“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 c
ouldn’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.”
The jailer—whose name, we learned, was Demetrius—and his family believed everything we told them. We baptized them. Not even a dungeon could shut out the light of Jesus Christ!
Food was prepared, and we broke bread together.
“How can I return you to the prison when you’ve brought us life? I will send word to your friends. I’ll get you out of the city. They can meet you with supplies. . . .”
For a moment, I was tempted. Thankfully, Paul declined. “We will not flee. We obey the law. God can rescue us from the false accusations that put us in prison.”
Guards took us back to our cell.
A few hours later, Demetrius returned. “I sent word to the magistrates and told them what happened last night, of the earthquake. They felt it, too. When I told them about the cell doors opening and your shackles falling away, they said to let you go. You are free to leave Philippi.”
“Free to leave?” I said. “Or ordered to leave?”
“They want you out of the city.”
Disappointment filled me. We had accomplished so much. But there was still so much to do. The Lord had saved this man and his household, and now, unknown to him, Satan was using him to silence us.
Paul put his hands on his knees. “We’re not leaving!”
“You have no choice!” Guards waited outside to escort us out of the city.
“They have publicly beaten us without a trial and put us in prison—and we are Roman citizens. So now they want us to leave secretly? Certainly not! Let them come themselves to release us!”
Demetrius blanched. “You’re Romans? You should have said something!”
I smiled wryly. “They never gave us the chance.”
Demetrius sent the message. He returned with the officials. The man who had ordered us flogged stood pale-faced with fear of retribution. “I beg your forgiveness. Had we known you were Roman citizens, we would never have allowed anyone to lay hands on you let alone seen you beaten in the marketplace!”
“Please believe us!”
“You judged us without trial, based on false accusations,” Paul said. “And now you banish us from Philippi.”
“No, no, you misunderstand us!” The chief magistrate spread his hands. “Crispus, Pontus, and the others swayed me with their accusations. They are still furious over their slave girl. And they have cause. The girl is worthless now.”
What would happen to the poor girl? I wondered. “If she’s worthless, tell her owners to sell her to Lydia, the merchant who sells purple cloth.” She would free the girl.
“There will be trouble if you remain in Philippi,” said another.
They insisted. “We cannot promise your safety if you remain here.”
“We accept your apology,” Paul told them.
“And you will leave.” Clearly, they wanted us gone as soon as possible.
Paul nodded. I wanted to argue, but he gave a look that silenced me. “As soon as we meet with others of our faith.”
We went to Lydia’s house, where we found Luke and Timothy. They had been praying all night. “God has answered your prayers,” I said, laughing despite the discomfort of my wounds.
Luke checked the dressing. “More needs to be done.” When he added salt to prevent infection, I passed out.
Paul roused before I did and asked that the believers gather. When they all arrived, we gave them what instructions we could in the little time we had. “Be st
rong in the Lord and in His mighty power,” Paul said.
I promised we would write to them.
Paul and I, with Luke and Timothy, left Philippi late that afternoon.
Of all the churches I helped plant over the years, the Philippian believers suffered the greatest hardships. Some lost their lives; many, their homes and businesses. Yet, they remained steadfast. Though impoverished by persecution, God made them rich in faith and love.
May the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ continue to sustain them until the day Jesus returns.
* * *
FIVE
* * *
We traveled through Amphipolis and Apollonia and on to Thessalonica. We found a synagogue and stayed with Jason, a Jew who had accepted Christ in Jerusalem years before during Pentecost. We did not want to be a burden to him. Paul found work as a tentmaker; I wrote letters and documents. Every Sabbath, we went to the synagogue and reasoned with the Jews. We showed them proofs through the Scriptures that Jesus is the Messiah of God, the Christ whom God sent to fulfill the Law and ransom us from sin and death, but few believed.
The greatest number of new believers came from among the God-fearing Greeks who followed the teachings of the Torah. They embraced Christ with zeal and spread word through the city about Jesus. Many Jews became incensed as the number of believers grew. Finding troublemakers in the agora, they formed a mob and descended upon Jason’s house, expecting to find Paul and me there. Paul worked just outside the city, and I was off somewhere helping an official write a letter. So they grabbed Jason along with a few others and dragged these poor men before the city authorities.
It happened just as it had in Philippi!
They accused Jason and the other believers they’d seized of causing chaos, when it was they who stirred the city into confusion. They claimed we taught Jesus was a king like Caesar and that we encouraged the people to rebel against Rome!
I found friends of my father and arranged for bond to be paid. Jason and the others were set free. But the trouble was far from over.
Jason insisted Paul and I leave the city. “The Jews are intent upon killing Paul. They despise you, too, Silas, but see you as a Greek. They see Paul as a traitor to his race and a priest of apostasy. Every word he speaks is blasphemy to their ears, and they will stop at nothing to kill him if he remains here. You must go. Now!”
The Scribe: Silas Page 10
