The Scribe by Francine Rivers Read Free Book Online Page B

you?”
    “Be thankful your father did not live to see this day, Silas. They would not listen! They set out to do what they would do. An illegal trial by night, false accusations, false witnesses; they’ve condemned an innocent man. God, forgive us.”
    “You are an honest man, Nicodemus.” I thought to absolve him. “It is Rome who crucifies Jesus.”
    “We all crucify Him, Silas.” Nicodemus looked up at Jesus. “The Scriptures are being fulfilled even as we stand here watching Jesus die.”
    I left him to his grief. His words frightened me.
    I celebrated Passover as the Law required, but felt no joy in reliving the deliverance of Israel from Egyptian bondage. Jesus’ words kept coming back to me. “God blesses those who are poor and realize their need for Him, for the Kingdom of Heaven is theirs.”
    God had made death pass over His people in Israel. If Jesus was the Messiah, as I had once thought and Nicodemus still believed, what vengeance would God take against us? What hope had we of God’s intervention?
    I dreamed of Jesus that night. I saw His eyes again, looking at me, waiting as He had that day when He left the Temple. When I awakened, the city was dark and silent. My heart beat heavily. I felt something in the air.
    “I am the way and the truth and the life,” Jesus had said. The proclamation of God or words of a madman? I didn’t know anymore.
    The way was lost, the truth silenced, the hope of the life Jesus offered as dead as He was.
    It seemed the end of everything.

    “You have been hard at work for a long time, Silas.” Epanetus stood in the doorway. “When we asked you to write your story, we did not intend you to become a slave to it.”
    Silas put the reed into the pen case and blew on the last few letters he had written. “I’ve been lost in the past.”
    “Has it been a comforting journey?”
    “Not entirely.” He rolled the scroll carefully. His muscles were stiff, his back aching. As he rose, he stretched. “I was deaf and blind.”
    “And Jesus gave you ears to hear and the eyes to see. Come, my friend. Walk with me in the garden.”
    The warmth of the sun melted the tension in Silas’s shoulders. He filled his lungs with the sea air. Birds flitted about the garden, ta-ta-whirring from hidden perches. He felt safe here, as though a thousand miles from Rome, the arena, the maddened, screaming mob, but still not far enough away to escape from the memories of what happened there.
    “Where are you in your story?”
    “Jesus’ death.”
    “I would give all I own to see His face, even for a moment.”
    Silas winced inwardly, thinking of the years he’d wasted when he could have been with Jesus.
    “What is it you remember most about Jesus?”
    “His eyes. When He looked at me, I knew He saw everything.”
    Epanetus waited for him to say more, but Silas had no intention of satisfying the Roman’s curiosity about what everything he meant.
    “Do you long for Jerusalem, Silas?”
    That was an easy enough question to answer. “Sometimes. Not the way it is now. The way it once was.” Was that even true? Did he long for the days before Christ came? No. He longed for the new Jerusalem, the one Jesus would bring at the end of the ages.
    “Do you still have family there?”
    “No blood relations, but there may be Christian brothers and sisters still there.” Perhaps a few remained firmly rooted, like hyssop in the stone walls of the city. He hoped so, for he prayed continually that his people would repent and embrace their Messiah. “I don’t know if anyone remains or not. I only hope. It’s been years since I stepped foot in Judea.” May the Lord always call someone to preach there, to keep the gate open for His people to enter into the fold .
    “Perhaps you will go back.”
    Silas smiled bleakly. “I would prefer God called me to the heavenly Jerusalem.”
    “He will. Someday. We all pray that your time will not be soon.”
    Some prayers Silas wished were left unsaid.