Before Winter (4)

Two: The Island of Cyprus.

The thirty-third year since the resurrection of Jesus Christ, on the twentieth day of the fourth month.

It has been a great blessing to work with Peter these last years, first in Rome and then here. Now that I have finished recording the details of the Messiah’s life on earth, he has gone back to Jerusalem to speak with the council there, so that they may have a fixed and certain policy concerning these false preachers and disciples that have arisen. I am left here, to continue our work of evangelism for a time. How amazing it is to see people responding to our message! Every day they gather to listen as I explain the good news and tell them what they must do to be saved. When they are baptized, the joy shines in their faces. Together we read the words of God, and remember the death of Christ. Praise be to the Lord, who has given me this ministry, and through His great mercy has opened a way to Himself for the Gentiles. 

The thirty-third year since the resurrection of Jesus Christ, on the twenty-third day of the fourth month. 

God has brought a new brother to share with my work here. Alexander is his name, and he was a coppersmith in Ephesus when Paul first brought the gospel to that city. He tells me that he stayed at the church there for a few years, but now feels God is calling him to evangelize in a new place. On his way here he met Tychicus who was traveling from Rome to Ephesus, and heard news of Paul. He has been very useful, sharing what he has learned with the new believers here. The church in Ephesus must be thriving, Alexander is enthusiastic about the work there, and full of praise for Timothy’s leadership. It is hard to think of him as a pastor—the Timothy I remember was only a lad, wide-eyed, hearing the gospel for the first time from the mouth of Paul, when we visited Lystra…

Mark set down his stylus, remembering the day he first met Timothy—the day he thought for a few grief-stricken minutes that Paul was dead. 

They had split up, to preach in different parts of the city, and the first Barnabas and Mark knew of the riot was the distant roar of hundreds of voices. As they broke off the meeting to discover the reason for the tumult, they saw Timothy running toward them, fear in his face. 

“What’s wrong?” Barnabas demanded, “Where’s Paul, what happened?” He almost shook the poor boy, who was doubled over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath enough to speak. 

Barnabas, the unshakeable, the steadfast. When Mark saw the worry in his frown, the urgency of his voice, he first realized how dangerous evangelism could be. 

“Paul,” Timothy had gasped, “The crowds are stoning him. He sent me away as soon as they began to gather around him, but I heard…” his shoulders were shaking, and he struggled to get the words out between sobs. “He wouldn’t let me stay, he pushed me away and told me to run, so I came to find you.” 

They ran. The heat of the summer sun made Mark’s head swim, but they kept running. Now the noise was louder, breaking up into a confused babble of individual shouts, still too indistinct to make out what they were saying. 

“They must be taking him outside the gates!” Barnabas yelled over the pounding of their feet. “Come on!”

Mark did not ask how he knew, but swerved after him down a side street, blinking the sweat out of his eyes. As they rounded the turn, they ran past a few stragglers and then all at once were caught up in the seething mass of the crowd, pushing and shoving to get through, struggling to keep their feet. 

The mob surged through the gate, taking Barnabas and Mark along with it. Bruised and blinded by dust, Mark found himself near the front of the mob, who were circled around a prone figure, dirty, bloody, and twisted on the ground. A shock of horror coursed through him when he recognized the battered features of Paul, just as a rock sailed through the air and thudded into Paul’s side, cracking ribs and jerking his body sideways. 

Barnabas pushed past him, but Mark caught his arm and held him back. “We’d be killed!” He shouted into his ear. “He’s already dead, there’s nothing we can do!” 

Shaking him off, Barnabas ran to Paul, and Mark stumbled after him, expecting to hear angry shouts, and to feel the rocks on his own back as well. Instead, the noise diminished as the crowd began to break apart. The rock that lay on the ground, stained with Paul’s blood, had been the last, and the vicious attack was over. Individual people, no longer caught in the group rage, drifted back toward the city gate, ignoring the disciples who began to gather around their broken and crumpled leader. 

Barnabas knelt by Paul’s head, lifting it off the ground. With one arm, he wiped the sweat and tears from his own face, before trying to clean off the blood and dirt that was clotted around his friend’s eyes, nose, and mouth. 

No breath came out of Paul’s pale, blood-crusted lips, and Barnabas bent his head down, placing his ear against Paul’s chest. For a long time he listened, his sober face proclaiming the truth he could not bring himself to believe. At last he stood up, shaking his head. “He must have died before they even dragged him out here. All the blood is already drying,” his voice broke, and he turned away. 

Mark stepped forward, putting his arm around his uncle. Tears streaked his face, a mixture of guilt at having held back during the riot and sorrow for Paul. “We have to bury him.” The words were strange and dull in his ears, as if he was talking in a dream. 

“Certainly not.” The weak voice behind him sounded far away. His head turned to look back at Paul’s body, the joyful exclamations of the disciples penetrated his consciousness as they rushed toward the apostle. His eyes were open, and he was sitting up, a pained expression on his face as he tried to move his limbs. 

“A miracle!” Barnabas embraced his friend, laughing in delight. “Lord Jesus, You have given us back our brother from the dead! Blessed be Your name forever and ever!” 

On that day, watching Paul limp back into the city, seeing from a distance how Timothy hovered near him, almost tripping him in his efforts to support him, Mark had thought that he would never refuse to stand by this man again. 

Now, looking down at what he had written, Mark shook his head at the memory. It always brought back pain to write of his relationship with Paul, though their friendship had been firm for many years now. Perhaps one day he could bear to write the story of his years with Paul, as he had written the account of the life of Christ. 

With a sigh, he finished his record for the day.

…he showed promise then, though I have not seen him since. I pray I will have an opportunity to disciple Alexander as Paul and Barnabas discipled Timothy and I.