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This is a novel in progress. I invite your comments. shaun@community-bible.org
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CHAPTER 1: THE CIRCUS
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laine Markwardt paused for effect, knowing that what she would say next was going to shock the council. “Father Silas literally shouted, ‘This is all wrong!’ Then, he ripped his sermon manuscript into shreds!” “He ripped up his manuscript? Right there in the pulpit?” asked a stunned Monsignor Richard Haynes as he removed his reading glasses. Haynes had presided over peace-making councils for his mainline denomination for decades, but this case was different than the usual quibbling over hurt feelings. This time he was investigating charges against the highly visible and extremely popular Father Silas Reed. Father Silas was the denomination’s most prolific author and an extremely articulate spokesman for their particular brand of neoorthodox Christianity. “Yes. Right there in the pulpit!” confirmed Ms. Markwardt. Monsignor Haynes glanced around the room. It was very quiet. The tension was thick. Ms. Markwardt, the head of the trustees for many years had often butted heads with Father Silas and was jealous of his popularity. Everyone could see she was enjoying herself. She began again. “Frankly, after that, all hell broke loose. The . . . the circus was far from over.” “Please just tell us what happened, Ms. Markwardt.” “Father Silas ripped off his robe—that’s what happened! Fortunately, he was wearing slacks and a white dress shirt
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underneath. Then he told the congregation not to move and he ran from the sanctuary.” “Well—what happened then? Did he return?” “Yes. It seemed like an eternity, but yes, he did return . . . with a Bible!” Ms. Markwardt paused long enough to soak in the reaction of everyone on the council. She was not disappointed by their surprised expressions. “He then began preaching from . . . uh . . . Corinthians, as I recall. He’s normally so distinguished and reserved. But that day, he was shouting at us like some crazy evangelical—preaching that Jesus Christ literally rose from the dead!” “Literal resurrection?!” blurted out one of the council members. “Yes!” replied Ms. Markwardt. “Several prominent members of the church got up and walked out. I fear they might not return.” Everyone seemed to turn simultaneously toward Father Silas who had been sitting in silence. Haynes asked, “Is all this true, Father?” “Yes!” Silas chuckled. “I think Ms. Markwardt summarized things pretty well.” “May we please have an explanation?” “Absolutely!” Silas stood to his feet, smiling. He was tall and commanding. Everyone—even Ms. Markwardt—had to admit that it was largely due to Father Silas Reed that St. Paul’s Cathedral had thrived for the past eleven years. He was creative and sometimes edgy, but the Easter Sunday stunt was not typical—even for Silas. He surveyed the room before he spoke. Monsignor Haynes had assembled quite an impressive council. Elaine Markwardt was the Chairman of the Trustees of St. Paul’s. Three others—two men and one woman—had served as the denomination’s presiding bishop in the past. Two were very respected authors and professors in the same seminary Silas had studied many years earlier. One was a man Silas had never met—Father Damian Choi—a pastor from the West coast. The eighth was Silas’ favorite living human being—Father Nathan Hightower. Silas had been mentored by Father Hightower many years earlier. Though he was approaching his nineties and had been officially retired for almost two decades, he was still one of the most respected leaders in their denomination. It was bitter-sweet for Silas
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that Father Hightower was there. He loved the man and was glad to see him, but felt guilty that he had been dragged into this hearing. “I’ve been trying to think of a way to tell this story without sounding completely crazy, but I can’t. I can only beg you to be patient with me and hear me out.” He looked at the expectant faces. No one said anything, so he continued. “That Sunday was like any other Easter Sunday. God knows I’ve given the same sermon every Easter for the past . . . I don’t know . . . 23 years or so. Not word for word, but basically the same ideas: The gospel record can’t be taken literally, the resurrection is a metaphor for new life and a fresh start and all that . . . trash.” “Trash?” said Ms. Markwardt—shocked. “The traditions of this denomination are . . . ” “But,” Silas ignored her and continued, “I began to feel a strange sensation. At first I thought I was getting light-headed, but it was different. It was like an . . . out-of-body experience or something like that.” All the council members shifted in their seats simultaneously. A few literally rolled their eyes, but he continued undaunted, “I could hear myself delivering my sermon, but I was somehow removed from the situation. I was being taken away. Then . . . ” He paused, knowing that his next words could radically change the rest of his life. “This is going to sound odd, but I heard . . . a voice.” One of the council members snickered out loud and most showed great irritation on their faces. “I’ve heard enough!” Ms. Markwardt interrupted. “Members of the council, haven’t we heard enough?” “I beg you to hear me out!” Father Silas pleaded over the buzz in the room. “I have a long and exemplary record of service in this denomination, ladies and gentlemen—the least you can do is give me a fair hearing.” Monsignor Haynes said, “We’ll listen, Father, but you must have some idea how all this sounds.” “I do,” said Silas. “Believe me, Monsignor, I do know how it sounds. I beg you to be patient with me.” “Well, have you ever heard this voice before, Father Silas?”
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“No, but all I can say is that it was as real as your voice is right now. It was a whisper at first, but it was clearly a voice. I realized the voice was saying my name . . . Silas . . . Silas. Then—just as clear as could be—another voice said, ‘Return’.” “I’m sorry, Father. Did you say, ‘Return’?” “Yes, ‘Return’. I didn’t know what that meant—at first. But my head began to throb with pain and I soon forgot about it. I found myself sitting on a cold, stone floor in complete darkness. A very foul stench began to overtake me.” “What are you saying, Father? Was this a hallucination? Are you saying you had a vision?” asked one council member. Another wanted to know if he was taking any medications. “I don’t know exactly . . . and no—no medications. The voice saying my name was growing louder and becoming more and more distinct. It was the voice of a man. ‘Silas,’ he said again and this time I replied, ‘I am here.’ ‘Praise be to the Lord,’ the voice said. ‘I thought I may have lost you this time.’ “I had no idea who this was or what his words meant. I squinted and blinked trying to see something—anything. My eyes began to adjust a little and I could see the faint silhouette of a man a few feet away from me. ‘Where am I?’ I asked. The man answered, ‘Don’t you remember, Silas? We’re in prison. In Lystra. We were attacked by a crowd. They threw stones, then the soldiers dragged us away— probably saved our lives.’ “Now I was really confused. ‘Who are you,’ I asked. After a few seconds of silence, he said, ‘Those stones must have really done some damage this time. It’s me—your brother and friend . . . ” Silas hesitated. He looked into the eyes of several people in the room. He knew they would not believe his next words. How could they? “Go on, Father Silas,” said Monsignor Haynes. “He said, ‘It’s me—your brother and friend . . . Paul.” “Paul who?” Ms. Markwardt asked with a great deal of irritation in her voice. Silas took a deep breath and said, “The Apostle Paul.”
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CHAPTER 2: THE GIFT
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ow can you possibly expect us to believe,” asked Monsignor Haynes, “that you somehow met the Apostle Paul—he’s been dead for 2,000 years?!”
“Well,” said Silas, “I don’t. Not yet anyway. I didn’t believe it myself, but please bear with me. My own mind was running through the possibilities—dream, food poisoning, head injury—when Paul suggested we both get some more sleep. I didn’t know what to say, so I just lay there holding my head—my mind racing, trying to take it all in. Everything felt so real—not like a dream. My skin was cold. The garments on my body felt coarse. The floor was real stone—wet. I touched my face and the place where my head was wounded. The pain—all of it—was incredibly real. “Suddenly, a bright light appeared in that cell—the most brilliant light I’ve ever seen. I thought it would blind me—I was terrified. Then, I saw that there was someone standing in the midst of the light. In a deep and powerful voice, he said, ‘Do not be afraid, Silas. I am Gabriel—the messenger of God.’ Silas couldn’t help but notice the nervous glances around the room, but he just continued, “‘You have been given a very special gift,’ the voice said. ‘The gracious and merciful God of our Lord, Jesus Christ is allowing you to walk in the footsteps of the Apostle to the Gentiles so that you might find your way once more.” “‘Find my way?’ I blurted out. ‘What...where am I? How do I know this is all real? Am I having a dream?’
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“‘This will be a sign to you,’ Gabriel said. ‘You will be awakened by a Roman soldier named Marcus who will set you free from this prison and take you to the home of Eunice who will bind your wounds and feed you. You will spend a number of days walking in the footsteps of the Apostle Paul, then you will return.’ “The next moment, the light disappeared and someone was pulling me to my feet. The pain returned to my head instantly and I thought I was going to throw up. There was someone holding my right arm and another holding my left. They were leading me through the darkness as fast as they could move me. ‘Where are we going?’ I asked. ‘Please be quiet, Silas,’ one man said in a whisper. “We stopped. I asked, ‘Why are we stopping?’ and both men put their hands over my mouth. One whispered, ‘We’re listening to see whether someone is following us.’ We heard nothing so we kept moving. “After what seemed like an hour, we approached a small home and the door flew open just as we arrived. We went in and the door was quickly shut behind us. “It was then that I noticed one of the men who had been leading me was a soldier. ‘Stay here for a few days and then quietly slip out of town,’ he advised as he peeked through a crack in the door. ‘You won’t see me again—it’s too risky. But God be with you . . . and thank you . . . for everything!’ He embraced me and the other man who was with us, then he opened the door to leave. “‘Wait!’ I said. ‘What is your name?’ “He looked at me, then at a woman standing near the door and said, ‘Take good care of him,’ and he was gone into the night. “The woman approached me with a towel and basin. She gently began attending the wound on my head as she spoke with the other men in the room. One—a young man of about 25—grabbed another towel and basin and walked behind me to attend to the other man who had carried me from the prison. The woman said very little as she carefully washed my head and face.
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“‘What was that soldier’s name?’ I asked her. She stopped what she was doing and looked closely at my eyes. ‘O, poor child,’ she said with a concerned look. ‘You don’t remember? You spent so much time with him the past few days, telling him about Jesus. Those stones must have really shaken you up.’ She took my face in her hands and asked, ‘Don’t you remember leading Marcus to faith in the Lord Jesus?’ “‘Marcus,’ she had said. The angel told me a man named Marcus would lead me out of that prison. I knew at that moment that everything else the angel had said would also be true. “I looked into that woman’s kind face and my eyes started to fill with tears. I said, ‘Thank you for your kindness . . . Eunice.’ She said, ‘Well, I’m glad to hear you remember my name. But, it is my honor to bind your wounds, dear Silas.’ “I turned around and looked at the others. The younger man was still tending to the wounded man who had helped Marcus lead me out of the prison. He sat against the wall with his eyes closed. Something about him made me realize he was the man whose silhouette I had seen earlier in the prison. I was almost afraid to speak, but I managed to ask a one word question: ‘Paul?’ “He looked up and smiled. I didn’t know what to say. What could I say? Where would I start? Fortunately, he spoke first. “‘My brother, Silas. Are you okay?’ “Please,” interrupted Ms. Markwardt, “I ask again, hasn’t the council heard enough of this fairy tale?” “I completely understand, Elaine,” said Silas. For the first time in years, he looked at her with compassion instead of loathing. “I’ve used that term ‘fairy tale’ to refer to so many so-called miracles I’ve heard about. Especially the miracles and healings and . . . visions described in the Bible.” “But, don’t you think it’s strange, Elaine, that we’ve removed all mystery from our religion? We’ve reduced it all down to predictable . . . and . . . and logical and . . . comfortable ritual that— think about this—rituals that mean very little if God is not real or He never intervenes in human history . . . in our lives!? If I was in your shoes right now, I’d probably be calling my story a fairy tale, too. I
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would! And I can’t prove anything to you! But think about it—if there is a God, if the God we say we believe in is real, then isn’t it possible that He has spoken in the past? Isn’t it possible He can still speak to us today? I mean . . . think of it—is there anything more exciting than that? I can’t think of anything more important! I just hope you will consider what I’m saying. Consider what it would mean if the Bible is what it claims to be . . . the Word of God.” The room was quiet for a long time. “I’d like to hear the rest of your story, Father Silas,” said one of the council members. Silas looked up to see who had spoken. It was his mentor—Father Nathan Hightower. Silas saw something in his eyes that encouraged him. Was it belief? A desire to believe? When he looked at the faces of the rest of the council it was clear that if the highly respected Father Hightower wanted to hear the rest of the story, then that was exactly what was going to happen. Silas didn’t need to say anything. His eyes told Father Hightower “thank you” all by themselves.