by Glenn Beck
Believe.
Agios couldn’t reply.
Chapter 18
Agios had questions that Nicholas could not answer, so Agios consented to accompany his young friend to his father’s home in Patara. He didn’t want to leave this place of refuge, this place where he had opened himself up to friendship again, but one of Nicholas’s answers had cut him to the core.
“Why did you not tell me earlier you followed Jesus?”
Nicholas looked genuinely confused. “We are a persecuted people, Agios. I’ve been dropping hints—fishers of men? Talk of the creator? Plans for hope and a future?—but I never dared to say anything outright. But you did a Christian thing in caring for my parents.”
“Christian?”
“That means a follower of Christ,” Nicholas said.
When Agios didn’t seem to understand, Nicholas unlaced a pouch slung from his belt. All of the carvings that Agios had given him were inside it, and Nicholas went to his knees so that he could arrange them properly on the sandy ground just outside the cave. Three camels on the periphery, then the ram and ewe with heads bowed together. A cow and her calf side by side. In pride of place, a man and woman with their hands interlaced, a shepherd, and finally, in the center, the baby in a manger that Nicholas had carved himself.
It was the entire story, spread out before Agios. It was beautiful.
Then he frowned a little. He recalled the story the shepherd had told to the three scholar-kings, and how he had described the scene. “This is how it was,” he said softly, reaching to move the cow and the calf to the other side and to place the sheep a little closer to Joseph. “There. Now I know why you carved Jesus in the manger.”
Nicholas ducked his head. “I’m not very good.”
“You’ll be a fine carver, and a fine man,” Agios said, and he meant it. “But what did you mean about followers of Jesus being persecuted?”
“You can learn that from the others in town.”
And so it was settled. The two of them started out at once, walking all through the day, taking a meal while still on their feet and moving, never resting more than a few minutes at a time. The boy grew dazed with effort, but Agios steadied him and walked so that his shadow offered Nicholas some shade from the increasingly hot glare of the sun.
They headed down the slopes, at first through the stony passes through the mountains, then through grassy upland meadows, and at last through stands of black pines in the lower hills. The steep and winding track should have exhausted them, but Agios never felt the least weariness, and though Nicholas occasionally stumbled, he said nothing. He was young and had the endurance of youth—and its stubbornness as well, its reluctance to admit weakness. All that morning they walked, and then through a long, sweltering afternoon, and then past the setting of the sun.
They came at last to Patara in the darkness of late twilight. The two Roman guards at the gate recognized Nicholas, son of Epiphanius, and let them pass. A few people still were on the streets of the town, most of them hurrying to their homes, and Agios could smell the salty tang of the ocean on the evening air. Nicholas muttered, “This way,” and led Agios through the twists and turns of the streets.
Only when they arrived at Nicholas’s old home did Agios realize with a shock that he had completely worn the boy out with the long trip.
Nicholas could hardly stand upright, and his shoulders drooped as though he had been carrying a heavy weight the whole way. He unlocked the door and then showed Agios where his bedroom was, and Agios spread sheets on the bed for him. The house had a musty, closed-up scent, and Nicholas told Agios to light a candle.
It had been scented with tiny grains of . . . frankincense.
Someone knocked at the door a little after that. Agios opened it and found Father Eudemus and a woman. “I had word that you had brought Nicholas home,” the priest said. “This woman, Nona, was a servant in the house. She will cook and clean for you, if you and the boy mean to stay.”
“I have no money to pay her,” Agios said.
The priest smiled. “Nicholas’s father was very wealthy. I have his money. It goes to Nicholas now. I will pay her, if you wish. Would you like for Nona to prepare a meal for you and the boy?”
“He’s asleep now, but in the morning—priest Eudemus, I must ask you. Nicholas told me something that surprised me. He spoke of Jesus of Nazareth—”
He broke off as Nona made an unusual gesture, touching her forehead, the center of her chest, left shoulder, and right shoulder.
“Go on,” Eudemus said kindly.
“Come in, please. Nona, do you have a room?”
“Yes.”
“Stay there for the night. I want to talk to this man.”
She left them, and Agios led the priest to a room with shelves of scrolls. The two sat in chairs at the table, the priest at the head, Agios on his right. Agios said without preamble, “Nicholas tells me you follow the teachings of Jesus of Nazareth.”
With a slight nod, the priest replied, “Yes, that’s right. Although some would consider that a dangerous statement.”
“Nicholas thinks it is. He says Christians are persecuted.”
The priest’s brows drew together in a frown. “We are falling out of favor with Diocletian. I fear the worst. We are blamed for anything and everything that goes wrong in Rome.”
“Do you Christians actually plot against Rome?” Agios asked.
“Should I answer that?” Eudemus said, and this time his tone was serious and he did not smile.
Agios looked him in the eye. “Though I may be a stranger to you, I’m not a Roman spy. I told you I don’t know anything. I ask for myself alone, not for others, and not from some evil motive.”
Slowly Eudemus replied, “I meant no offense, Agios. You ask if we’re really rebellious against the emperor. We’ve had reasons enough to rebel against the government, God knows. But no, we don’t plan uprisings or revolts. You see, we’re taught not to return violence for violence.”
“Or evil for evil,” Agios murmured, remembering the lesson poor Krampus had tried to teach him beside the Nile. “But Nicholas says the Romans enslave you and kill you!”
The priest replied, “This will be so hard for you to understand. Yes, the Romans think that they can kill us. In our opinion, that’s impossible. If we believe in the promise of Christ, we won’t die, but will have everlasting life.”
“That’s what I can’t understand. Everyone dies,” Agios said, suppressing the bitter thought: Everyone except me.
“When I say we won’t die, I’m speaking of life beyond this world,” Eudemus explained. “Our bodies perish, but our souls live on forever in the presence of God. It’s why Jesus had to die on the cross, to offer us cleansing of sin and a way to God’s glory. He conquered death, Agios. He holds the keys of death and hell.”
That was more than Agios could take in. He thought quietly for a moment, then asked, “How did you learn of Jesus? I know that’s a simple question, but I’m a simple man and need to start at the very beginning. Explain as you would for a child.”
Eudemus raised his eyebrows. “Agios, that’s really a profound way to begin, not simple at all. Jesus once told those who asked him about the secrets of heaven that they should become like little children.”
Agios blinked back tears, thinking of Krampus, and of Philos. Was there hope for them? “May it be so.”
“Tell me, Agios,” the priest asked softly, “can you read?”
Agios smiled. “Oh, yes, I can read very well. Several languages, in fact.”
“The scrolls that Nicholas’s father left for him—you have them?”
In answer, Agios put the pouch on the table.
“Nicholas may have told you of these. They are the Gospels, the good news of Jesus and His mission,” he said in almost a whisper.
“He read his favorite passages aloud to me,” Agios said.
“They make up the most important scriptures of our faith. They were first written down
by Jesus’s disciples and copied and recopied by faithful scribes in the generations since. Can you prove to me that you can read them?”
Agios took one of the scrolls at random and partly unrolled it. He read aloud: “In the beginning was the Word . . . ” When Eudemus didn’t interrupt, Agios read on for a few sentences, ending with the words “. . . and the light shines in darkness, and the darkness has not understood it.”
Then the priest said, “That’s enough. I see you can read. That’s the Gospel of John.”
“Strange words,” Agios said. “I’m like the darkness—I can’t understand them.”
“You will when you’ve read more. Agios, don’t stop at Nicholas’s favorite parts. Instead, read completely though these. They’ll answer your questions better than I could.” He rose. “It’s late, and I must return home. Thank you, Agios, for taking care of the boy.”
“No. Thank you.”
The priest left him there. For much of the night he sat at the table, bathed in the yellow lamplight, reading and rereading the scrolls, absorbing a story he already knew by heart.
Chapter 19
Morning came, and with it Nicholas, bringing bread warm from the hearth with honey, dates, and milk, and the boy placed it carefully on the center of the table in his father’s study where Agios had been sitting for hours. He didn’t say anything, but stood with his hands clasped in front of him, waiting for Agios to greet him.
Of course, Agios was aware of the boy, but he was retracing the narrative of a passage he had grown to love. He is not here. He is risen just as he said . . .
He absentmindedly stroked the scar along his cheek, the sign of his great failure.
If he rose—perhaps I did not fail. Perhaps.
When he looked up, Nicholas still stood there, a small frown creasing his mouth.
“Good morning, friend,” Agios said, carefully rolling up the scroll. “I owe you an apology. We traveled too hard yesterday. I trust you had a good rest?”
Nicholas exhaled impatiently. “I’m fine, Agios. I don’t need an apology from you.”
Agios couldn’t help teasing him a bit. “Then what do you need, Nicholas?”
The boy would have stamped his foot if he were younger, but he settled for balling his fist and hitting it against his own thigh. “I want to know, Agios. The answer to the question I asked you in your cave: Do you believe?”
Agios didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. It was still a question he couldn’t answer, even after the hours he had spent reading the scrolls, reliving the stories that they contained. He wasn’t mentioned, of course, but he could picture himself on the periphery, observing so much of it but understanding so little. How many of the people who had known Jesus could truly say that they understood who he was and what he intended to do?
“I don’t know,” Agios said after a long minute had passed. But the shadow of a sad smile crossed his face. “I don’t truly know what it means to believe in something. In someone.”
“It means that we are sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.” Nicholas pulled up a chair across from Agios and sat forward with his elbows on the table. He was so trusting, so earnest. It was obvious how much he wanted Agios to have faith.
“Those are lovely words,” Agios said.
“They’re from Hebrews.” Then, sensing Agios’s confusion, he gestured at the scrolls scattered over the table in his father’s study. “It’s one of these, but I couldn’t tell you which one.”
Agios sighed. “I don’t think I’m up to reading more scrolls right now anyway. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do at all, Nicholas.” He bowed his head and murmured, “I’ve worked so hard to deserve the mercy of Christ and his forgiveness—and yet, it never comes.”
“But it has come, Agios. You don’t have to do anything.”
“But—”
“That’s God’s glory,” Nicholas interrupted excitedly. “Grace is something we’re given, not something we earn or take. All we have to do is accept what’s been done for us. Jesus died for me, Agios. And he died for you, too.”
For me. After all I’ve done. And all I couldn’t do.
I am undeserving.
Agios felt as if his heart were a bottomless pit, black and carved into ground that had been poisoned by years of grief and brutality and death. He had killed people. He had watched others die. He had wished for his own death and tried to make it happen more than once.
“I’m not sure I understand,” Agios finally whispered.
At this, Nicholas sat up straight and smiled at him. “Oh, you’ll never understand. Nobody expects you to understand the mind of God or know why he would love us in the midst of our weakness and sin. I think . . .” He paused, considering. “I think this is a matter for the heart. Do you love him?”
The answer was on Agios’s lips before he had a chance to wonder if it was true or not.
Love him? That’s why I followed him when he was a baby and why I prayed to follow him until his mission was complete. That’s why I felt so changed when I sat near the Sychar well. That’s why my heart broke when I saw him die on the cross.
Whenever he and Krampus had caught a glimpse of Jesus, Agios had felt his spirit soar.
“I do,” he said, his conviction unswerving.
“Agios, you were forgiven long ago. God has accepted your repentance. He gives his forgiveness freely.”
Agios smiled back. But it was hard to accept that anything could be that simple.
“You’ll see,” Nicholas assured him, his eyes sparkling.
When he was alone, Agios wondered, Should I just leave now? Nicholas needs a father, and I—I need a son. But how can I be a father to him when all my sons die? And how could he tell Nicholas the truth about himself—that he was a cursed man who could not die?
I couldn’t save Philos, or Krampus— or Jesus! I swore to protect him, and I couldn’t save him! How can I tell Nicholas of my curse?
With despair, Agios bowed his head. “I think I believe,” he murmured. “Help me to believe! Let me know— did you make others like me? If you did—are we blessed or cursed? Help me understand.”
No answer came, and Agios could only hope that, somehow, from somewhere, one would come.
Father Eudemus came again that morning, and Agios thanked him. The priest said, “I think you’ve been good for Nicholas.”
“The other way around,” Agios said. “He’s been good for me.”
Nona laughed at this, throwing back her head in delight. “That boy influences everyone he meets!” she cried. “I bet he hasn’t told you.”
“Told me what?”
“Nona, please,” the younger Nicholas warned, giving his caretakers a look of distress.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” the priest told him. Then he turned to Agios. “Our Nicholas said to me he wants to distribute every coin of his inheritance among the poor. He quoted the scripture to me.”
Nona said, “ ‘If you want to be perfect, go, sell your possessions and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.’ That’s what Jesus said.”
Agios recognized the passage. He had read it more than once during his long night. “Matthew?” he guessed.
Nicholas shrugged. “Or Mark or Luke. The story is recorded in all three, but the message is always the same: Jesus knew how easily our hearts were corrupted.”
“So many in town are needy after the plague,” the priest said. “It’s a wonderful gift, Nicholas.”
“I’m going to be a priest anyway,” Nicholas mumbled, clearly embarrassed. “What need do I have for money?”
But there was no diminishing what Nicholas had done. Agios felt his heart swell with pride as if the boy were his own son. He had squandered his life searching and hungering, killing and carving a way for himself in the world. Even at such a young age, Nicholas lived another way. What was the difference?
Jesus.
Agios felt his voice waver as h
e said, “I told you not so long ago that you will be a fine man, Nicholas. I think I was wrong. I think you already are a fine man.”
The priest and Nona promised to care for Nicholas—“I won’t let him become entirely poor until he joins the priesthood,” Eudemus assured Agios with a twinkle.
Agios bade them farewell. Without the boy, the trip back to the cave was rapid, but all the same, Agios was surprised when he reached the meadow where Nicholas grazed his flock every spring well before sundown. He climbed the slope quickly, hurrying although nothing awaited his care. Surely weeds hadn’t sprung up to overtake the garden in one night. And he had nothing worth stealing.
As he often did when troubled or worried, Agios stepped into his little storage room and selected some good oak, the pure white heartwood shading into a thick layer of fine-grained tan. His carving tools were in a relatively new goatskin satchel and he slung the strap over his shoulder, wondering for the first time at his need for a new pouch, but not new blades.
Crouching near his fire pit, Agios unrolled the kit and looked at the small precise instruments. When had he last sharpened them? He could no longer remember. They should have dulled with use, or they should have rusted to pieces. Agios had ceased to count the years, but in Nicholas’s home he had learned the date. It had been almost three hundred years since Gamos had made a gift of these exact tools for him. Three hundred years.
And yet they kept their edge, always ready to do their work, seemingly immune to age and blunting and rust. It sent a little chill down his spine.
What had he prayed? All those . . . centuries ago?
Let me serve him until his mission is completed.
Agios began to carve, not consciously planning on the result, but letting his hands do the work automatically.
We have only one life. We may waste it, or we may use it to learn of God and what God wants for us. And we all make mistakes. Only one life.
Except for me. I’ve been cursed—
No. Blessed. I’ve been blessed with many lifetimes—and I’ve wasted too many in regrets and blame and guilt.
