The Scribe (12 page)

On the Sabbath, we went outside the city in search of a place of prayer under the open sky and near a river. We found a suitable place where the road crossed the Gangites River. Several women were already gathered there, praying. While Luke, Timothy, and I hesitated, Paul walked down the bank.

“Come on.” He motioned to us to follow.

One of the servant girls looked at Timothy and whispered to her friend, who giggled.

A woman in a fine tunic with purple trim took charge. Shushing the girls, she stood and gave Paul an imperious look. “We are Jews seeking a quiet place to worship God.”

I took those words as a plea for us to leave. Paul was not so easily shaken.

“We are Jews also,” Paul told her. “And these two are devout men of God.” He introduced each of us. “We bring you Good News.”

The woman frowned. “What do you mean by ‘Good News’?”

“We are followers of the Lord’s Messiah, Jesus. He was crucified, buried, and raised from the dead after three days. This man—” he pointed to me—“saw Jesus numerous times and saw Him ascend into heaven.”

“Please.” She gestured, seating herself on an expensive Babylonian blanket. “Join us.” Timothy and Luke held back. “All of you.” She smiled. “I am Lydia from Thyatira. I’m a merchant in Philippi. I sell purple fabrics. And these are my servants—good young ladies, all of them.” She gave a pointed look at one who had sidled closer to Timothy and patted the place beside her. The girl obeyed. “Tell us more about this Jesus,” Lydia said.

We did, with great pleasure. She listened intently and believed every word. So did those with her. “Is there any reason we cannot be baptized here?” Lydia wanted to know. “Today?”

Paul laughed. “None!”

The younger ones laughed joyfully and splashed one another in their exuberance, while Lydia stood on the bank, dripping with dignity. “Please, come to my house. I have plenty of room, and you may stay for as long as you like.”

Paul shook his head. “We are thankful for your generous invitation, Lydia, but we wouldn’t want to make things difficult for you.”

“I have a
large
house, Paul.”

“Even in Macedonia, I’m certain neighbors might wonder what four strange men are doing in your house.”

She dismissed his argument with a wave of her hand. “If you agree that I am a true believer in the Lord, come and stay at my home. My neighbors know me, and I will make certain they soon know you. You can tell them all you have told me.”

Lydia’s house was indeed large, and she treated us as honored guests. Within a few days, we had started a small church in her house. We often went back to the river to baptize new believers and preach to those who stopped to watch.

And then the trouble began, as it so often did when many came to Christ.

A slave girl began to follow us from the city one day. She shouted at everyone. “These men are servants of the Most High God, and they have come to tell you how to be saved.”

Paul stopped and faced her.

Lydia shook her head. “Leave her alone, Paul. You will only bring trouble on all of us if you argue with her. She’s a famous fortune-teller. Her owners are among the leaders of the city, and they make great sums of money off her prophecies.”

I glanced back at the girl. “She’s speaking the truth right now.”

“Not out of love,” Paul said.

She went as far as the city gate. Her face looked grotesque, and her body twitched as she pointed at us. “Those men are servants of the Most High God. . . .”

A few who had started to follow us were afraid to pass by her.

The next day, she followed us again. This time she came out through the city gates, and stood on the road above the riverbank. Paul tried to preach, but she kept shouting. No one could concentrate on anything Paul or Timothy or I said. Everyone kept looking up at that poor, wretched, demon-possessed girl.

When she followed us yet again, we tried to approach and speak with her. She fled into the house of one of her owners. “You have to pay to see her,” the guard told Paul.

“I didn’t come to hear her prophesy, but to speak with her.”

“No one talks to her unless they pay the master first.”

We discussed the situation. “All we can do is ignore her,” I said, “and hope she will tire of this.”

“And in the meantime, our brothers and sisters learn nothing.”

“Continue to meet in my house.”

“There are already too many, Lydia. Many more can gather at the river.”

“If you confront her, you will only bring trouble down on us.”

Every day for days on end, the slave girl followed us, shouting. I saw anguish as well as anger in her face and was reminded of Mary Magdalene, from whom Jesus had cast out seven demons that had tormented her. I prayed, but the girl continued to follow.

Though I pitied the girl, Paul grew increasingly frustrated.

“Nothing can be accomplished with all her shouting and screaming. The demon distracts us from teaching and others from hearing the Word of God!”

When she ran up close behind us and screamed in rage, Paul turned on her.

“
Silence
,
demon
!” He pointed at her.
“I command you in the name of Jesus Christ to come out of her and never enter her again!”

The girl stood for a moment, eyes wide, and then gave a long sigh. I caught her before she fell. People ran to see what had happened, clustering close.

“Is she dead?”

“He’s killed her.”

“She’s alive,” Luke said. “Give her room to breathe!”

She roused, her face smooth in wonder. “It’s gone.” A child’s voice, perplexed, hopeful.

“Yes.” I set her upon her feet. “The demon is gone.”

Her eyes filled with fear. “It’ll come back.”

Paul put his hand on her shoulder. “No. If you accept Jesus as Lord, He will fill you with the Holy Spirit, and no demon will ever possess you again.”

“Who is Jesus?”

“Let me through!” A man shouted at the back of the crowd. “Get out of my way!” He pushed toward us. One look into her face and he grew alarmed. “What have you done?” He grasped the girl by the arm and held her close at his side. “What did you do to her?”

Everyone spoke at once.

“They cast out a demon!”

“This man told her to be silent.”

“He called the demon out of her.”

The man thrust the girl toward Paul. “Call it back into her!”

“Jesus . . .” The girl covered her face and sobbed. “Jesus.”

“Shut up, girl. Now is not the time.” He glared at Paul. “You’d better do what I say.”

“Never.”

“You’ve ruined her, and you’ll pay for it!”

Others arrived claiming to own her and joined in haranguing Paul.

“You will make her as she was, or we’ll sue you.”

“Our livelihood depends on her.”

Men grabbed hold of us, shouting. Punched and shoved, I lost my footing. Dragged up, I spotted Paul, mouth bleeding. Timothy and Luke shouted in our defense, but were pushed aside. “Get out of here! We have no quarrel with you!”

The girl’s owners hauled us none too gently to the marketplace. “These men have destroyed our property!”

The officials tried to calm the men, but they grew more vitriolic. “Call the chief magistrate. He knows of our girl. She’s prophesied for him several times, to his benefit. Tell him she can no longer prophesy because of what these Jews have done! He’ll judge in our favor!”

When the chief magistrate came out, the men shouted even louder against us, adding false accusations. “The whole city is in an uproar because of these Jews! You know what trouble they are, and here they come to our city now teaching customs that are illegal for us Romans to practice!”

“That’s not true!” Paul called out.

I fought the hands that held me. “Allow us to declare our case!” A man struck me in the side of the head.

The man who had come for the girl shouted, “It is forbidden, for Romans are not allowed to engage in any religion not sanctioned by the emperor!”

“Emperor Claudius has expelled all Jews from Rome because of the trouble they cause. . . .”

“They speak against our gods!”

Their hatred of us grew to encompass all Jews.

Paul shouted. “We speak only of the Lord Jesus Christ, Savior—”

“They are causing chaos!”

The chief magistrates ordered us beaten.

I called out. “The Lord has sent us to tell you the Good News. . . .”

None listened.

“Show them what happens to Jews who cause trouble!”

Hands dug into me. Pulled, yanked, shoved, my robe torn from my back, I found myself stretched out and tied to a post. The first lash of the rod sent a shock of pain through my body, and I cried out.

I could hear Paul. “The Lord has sent us to tell you the Good News. Jesus is Lord! He offers salvation. . . .” Blows rained upon him.

The second and third blows drove the breath from my body. I clawed at the post, twisting against the ropes that held me, but there was no escaping the pain. Paul and I hung side by side, bodies jerking with each blow. I opened my mouth wide to gasp for breath and thought of Jesus hanging on the cross. “Father, forgive them,” Jesus had said. “They don’t know what they are doing.”

I closed my eyes tightly, gritted my teeth, and prayed for the flogging to end.

I don’t know how many blows we took before the magistrate ordered us cut down and thrown into prison. Paul was unconscious. I feared they had killed him. I longed for death. Every movement sent spears of agony.

They dragged us to the jailer. “Guard them securely! If they escape, your life is forfeit!”

He ordered us carried down to the inner dungeon. They dumped us on cold stone inside a cell and fastened our feet in stocks. I gagged at the foul smell of human excrement, urine, fear-inspired sweat, and death. I tried to rise, but collapsed again. My back throbbed and burned. Weak, I couldn’t move, and I lay in a pool of my own blood.

Paul lay close by, unmoving. “Paul!” He stirred. Weeping, I thanked God. I reached out and gripped his wrist gently. “It’s over.”

Moaning, he rolled his head toward me. “I had you beaten once. This may be a hint of atonement.”

“Perhaps, if I hadn’t received the same treatment.” I gave him a pained grin. “And as I remember, you kicked me three times. No one used a wooden rod on me.”

“I won’t argue with you.”

I gave a soft laugh and winced. “My consolation.”

Gritting my teeth, I sucked in my breath and managed to sit up. Chains jingled as Paul slowly did the same. We leaned forward, resting our arms on our raised knees, waiting until the pain in our backs subsided enough so that we could breathe normally.

“By God’s grace, we share in Christ’s suffering.” Paul raised his head. “We have company.”

Looking out through the bars of our cell, I saw other men in the dungeon with us—silent, dark-eyed men without hope, waiting for an end to their ordeal.

Paul smiled at me. “Even in a dungeon, God gives us opportunities.”

And so he preached. “By God’s great mercy, He washed away our sins, giving us a new birth and new life through the Holy Spirit, which He generously poured out upon us through Christ Jesus, our Savior.”

I considered it a privilege to suffer for the name of Jesus Christ, to share in some way the sufferings my Lord endured for me. I counted it an honor to suffer with Paul.

We sang songs of deliverance in that dark place, and laughed as we did, for the sound filled that great, yawning hole where human misery dwelt. We rejoiced in our salvation, our rescue from sin and death, our assurance in the promises of God and heaven. Our voices rose and swelled, flowing along stone corridors to the guards. They did not order us to be silent. We had a congregation in that prison. Chained, yes, but undistracted by a girl’s raving. Rapt and eager, they listened to the only hope in a living hell on earth.

One confessed to committing murder. Paul said he had also, and told how God had forgiven, reclaimed, and set him on a new path.

Another declared his innocence. Once I had thought myself innocent and above reproach. I told him all men are sinners in need of grace.

An earthquake came around midnight and shook the foundations of the prison house. Stone grated against stone, and dust billowed around us. Men screamed in fear. The prison doors burst open. The chains around our ankles fell off as though unlocked by invisible hands.

“What’s happening?” Men cried out, confused, afraid to hope.

“It is the Lord’s doing!” Paul answered. “Stay as you are. Only trust in Him!”

Running steps approached, and I caught sight of the jailer. He looked around frantically, saw opened cells in horror, and drew his sword. When he removed his breastplate, we knew what he meant to do. Death by his own sword would be preferable to crucifixion for dereliction of duty. He thought we had all escaped!

“Stop!” Paul shouted. “Don’t kill yourself! Do no harm to yourself! No one has left! We are all here!”

Lowering his sword, the jailer shouted for torches. Guards ran toward our cell, filling it with torchlight. The jailer fell on his knees before us.

“Get up!” Paul told him. “We’re not gods that you should worship us. We came with a message of salvation.”

A prisoner called out. “They speak of a god who died and rose again.”

“And still lives,” another joined in.

“Come out of here!” The jailer beckoned, shaking, his eyes wide with fear. “Come out!”

He led us out of the prison and took us to his house in the compound. He called for water, salve, and bandages. A woman hovered, several children clutching at her. She kept her arm around them as she spoke to the jailer. “I feared for you, my husband. The gods are angry. They shook the foundations of our house!”

“It’s all right now, Lavinia. Hush! These men serve a god of great power.”

“He is the only God!” Paul said. “There is no other.”

The jailer stared at us. “Sirs, what must I do to be saved?”

“Believe in the Lord Jesus Christ,” Paul told him, “and you will be saved.”

I smiled at the woman and children. “Along with everyone in your household.”

“The earthquake that brought your freedom is proof of His great power.” The jailer took the basin of water from a servant and washed our wounds himself. “Tell me about this God who can open prison doors and remove chains.”