. It was his own. He had denied Jesus not once—but three times—in His greatest hour of need. Thank the Lord for His grace and reconciliation that brought Peter back into fellowship with Jesus. But it still hurt to think about.
And now they awaited … what? Jesus’ instruction was to await the coming of the Holy Spirit. But what did that mean? How should they know when the Spirit of God arrived? As a leader among this group, he wanted to be more certain of what should happen. And so they did exactly what Jesus had told them: they watched and prayed.
In the meantime they had selected another man named Matthias to take the place of Judas. Matthias was a good man who had been with them from the beginning. So they drew lots between him and another good man named Justus. The lot fell to Matthias, and he was numbered among the twelve.
“How many weeks now, Peter?” asked Andrew, his brother.
“A few,” said Peter. “But we must learn patience, Andrew. We must set the example, or they might lose heart.”
“But we need provisions once more. Shall I send out?”
“In this crowded city?” he responded. “There are so many people coming in from all over the Jewish world for Pentecost that the prices are outrageous.”
“I’ll see to the supplies that we have,” said Andrew. “Shall I have the ladies cut back on portions? Peter?”
Peter was looking past Andrew and through the window behind him. He seemed lost in thought. He looked up and around as if he were hearing something…a noise that was barely perceptible. For a second he cocked his head, straining to understand. Andrew remained silent, trying to hear, but hearing nothing. Finally Peter looked at him.
“What are you doing?” Andrew asked. “Was it the Lord?”
“I don’t know,” said Peter. “I thought I heard…” He put a hand on Andrew’s shoulder.
“Best not send for provisions today, brother,” he said. He looked around again. The people remained in groups praying and worshiping and talking. “I’m not sure, but I feel like something is about to happen.”
