The Scribe by Francine Rivers

disgust.
    “I may not have money,” Paul said boldly, “but I have something of far greater value!”
    “And what would that be?”
    “The way to your salvation!”
    They hooted in laughter. One of them stepped forward and put his blade against Paul’s throat. “And what about yours, you fool?”
    Paul’s face flushed. “Even thieves and robbers are welcome at the Lord’s table, if they repent.”
    I could see how little they welcomed that declaration, and I prayed our journey would not end with our throats slit on a dusty mountain road. If that was to be our end, I decided not to go silently to the grave. “Jesus died for all our sins—yours as well as mine.”
    “Who’s Jesus?”
    I told them everything in short order, while praying that my words would fall like seeds onto good soil. Perhaps their hard lives had plowed the ground and made it ready for sowing. “I saw Him crucified, and met Him four days later. He spoke to me. He broke bread with me. I saw His nail-scarred hands.”
    “He confronted me on the road to Damascus months later,” Paul said, undaunted by the knife at his throat. He gripped the man’s wrist and looked at him. “If you leave me dead on this road, know that I forgive you.” He spoke with such sincerity, the man could only stare. Paul let go of him. “I beseech the Lord not to hold your sins against you.”
    “Let him go!” The leader growled.
    The robber withdrew, confused.
    “Here!” The leader flung the pouch of coins. I caught it against my chest.
    “What are you doing?” The others protested. “We need that money!”
    “Would you have their god on our heels? Others will come along this road.”
    Did I trust in God’s provision or not? “Keep it!” I tossed the pouch back. “Consider it a gift from the Lord we serve. Better to accept it than rob others and bring further sin upon yourselves.”
    “You should be careful what you say.” A robber held up his knife.
    “The Lord sees what you do.” Paul stepped forward, and looked up at the man on horseback. “These men follow in your steps.”
    He shifted uneasily upon his horse and held my money pouch like a poisonous snake.
    “The next band will be sorely disappointed in how little these men have to offer.”
    I felt encouraged by the robber’s sudden concern for our well-being. Fear of the Lord is the foundation of true knowledge. However, his next words filled me with misgivings. “Bring them along!”
    They took us into the mountains. Their camp reminded me of En-gedi, where David had hidden in the wilderness from King Saul and his army. Plenty of water, cliff walls for protection, a few women and children to greet them. I was exhausted. Paul talked all night and baptized two of the robbers on the third day of our captivity.
    They accompanied us as far as the mountain pass called the Cilician Gates.
    “Jubal said to give this to you.” The man tossed me the pouch of coins.
    God had brought us safely through the mountains. The Cilician plain spread out before us, lush green from the waters of the Cyndnus.

    We stayed with Paul’s family in Tarsus and preached in the synagogues. Paul had come here after meeting the Lord on the Damascus road and spent time in seclusion before he began preaching the message of Christ. The seeds he had planted had taken root and flourished. The Jews received us with joy.
    We moved on to Derbe, a city in Lycaonia, named after the junipers that grew in the area. Again, we preached in the synagogues, and met Gaius, who became a good friend and, later, a traveling companion to Paul. Gaius knew the Scriptures well and embraced the Good News before anyone else.
    Lystra filled me with dread. The last time Paul had preached in the Roman colony near the unsettled southern mountains, he had been stoned.
    “God raised me,” Paul said. “I walked back into the city on my own two legs. Friends washed my wounds and helped me escape with Barnabas.” He laughed. “I guess they feared if