Short Story Tim MacIlwaine,

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“How to Draw Strength from a Daring Church Plant”

by
Tim MacIlwaine

First U.K. serial rights About 7, 673 words

 “How to Draw Strength from a Daring Church Plant”
LYSTRA
Acts 14:8-20

THE FORK

“I will tell you a story. It will leave you with more questions than answers, but if you
stick with it, I guarantee that you will never forget it.” I said. “Want to hear it?”

Not waiting for an answer, I added, “We are all on a journey through life, wouldn’t
you agree? If you listen to my story, I am certain that I will bring you to a place in
your life, a fork in your road, that will compel you to search your soul. You will form
your own question and it will compel you to answer it. You will make a decision that
will be as private to you as you want it to be. No pressure. I promise.”

With an invitation like that, who wouldn’t squirm? He agreed in a less than
convincing manner. It was one of those questions that evoked many different
answers, depending on the perceived motive for the asking.

He was a decent type. He agreed to sit down, and we picnicked together.

We had met on the summit of one of the most popular peaks of the Taurus
Mountains. Looking north and way down below we could see the largest lake in the
Phrygian province*. On the far side, where green gave way to browns, I could see
my home village, Lystra. Looking the other way, we could see, in the distance, the
Mediterranean. It was a clear day. I had just fulfilled a lifelong dream: to climb this
summit.

*Phrygian province: Central Turkey

I will admit that I was emotional. The man who was there with me was a stranger.
He was not from these parts. He was a good fifteen years younger than I. Just the
two of us on top of this incredible mountain. He was already there when I arrived. I
was exhausted. The ascent was punishing, but the reward was out of this world. It
was a beautiful day. There were white clouds, but the deep blue sky dominated.
Contrasted with the green pine trees that densely populated the rugged mountain,
the view was magnificent.

Below, in amongst the rocks and the forest, tucked in where the sun couldn’t burn,
lay the snow. Snow from a bitter winter that was now giving way to a glorious
summer. The wind rushed but the air was not cold. We could hear the gurgle of a
swollen stream further down the mountain that was carrying away the snow. A
stream that we had both traversed several times following the well-worn path to the
top of the mountain. I listened to the ravens carrying on like there was no tomorrow.
The whole place was like heaven.
I had stood gathering my breath. I was tearful. This was a key moment in my life. I
spread my arms out and spun around in one full turn. The view was incredible. I
couldn’t contain myself. I yelled at the top of my voice, “Thank you, Lord Jesus.”

I admit, for the preservation of cordiality, that it was completely out of place. My
fellow mountaineer, who I didn’t know, was embarrassed. It was an arbitrary
utterance. He looked at me, half smiling, and asked, “What’s the matter? Have you
never climbed a mountain before?”

I said, “I apologise. I didn’t mean to put you in a spot. As you can see, I am
overwhelmed. What I have achieved today is a miracle. Never in my wildest
dreams could I have imagined standing here on top of the world.”

“Are you one of those Jesus people? What has he got to do with this?” He asked.

RUMOURS FROM ISRAEL

I was born and raised in Lystra. I was deformed and had never walked until the age
of 44. Because of that condition, I didn't get around much, but I did hear all the
news. My parents were bakers and our shop was as good as any for gossip.
Because of my disposition, as something of an honorary assignment, I became the
village news hub. If there was a buzz, I knew about it.

For years, at least ten, I had learnt of something very weird that had taken place in
the land of Israel. There had been rumours of incredible healings. After the first few,
we concluded that it was the product of somebody’s fertile mind; nothing more.

But the rumours kept coming. And the substance of the stories more outlandish for
the telling.

After about three years, they faded momentarily. Then they resurged a few months
later. Along with the old stories, new ones started circulating.

What we had learned was that the Romans, with exuberant encouragement from the
religious leaders of the day, had, in Jerusalem, executed this healer, the perpetrator
of all these miracles. His name was Jesus. That accounted for the fade, but not the
resurge.

The mix of new and old stories were entertaining for gossip in our modest, struggling
little village. As chief newscaster, I enjoyed dubious notoriety, but the stories were
hopelessly improbable. I found myself playing them down; even censoring some of
them. Imagine Jesus scooping up some dirt in the palm of his hand, spitting into it
and stirring it into mud. Then imagine him smearing that over the eyes of a blind
person. Jesus then tells him to go and wash. He feels his way to water, washes the
spit-balls out of his eye sockets, opens his eyes and finds that he has perfect vision,
seeing for the first time in his life. Imagine that!
There was another one: Jesus healed ten lepers. He restored their flesh but issued
a warning: They had to report to the priests. Only one did. He remained healthy:
The others reverted to their original condition. What, we asked, was that about?

But the story that grabbed my imagination the most, I didn’t share. It was a hope so
dear to my heart that I found it impossible to share without tears and there was no
one in the village who shared my infirmity, who could empathise. People didn’t
appreciate the kind of hope that I had concealed in my heart. How could they?

I had learned that friends of a paraplegic in Israel had lowered him through the roof
of some person’s house where Jesus was. There was a pressing crowd that had
made it impossible to reach the healer any other way. Safely deposited at his feet,
Jesus spoke words into the paraplegic’s ears and the next thing, he rolls up his bed
and walks out of the house. Just like that.

Words! The healer spoke words: nothing more.

I would dream of that happening to me. I wanted to walk like everyone else; to be
able to care for myself. I have a very understanding and long-suffering family. No
matter how well-meaning they were though, I could sense the resentment at times.
It made for an awkwardness that, no matter after how many years, I couldn’t escape.
Think about that: It wasn’t just me who suffered, but my family and their frequent
moments of guilt. You can only imagine how badly I wanted my legs to function.

Pause and think about that.

How envious was I when I first heard of this miracle? I tried to imagine what it must
have felt like when his bones moved into place and muscle formed around them.
This image played over and over in my mind. At night I would try to fall asleep past
this problem. How would I ever know how to command those legs to follow a
sequence that translated me from a sitting position to walking: in an instant? The
man in Israel got up, rolled up his bed and walked out of that house. How was it
possible with no practice? These thoughts swirled around in my head. I couldn’t find
answers. There were nights when I hardly slept at all.

In the mornings, in the cold light of day, the fantasy would give way to reality. I
couldn’t decide whether I was relieved that I didn’t have to figure it out anymore, or
whether I was full of dread waiting to be assisted to relieve myself; dress myself and
live the life of a dependent. Something I hated with a passion.

I used to ask myself why all this fretting? It was hardly a story that held a shred of
truth. A story from a far-off land about a people I didn’t know. Stuff and nonsense. I
was going insane.

Time passed. We had learnt of Jesus’s death. Some of the accounts were very
graphic: Cruel beyond description. In an awful display of excess, Roman soldiers
whipped him to a pulp before nailing him to suffocate on a Roman cross. To
suffocate when his legs could no longer push up for the air passages to open. They
believed that he was either a mad man or a conman. In fact, I got the impression
that they had no clue why they needed to kill him. It was for the Jewish religious
leaders that they indulged in this bloodletting. The Jewish priests claimed Jesus was
a blasphemer because he had claimed that he was the son of God.

But the stories kept rolling in. Travellers would repeat the old ones but there were
always fresh ones. Other people were now performing these miracles, but one thing
I noticed was that they all pointed to Jesus.

I wasn’t looking for these stories anymore: My head ached from the unanswered
questions and the wishful thinking. But they kept coming.

We often repeated the question: Why hadn’t the stories died with Jesus?

I recall thinking a lot about this. I would gaze into the sky on clear nights and think,
who else is out there? What is the meaning of all these stars? How did we
humans get here?

Rest assured, there were lots of theories. In Lystra, we believed in Greek gods. It
was that background upon which we explained our existence. We had lots of gods,
lots of festivals and lots of sacrifices.

The stories kept coming from Israel, but it was only the miraculous healings that
piqued my interest. I kept dreaming of walking. I used to gaze at the mountains
across the lake. I begged people to describe to me what it was like to stand on top
of one. I used to hang on every word.

You would have to be a cripple to understand what it was like not having that kind of
freedom.

TWO VISITORS FROM ICONIUM

I was busy carving another useless curio out of wood for the tourists when a stranger
came in to buy some bread. He got talking about two travellers from Israel
performing miracles in Iconium. There was something familiar about this. I pressed
him for more information.

They represented a person who they referred to as their Saviour. His name was
Jesus.

I knew it. My heart jumped. Could any of this be possible?

Two travellers walk into a town nearby and talk about this man, Jesus. They were
Jews but ethnicity did not fuss them, it seemed. Jesus was a known Jew and I had
understood that his work was with the Jews, yet Gentiles were now included? For
real? I could hardly contain myself.

But I did. I forced my hopes down as hard as I could. The hope I harboured was
childish. I allowed the visitor to get on with the business of buying his bread and I
returned to my carving, determined not to tease myself.

But my dear old mother pressed in. She carried on the conversation. "No," I heard
the visitor say, "they were healing people as well! That was what was so amazing.
There was this one person who was blind. They briefly prayed over him and healed
him. Imagine that?"

Now he had my undivided attention. "Was that blind person a Jew, do you know?"

"No, he wasn't. Anybody was welcome listen to the news they were spreading. I
think they purposefully caught our attention by way of the miracles. I have to say
that I suspected trickery. Many believed and many didn’t. I sided with the
disbelievers and we chased them out of town, but I am now doubting my judgement."

The customer paid for his bread and tucked it into his sack. "Brace yourselves.
These guys are on their way here. I passed them speaking to some travellers on the
main road. They had this poor sucker on his knees, right there on the road and were
laying hands on his head, praying. I passed on the other side of the road. I
seriously wanted to warn them that these guys were con artists, but I didn't.
Something stopped me. I chickened out." He was embarrassed to admit that.

I liked that in him. He had humility. The whole conversation played over in my mind
for the rest of that day. It aroused me and I resolved that I would go and listen to
them. The market square was directly outside the shop, so I had no planning to do.
This, I was not going to miss.

They arrived in town the next day. I didn't hear about it until later. They had started
in the synagogue for the daily prayers. It was quite a show. We could hear it from
the shop. The town lit up with gossip. Jews were rushing to the synagogue as the
news spread. We were on the side-lines. Prayers went on well into the night.
Times of quiet, then eruptions, then quiet again, and so it oscillated.

I was burning with imagination. I couldn’t sleep. Were we Gentiles going to have
our turn at this?

There is only one place in our village where they could address a large crowd: Right
outside our front door.

I didn't sleep well because I was in the grips of one of those mind-spinning
nightmares that I have already mentioned: If these travellers restored my legs, how
was I going to walk?
I rolled on to my side, brought up my hands to my face, closed my eyes and prayed.
"God of Jesus. I don't know you. I don't know if you can hear me. Why would you?
I have heard incredible stories about miracles. Please look at me. I was born
deformed. I am 45 years old and I have never walked a step in my life. I have a
mind. I have eyes. I have ears. What unkind stroke of ... of what? I don't know
what to call it. Why was I cursed with useless legs? I know I am a burden to my
family. Why was I born at all? Why was I born with mind, eyes, and ears except for
the purpose of understanding? Oh God. If I am to believe that you exist and that
you can hear me even as I talk to you now, can I dare to hope?”

I paused as I thought more, then continued. "There was a report of a person in

Israel who too was an invalid. He was not able to walk. His friends lowered him
through someone's roof because they couldn't reach the healer called Jesus. It
seems to me that he was a Jew. That is the only difference. He must have dared to
think that Jesus would make him whole. Can I dare the same?”

"Are our visitors brothers or friends of the man Jesus, who was killed?” I hesitated to
mention the other story we’d heard about him being raised from the dead three days
later. What I really wanted to ask was, is one of them Jesus? But I didn’t. I said
instead “I understand that something big is happening. I do not feel too awkward
talking to you, God. You are the first god that I know who..."

I had run out of words. What was I trying to say? I had learned all about the Greek
gods we worshiped. How many times had priests prayed for me to become whole?
I thought about this as I lay in my bed. I was trying to communicate with a god I did
not know, yet somehow felt I must go on.

"Sir, God, what must I call you? I feel as if some kind of force is sweeping me
along. None of the gods I know have ever encouraged me. You are the first one
who makes me feel, umm, loved? Is that what I am feeling?

"I am afraid to allow hope into my life at this late stage, but what are you doing to
me? I have hope."

I don't recall if my conversation went on. I had a fitful sleep, tossing and turning. I
tried to continue my prayer, but it was incoherent and disjointed, consistent with
incipient sleep.

I got up in the morning filled with an urgency that I can't really describe. My
determination to get to the front steps of the amphitheatre in the Square was
stronger than ever. They carried me into the Square moaning. Why all this hype?
"It's just a couple of salesmen come to extort money from us. We get them all the
time. What is your problem?" My brothers always chiding me. I didn't even bother to
respond. I just needed to get there.
The travellers soon arrived, and I had my front row seat. Paul and Barnabas were
their names. Frankly, I was surprised. They certainly did not look like much: Paul
had his arm in a sling and their clothes were soiled and torn. I could see dried blood.

My enthusiasm waned.

As the seats filled up around me, I heard enthusiastic chatter from every direction
about the events of the night before. My enthusiasm picked up.

Then the one called Paul stood up and spoke. Oh boy. I cannot describe to you
what it did to me. It was as if a record of all the deeds and rumours we had heard of
over the last ten years was open for scrutiny. We could not but believe. What must I
say to you? There was no doubt. Nothing said by Paul and then by Barnabas
conflicted with any of the rumours we had heard over the years. It was uncanny. No
one had to ask questions. Everything just fitted into place and we felt, I don't know,
satisfied, confident? Are those the right words?

Nothing they said excluded the name of Jesus. Jesus Christ of Nazareth. Paul
confirmed that he is the Son of God. When it came to that story about the Holy Spirit
raising him from the dead.... Oh man. It is true. He was.

Paul had his own amazing story to tell. He met the might of God when he was in
opposition. Within six weeks or seven weeks after the death of Jesus followers
exploded in their thousands onto the religious landscape. First, following the
resurrection of Jesus and, secondly, a few weeks later, when Jesus ascended into
heaven.

He didn't say so, but I am convinced that the other person, Barnabas, saw the death
of Jesus Christ. His cousin was one of the original twelve disciples. A man called
Mark. Barnabas quoted things he had learnt from Mark. I had no doubt that what I
was listening to was the truth.

A NEW MIRACLE

Acts 14:8-20

Paul, who was speaking again, suddenly spun round and pointed straight at me. I
was shocked. "Stand up on your feet", he called out.

I stood up, straight as a rod. I looked down to see perfectly formed feet.

You could hear a twig snap. It was as if everyone in the Square had caught their
breath.

I took a step.
And then another.

I walked out into the free area between the seats and where Paul stood. Paul came
over and grabbed me by my shoulders. Looking straight into my eyes, he said, "You
were never born cripple because of your sins. You were born for this moment. You
shall be a witness to Jesus Christ. He knows your heart. You are a good person
and your work in the brotherhood has just begun. Today we buy you shoes and a
staff. God bless you." He beamed. I beamed. And all the people in amphitheatre
remained in stunned silence.

I don't know if you can imagine what effect this had on me. Much less can I put it
into words. Think of the last cripple you ever saw. I can completely understand that
you may never have got down on your knees and taken a closer look. But a cursory
glance would be enough for you to recoil. My feet, for example, curled so that the
first point of contact with the ground was the sides. One curled inward and the other
outward. And the legs that were supposed to support the body had never been
used. They were thin and skeletal. It was not a pretty sight. To put people at ease,
I always tried to cover my lower body.

As a measure of my bold faith that morning I had taken care to dress appropriately.

Going back to the very moment when Paul spoke to me, I knew instantly. I felt
shooting pains in both feet as they straightened. The pain quickly moved up my legs
and stopped at my hips. As quickly as dropping something on the floor, the pain was
there and then it wasn't. I leant forward and I could feel flesh on my thighs where
flesh of this order had never been before.

Paul's command was sharp. Harsh, actually. It had shocked me. The command
gave no room for doubt and reason. I arose at once. The sheet that I had draped
over my lower body fell to the ground. My tunic thankfully hung evenly as it fell to my
knees. I looked down. The feet and legs of a normal person.

Silence. I walked those few steps into the clearing first tentatively. All that
maddening worry about the impossibility of wasted legs being made whole that had
kept me from decent sleep was, in an instant, swept away. I had never walked in my
45 crippled years. How many times had I watched my baby nephews and nieces
taking their first steps? Now it was my turn. Three steps, four steps, five, and then
Paul had me by my shoulders. I think his injured arm must have enjoyed the same
healing because his grip was strong. I teared up. Paul teared up.

Our moment. And still the silence.

MY DANCE PARTNER

It took one brave person to break the spell. He cried out, and the Square erupted.
People rushed us. Some were so enthralled that they even lifted my tunic. It was all
I could do to maintain some dignity. I danced. Others danced. The crowd swept
Paul off in one direction and I another. It was chaotic. I tried running - the crowd
parted and clapped as I wobbled through. A middle-aged lady took my hand and
invited me to dance. She was so gentle yet strong. Soon we were whirling around
in a wild dance of pure joy. It was a surreal, drunken-like moment of ecstasy.

I can't tell you how long this commotion went on for. The crowd was pressing in on
Paul and Barnabas from all sides. Healing had begun in earnest and as this
beautiful lady swirled me around, I caught glimpses of miraculous healing taking
place. At the touch on the forehead, folk were falling to the ground in a dead-like
sleep. Each time I came round there were more people on the ground.

We stopped dancing to watch. People who had been lying down started to stand up.
To a person, they would touch their bodies in a way that told us where their
respective afflictions had been. It was too much for us. The lady who had sprung
me for a dance stood beside me. I didn't realise that we were still holding hands until
much later.

I wept in heavy sobs. Gulps of air. Tears streaming unchecked down my cheeks.
The lady gave me a clean, lovely smelling handkerchief, but not before first drying
her own tears. We were two strangers caught in the most surreal event imaginable.
We hugged.

GREEK GODS

A new noise seeped into our awareness. A chant was gaining strength all around
us. It was in our home language and I recognised that the tune they were singing
was a refrain from a song we sometimes sang in the nearby Zeus temple.

"The gods come at last.

The gods come at last.
The gods have come down to us in human form.
The gods are smiling.
Hail to Zeus.
Hail to Hermes.
The gods come at last."

My dance partner was shaking her head. She understood the words, but she kept
saying, "No. No. No." What she saw alarmed her.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

"You are walking because you were healed by who?"

"That guy Paul."

"No. No. You must understand this; he is an apostle of the Lord Jesus Christ. He is
representing Jesus. Without the Holy Spirit in him, he cannot do miracles."
"Yes. Of course. How foolish. It is as if, in my excitement, I have forgotten
everything he and Barnabas had told us. Forgive me." I crumbled to the floor in fear.
I honestly thought that God would withdraw my miracle, like he had those lepers.

She bent down and said, "Come, get up. Let's go and sit down. This is too much for
you. Don't feel bad about this."

"My name is Zelda." She then began to explain that she was a Jew and had first met
the risen Lord Jesus in Iconium through the teaching of Paul and Barnabas last
week. "Jesus died for all mankind; not just us Jews. You heard what Barnabas said
earlier? He said that Jesus's reason for dying was to take the sin of the world
away. Good is to live. Bad is to die. Well Jesus, who was without sin in the entire
span of his brief life on earth, took death. That is the very reason he left the sanctity
of heaven. Mankind was beyond repair. By dying he reversed the equation: Good
died. Do you understand?"

"Go on."

"Well, let's look at the deal with the Devil. Even your religion understands that a
spiritual world envelopes us all. There is a force that causes mankind to sin. None
of us likes to do wrong, but we do it anyway, often against our better judgement.
Yes?"

"OK."

"There is only one true God. The one who flung the stars into the sky, who created
this amazing world that we live in. The one who sent Jesus Christ. The one who
has given you functioning legs this very day.

“He is the one who chose one tribe from all of the earth to be his own. As it
happens, my people. But even we have stumbled and fallen throughout the ages.
Why? Why couldn't my people at least behave? We had every good reason to.

“The Answer is the Devil.

"God banished the Devil and a third of the beings from heaven when they tried to
take control of all the universe. He banished him to Earth, but that didn't mean that
God abandoned his creation. He has loved every single one of us since the
beginning of time.

"Ever since evil took over there has been this tussle. God made the rules and
because he doesn’t bend or break His rules, he has upheld the deal he made with
Satan. 'If my people sin, they will die.' And die we have. The only way God could
save us was to cancel out the deal he made with the Devil. 'You kill one who is
without sin and all bets are off. The deal is broken. Winner takes all.'
“The first man God ever made in his image was Adam. The Devil tricked him into
breaking one rule God had set. And that is how come we all sin. We are born as
sinners and try as we might, we cannot shake that mantle off.

“For God to win his people back, He needed one perfect person to be killed by
Satan. He couldn’t find one single person on Earth who qualified. So God sent His
Son, Jesus, to be that person. Jesus had to be born like any child. His mother and
father had to raise him like a normal child. The Devil tempted him at every turn like
we all are, and he had to keep from sinning. He bled, he cried, he laughed, he knew
hunger and thirst. Everything a human being experiences. Try as Satan did to get
him to sin, he failed.

"As Jesus grew into manhood, he started to show his people who he really was. To
have any hope of gaining their attention, he performed miracles. You must have
heard of them from here; yes?”

I was breathless. “Yes, so many,” I replied.

She continued, “Jesus needed to unteach us, his people. He went to work on the
Pharisees there in Israel. He undermined their legalistic behaviour. They were
elitist, pious, and proud. They loved their own self-importance. They were the
epitome of sanctimonious self-importance, full of hatred, jealousy, pride, and greed.
Legalism covered them so completely that God's love could not breath. Satan had
done the predictable. He stirred up such hatred that it drove the religious leaders to
arrange the death of Jesus. They demanded of the Roman overlords his crucifixion.
Jesus suffered the worst kind of death imaginable. He knew it was coming. He
knew what he was here for and he did it to save us.

"God's deal was off. Satan was defeated.

“It was the only way all of mankind could be re-justified to spend eternity with Him in
heaven.

“It is a gift to anyone – Jew or Gentile. Once again, the God of one proviso: It is
simply this, believe in Jesus Christ as the Son of God. There is nothing else you can
or should do. You cannot earn your way into heaven. Just believe in Jesus.”

Phew! There was so much to take in: The crowd were still singing and dancing in
the Square. It is difficult to explain how one feels when your parents have brought
you up with certain values and religious practices that never made sense, but you do
them anyway. How many times had I personally just wanted to skip the meetings?
It was all a giant nothing. Can you imagine the hassle of bundling me up every time
Zeus had a function? The same old prayers by the same old Chief Priest. Empty -
just empty words. And oh, so boring.

Then suddenly, someone draws a curtain away to reveal a whole new world. The
light pours in. This explanation was so refreshing. And I had my legs.
Paul had explained the reason for the infirmity. I could make sense of it all now.
The word 'love' leapt at me. God loved me. Yes, me. No Greek God had ever
suggested that. Nor, for that matter had one re-built my legs. What had just
happened was an act of love. My functioning legs were the ultimate proof of the
super-natural. I could have done nothing to make this happen: Only the true God of
the universe could do this.

I sat there, dumbstruck. Zelda didn't say another word. I did a lot of weeping that
day and here I was weeping again. Through the mist of my tears I watched as
images of people swirled and danced and sang with joy.

It must have been near lunch time. Zelda lead me up to the top of the amphitheatre.
I could climb steps! The perspective was new to me. I watched the town-folk down
below. I couldn't see Paul or Barnabas. I think they had retired. I lifted my head.
The mountains to the south: I suddenly realised that I could contemplate climbing
them. I can’t tell you what that meant to me.

Suddenly we noticed a commotion just out of town, in the direction of the mountains.
The temple of Zeus stood on a prominent hill. "Look,” I said, “they are leading cattle
towards the city gates. And there are children carrying wreaths."

Zelda reacted first. "No. Not that."

"Why, what is the problem?"

"Listen," she said, "it is that song again: 'The gods have come down to us in human
form'. That is not right. Don't you see? Listen." She paused.

"No. NO!. Listen…” She held up her hand and cocked her head. “Something about
Zeus and Hermes..... They are proclaiming that Paul and Barnabas are visiting
gods! Oh no. This is all going wrong."

She left me and ran towards the gate. I followed as fast as I could. I was still
unsteady on my feet. Even I knew that this had nothing to do with Greek gods.
Zelda was trying to get the people to turn back but she was fighting against a tide of
people pressing in.

Two figures shot past me yelling, "No. Stop". I recognised that it was Paul and
Barnabas. They were distressed. Their clothes were torn. They themselves were
tearing the fabric.

But when the people saw them, they mobbed them and hoisted them onto their
shoulders. The two evangelists protested vigorously. Kicking, pushing and pulling,
they managed to slide down back to ground. They were so distressed that the
people stopped. They formed a circle around them. I wasn't near them, but I could
hear them shouting. "Stop this. We are not gods. We are human beings."
They argued at length, trying to point out the difference between worthless worship
to idols and the majesty of the God they served. I saw Zelda shouting
encouragement at them. There were others doing the same, but the vast majority
didn't want to hear it. The scene was confused, and in the middle of all this the
young men leading the cattle pulled the fearful, white-eyed bulls back and forth, not
knowing what to do next.

Eventually my townsfolk listened and desisted. The handlers took the cattle back to
the temple and the fall of a thousand feet trampled the wreaths that the children had
been carrying.

THE CONSEQUENCES OF EVANGELISM

I won't tell you that it was a peaceful afternoon. I was like an object of curiosity. I
had to entertain an endless stream of visitors. My family, friends and even strangers
beat a path to our door. They wanted to see what had happened to me.

I can't tell you how helpful my friend Zelda was. She kept me grounded whilst using
the opportunity exactly as she should under the circumstances: exalting the Lord
Jesus Christ as the author and finisher of my miracle.

I don't know how many understood, but those that did were keen to hear more.
Speaking in hindsight I must tell you that it was an amazing experience to see the
spawning of the church of Christ in Phrygia and Cappadocia. With the passage of
time, the assembly of followers has grown enormously.

To my distress, this isn't the end of my account of that fateful week. I soon learnt
about the opposition Paul and Barnabas had met in Iconium. This gave me the
reason why they had arrived in Lystra in soiled and bloodied clothing and why Paul’s
arm was in a sling. The Devil would not let them alone. He had roused a large
group, both Jews and gentiles to chase them out of Iconium. But it got worse.

Lystra, to its shame, nearly killed Paul. A core of strangers had been following them.
Zelda recognised some of them. They were from Antioch. Some may even have
come from as far away as Jerusalem. They had one purpose and one only: To stop
the birth of another Church. They did everything they could to rip up the churches
Paul and Barnabas had planted along the way. They heckled. They rabble-roused.
They used manipulative and selective theology for intellectuals to argue about and, if
all else failed, they paid for bad actors to riot.

Zelda, whilst covering me with her wing, tried desperately to warn my family and
friends of this guaranteed sequel. We spent the whole afternoon in heightened, and
often, heated debate. Bless her heart; she talked at length about her nation’s
history. A new Christian herself, the way she wove the ancient writings of the
Hebrews into the here-and-now seemed masterful. I never knew that those old
writings were all pointing to a person called the Messiah, and that person was the
Jesus we had heard so much about. It became more amazing to me as the
afternoon wore on. I ran some numbers in my head: I think Jesus was born in the
same year as I.

Zelda kept on. She was desperate to win as many people over as possible. We
could hear the unrest developing all around us and we needed to build enough
numbers to ensure the safety of Paul and Barnabas. And us, for that matter.

Mark my words; much of what happens to us in the physical world, is the product of
warfare in the spiritual. God chooses His people. Clearly, he had chosen Zelda. Me
too. And there were others, but inexplicably, there were many He had not. And this
day, they outnumbered us.

While Zelda was talking to my family and friends, Paul and Barnabas were facing
down an increasingly agitated mob at an eating house a street away from us.

The noise of the disruption grew. Zelda was uneasy. She recounted what had
happened to Paul and Barnabas in Iconium and she was afraid for them now.

It wasn’t much later that she stood up, made her apologies, and left. I followed. I
kept making mistakes walking. I stumbled a lot and fell behind.

I arrived as this awful mob grabbed Paul and flung him to the ground. Three large
individuals had Barnabas in an armlock. Some unattractive bully sent Zelda flying.
Others were trying to shield Paul, but the mob was far too big. I saw a rock fly at
Paul. It hit him in the ribs. It always starts with one and then the avalanche: Another
person threw a rock. And then another, and another. Rocks, some as big as a
person’s head, were flying in at Paul.

Paul was trying to shield his face, but he was down, and the sheer volume
overwhelmed him. Mercifully, one struck him on the temple, and he lost
consciousness. It looked like he was dead. Blood everywhere.

They ceased when Paul stopped resisting. Grabbing him by his lifeless arms, they
dragged him out of the village gates and dumped him in a field. We all thought he
was dead. It was a bone-chilling spectacle and I must be honest and confess that I
was scared to my core. I was a product of this Jesus movement. The wild bloodlust
could easily have turned on me. That was the level of hatred for Jesus that we were
dealing with.

As soon as the mob had declared Paul dead, they dispersed. Their fury spent.

Zelda was shaken. Barnabas was extremely distressed, but he showed something I
would call grit. There were about twenty of us who ran to Paul. We found that he
was not dead. We dressed his wounds. The mob had beaten Barnabas up badly,
but he was in much better shape than his companion. I learned much about prayer
that evening. We prayed for them both.
Zelda sheltered them for the night with her parents. There was another young man,
who I knew quite well and had always liked, called Timothy. He, with his mother,
assisted Zelda in caring for the two travellers. I and others remained outside and
rotated through the night guarding Zelda's home.

Remember that I, after 44 years of immobility, had received the use of my legs only
the morning before. Can you imagine what the state of my mind was like? Sleep
was one activity that I was not able to entertain, so I tended to be the de facto guard
commander. Talking with those other guards was one of the most special occasions
of my life. Sharing and grappling with the enormity of these events bonded us like
you cannot believe. I wasn’t the only one with an amazing story to tell.

Paul made a miraculous recovery. The next day we escorted them safely out of
town. As we walked the first steps of their journey, they spoke at length of the love
of Christ. Bitterness did not feature. Instead they exhorted us to persevere with the
spreading of the Jesus story and to not waver. They cited the violence the thugs had
visited on them in both Iconium and Lystra. Paul asked us to reflect on a truth he
and Barnabas had learned already: The harder the opposition, the stronger the
church.

I can attest to that. There is a battle going on in the heavenlies that Christ shall not
lose. No matter what the opposition, we always emerge stronger.

Paul invited us to think about how come he was walking away from Lystra, when just
the evening before we had counted him as dead. “Was this not,” he asked, “proof?”

They took the road to Derbe. Their time there was a success and thankfully void of
violence.

They then returned via us to Iconium and eventually back to Antioch. After the
violence of the meetings here in Lystra and in Iconium, they were keen to show the
dissenters whose side they should really be on. Quite brave when you think about it.
They appointed elders in the fledgling churches throughout our area. They were
amazing: Fear just didn't feature. They walked and talked boldly wherever they went
simply because of their faith. It was as if opposition was their fuel. They just
marched right on. Not a hateful bone in their bodies. No amount of heckling
stopped them.

*Acts 14:8-20

THE FORK

“So, my friend, what do you think?” I turned to face the young man. “Have you
figured out what the question is?”

He was deep in thought. I was pleased that I had held his attention for the duration
of my monologue.
“Yes, I believe I have. Do I believe what you have told me?”

“Why would that concern you?”

“Destiny? Do I not detect that you told me all of this because it effects my eternity?”

He continued, “It begs another question actually: What is my eternity? What

happens when I die?”

“Exactly!” I rose and prepared to leave.

“You going? We haven’t finished.”

“I am happy to continue. Can we walk and talk? I need to get on down. Home is
quite a distance from here. I did promise you at the beginning that I would not
pressure you. This is a very personal matter. Jesus stands at your door and
knocks. He won’t barge in. If you want to discuss it some more, I’d be happy to
oblige. If you want to make a commitment, I’ll take you through a prayer. It is not
mine to judge; just to help. So, don’t feel you are obligated to me in any way.”

He thanked me and got up also to pack. “I would like to learn more. Thank you, I
would appreciate your company as we descend. I come from Ephesus, which is
about 300 miles to the west. But I have work in the foothills here on this side of the
lake. I am helping a sheep farmer……”

I let him chat as we worked our way down the mountain. I enjoyed his company. He
was a thinker and he asked good questions. By the time we had reached the cross-
roads at the foot of the mountain, he was happy to open his door to Jesus! We
prayed the sinner’s prayer and I baptised him in the Spirit.

The river was nearby. It was cold but it did not deter him from agreeing to be
baptised in water as well. I obliged.

Needing to get a move on, I arranged for him to meet up with friends of ours who ran
a guest house nearby. They knew Jesus and would mother him through those first
few weeks as he came to terms with his decision.

He and I became hiking mates and between us we found ample opportunity to help
others into the church. Perhaps more importantly, it is in the teaching that one
learns. We had no references other than the word of mouth. We relied heavily on
Zelda and other Jews to help us connect the ancient writings to Jesus. In addition to
this, letters were moving between all the new churches to build a common
understanding of the person of Jesus. It was a time of outstanding mental
stimulation, but as some joker put it, it was even more stimulating increasing our
heart knowledge.
EPILOGUE

Zelda and I became elders. She and I formed such a bond that the obvious
happened: We married. Despite how late in life it was, the Lord blessed us with two
delightful boys. God chose them and all my brothers with their families and, not
least, my dear parents before he called them home.

That was not the last we saw of Paul. He returned four years later and to our loss
and his gain, he enjoined my friend Timothy to accompany him in his travels. We all
like to have our mark on the world map. Timothy and Lystra were synonymous. Our
Timothy!

Paul by then was famous. He had suffered and been victorious in everything he
tackled. Sadly, it was to the point of death. At the height of Christian persecution in
Rome, Nero had him beheaded. Jesus called him home and it was Timothy who
became Paul's successor is many respects.

Mobocracy, not surprisingly did not quash the strident march of Christianity across
Asia Minor and Europe. True to Paul's prophetic words over me, I travelled the
length and breadth of Phrygia and Cappadocia teaching my nation about Jesus.

THE END