Sons of Encouragement

by Francine Rivers

  “They’re young. Their feelings will change.”

  “If pounded into submission?”

  Paul’s eyes went dark again. Silas cocked his head and looked at him gravely.

  “Time is short, Silas, and we should not waste any of it pleasing another person.”

  “I’ll tell Timothy that, the next time he strives to live up to your expectations.”

  “The Scriptures say a man should remain at home for a year and give his wife pleasure! I say what time we have must be dedicated to spreading the news of Jesus Christ.”

  “Yes. You say.”

  “We carry the message of life! What is more important than that?”

  “Nothing. But it does not have to be carried alone.”

  “We’re not alone. We travel in pairs.”

  “And some of the pairs could be husband and wife.”

  Paul’s eyes blazed. “The Lord could return tomorrow, Silas. Should we devote ourselves to anything or anyone that does not further the message of Christ?”

  “If we don’t love others, Paul, what good is all our fine preaching?”

  “You’re talking about lust, not love!”

  “Is this discussion about winning a debate, Paul, or about the very real struggles of people within the body of Christ? Some will be called to marry and have children. Will you tell them they are not allowed to do so because you are called to celibacy and dedication to evangelism?”

  “There is no time for marriage!”

  “So, now you know when Jesus will return. Is that what you’re saying? Even Jesus said He didn’t know! Only the Father knows!”

  Silas took a deep breath, realizing his voice had risen in anger. Anger would accomplish nothing. Oh, but Paul could be so adamant, so fiercely stubborn.

  “You were called of God to travel and preach, Paul. I’ve been called, of late, to accompany you. Each of us is called to different tasks and places within society. You have preached so yourself.”

  “All to build the body—”

  “Yes. To build! And if everyone refuses to marry or have children, even if God leads them to do so, what happens to our numbers within a generation?”

  Paul drew back and frowned.

  Silas spread his hands. “God made marriage, Paul. The Lord sanctifies the relationship.” He shrugged. “Perhaps the question is not whether men and women should marry, but how they should behave when they do. What is a Christian marriage to look like to the world around us? Love each other. What does that mean in terms other than the physical? Peter and his wife have been an inspiration to many. . . .”

  Over the months, they had discussed marriage and prayed for God’s guidance in what to teach about it. Everywhere they went, they had seen the way unrestrained sexual passion could destroy lives. Such passions were the foundation of idol worship.

  Silas took up the reed pen again and ran it between his fingers. When his father died, he’d had no time to consider marriage. The young woman who might have become his wife was given to another with his blessing. The loss had not touched his heart. He had barely known her.

  He wanted to know Diana and, because of these feelings, did his best to avoid her.

  But she was always at meetings, sitting nearby, attentive. It took determined efforts on his part to keep his gaze from drifting back to her. And her smile . . .

  He could not allow himself to think of her. It led him to thoughts of what might have been and could never be.

  Mixing another supply of ink, Silas set his own scroll aside and worked until late copying Peter’s letters. Only then did he allow himself to linger on his past again.

  Paul and I planned to go to Asia, but were prevented when Roman foot soldiers stopped us on the road and enlisted us to carry their gear. They demanded only the distance Roman law allowed. We saw this as an opportunity to tell them about Jesus and traveled with them all the way to the border of Mysia. We prayed about whether God wanted us to cross the mountains into Asia, but the Holy Spirit sent us north instead, and then east along the border of Bithynia and on to Troas.

  We knew the Lord had led us there. Troas is a strategic meeting point of sea routes on the northwestern coast of Asia, southwest of the old city of Troy. Its position close to the mouth of the Hellespont has made the Roman colony grow. The citizens have made harbor basins, which provide shelter from the northerlies for ships. Troas is the main port for crossing to Neapolis in Macedonia and reaching the land route to Rome. The Good News could spread easily in all directions from Troas.

  We met Luke, the physician, in Troas. Paul needed salve for an infection, and Luke was recommended to us. What a great friend he became, not just to Paul and Timothy and me, but to other brothers and sisters. He left his practice to join us in our travels. As soon as he accepted Christ, the Holy Spirit filled him with purpose, that of gathering facts and information about Jesus’ birth, teaching, miracles, death, burial, and resurrection. When he was not attending someone as a physician, he could be found hard at work compiling his reports.

  When we were in Ephesus, Luke spoke for long hours with Mary, the mother of Jesus, and John the apostle, with whom she lived. He met Lazarus and his sisters before they sailed to Tarsus. In Jerusalem, he spoke to James and several disciples. If he ever completes this history, the church can know it is a trustworthy account.

  While we were in Troas, Paul had a vision. “A man of Macedonia keeps calling out to me, ‘Come over here and help us!’”

  The four of us sailed to Samothrace and reached Neapolis the next day. We only stayed long enough to eat and rest before we headed for Philippi.

  We were all excited about what the Lord would do, for Philippi, a prosperous Roman colony, was on the Egnatian Way, the military road that joined Rome and the East. It was along this great highway that information traveled from one end of the empire to the other. From Troas, the message would travel by sea; from Philippi, by land.

  We spent several days looking for a synagogue.

  Paul grew dismayed. “We must be the only Jews in the entire city.” All it required to establish a synagogue was ten men who were heads of households.

  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.