The Scribe

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Authors: Francine Rivers
Tags: Fiction - Religious, FICTION / Christian / Historical
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Tempers flared, even among the Twelve.
    “Jesus sought solitude to pray!” Matthew said. “He needed time to be alone with His Father! Yet I have not a moment to myself!”
    Philip groaned. “The only time we’re alone is in the middle of the night.”
    John leaned back. “And by then, I’m too tired to think, let alone pray.”
    “The Lord always found time.” Peter paced. “We must find time as well.”
    “These people have so many needs!”
    James, Jude, and I had discussed the problem at length and prayed about it. We sought to encourage and help if we could, but a solution eluded us.
    Then someone said, “How long can we shoulder the whole load ourselves without complete collapse? Even Moses had seventy helpers.”
    It caused me to think. “A landowner has foremen who hire workers to plow, sow seed, and harvest crops.”
    “Yes, and an army has a commander who gives orders to his centurions who lead soldiers into battle.”
    The Twelve huddled together in prayer, and then called all the disciples together. Seven men were to be chosen from among us to serve tables. From that day forward, to the benefit of all, the Twelve devoted themselves to prayer and teaching the Word.
    Our meetings were peaceful and joy filled.
    But outside, in the city streets, persecution grew worse. The religious leaders said we were a cult drawing the people away from worshiping the Lord in His holy Temple. We met daily in the corridors, and were sometimes driven out. When we preached in the streets, they arrested us. Stephen, one of the seven chosen to serve the church, performed signs and wonders that brought many to believe in Christ. Members of the Synagogue of Freed Slaves argued with him. Failing in that, they lied, and told members of the high council that Stephen spoke blasphemy. Arrested, Stephen was taken before the high council. His words so infuriated the members, they drove him out of the city and stoned him to death.
    Grief did not stop the spread of the Good News. Though the apostles remained, persecution drove many believers from Jerusalem, scattering them throughout Judea and Samaria. Like seeds blown by the wind, their witness for Christ was planted everywhere they settled.
    The council tried to stifle the message, but the Holy Spirit blazed within us. We went daily to the Temple, to the neighborhood synagogues, and from house to house, teaching and preaching Jesus as the Christ. Philip went to Samaria. When we heard how many came to faith in Christ there, Peter and John went down to help.
    I felt no call from God to leave Jerusalem, not even when I was dragged out of my bed in the dead of night and beaten so severely it took months to heal.
    “You blaspheme against God by calling Jesus of Nazareth the Messiah!” Six Pharisees smashed every urn, tore down curtains, cut open cushions and poured oil on the Persian carpets while I was accused, beaten, and kicked.
    “We should burn this place down so they can’t meet here again!”
    “If you set fire to this house, it may spread to the street and beyond.”
    “If you preach one more word about that false messiah, blasphemer, I’ll kill you.”
    I wanted to have the faith of Stephen and ask God’s forgiveness for them, but had not the breath to speak. All I could do was look up into my attacker’s face.
    I had seen him in the Temple among Gamaliel’s students. We all learned to dread the name Saul of Tarsus.

    Over the next months, while I convalesced, serving with reed pen and ink, I heard of Saul’s conversion. I gave little credence to the rumors; for I had seen his face so filled with hatred he seemed grotesque. I had felt his heel in my side.
    “I heard he met Jesus on the road to Damascus.”
    I thought immediately of my own experience, but brushed the thought aside. Others said Saul was blind. Some said he still lived in Damascus with a man who accepted Christ as Messiah during Pentecost.
    We knew Saul had gone north to Damascus with letters from the

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