Luke's Story by Tim Lahaye 7 Jerry B. Jenkins

personally and of course did not believe they were real.”

    “That would have been my view, Paul. It still is. To a scientist, a man of history and of medicine, it would take God himself speaking to me to make me believe.”

    “Or a miracle?”

    “Or a miracle.”

    “What do you think changed my mind?”

    “You saw a miracle with your own eyes, something that could not be explained, something you know without doubt was not a magician’s trick?”

    “Come, come, Luke. You knew me better than that.”

    “I suppose I did. I’m listening.”

    That he was listening was an understatement. Luke was aghast, and had it been anyone but Paul telling this story, he might have dismissed it out of hand. That the most dynamic personality he had ever encountered could become so radically different made him listen all right—with his entire being.

SEVENTEEN

    When it came time for the evening meal, Luke and Paul made their way down into the galley and, despite the crowd, were able to sit where they could be heard by only each other. Luke noticed that in the corner of the noisy, steamy room, the man whose finger he had bandaged sat with crewmates and gingerly favored his wounded hand.

    Luke excused himself and headed over, sidling between benches, to ask the man how he was doing.

    “I can feel every beat of my heart,” the mate said.

    “Is it turning red?” Luke said.

    “I haven’t dared check.”

    “May I?”

    “Sure.”

    As Luke knelt to carefully unwrap the bandage, the others at the table peered over his shoulder. He turned to look at them, hoping to shame them into giving the man a modicum of privacy, but the man said, “It’s all right. They saw it happen.”

    Sure enough, the wound was bright red at the edges, yellowing farther out. “I have other ointments and tonics that may help,” Luke said. “Come find me after the meal.”

    When he returned to his table, he told Paul he feared something had invaded the deep wound.

    “I’d like to meet the young man,” Paul said.

    “tinue, please.”

    Paul thrust a chunk of bread into a thick stew of seafood, tucked a bite into one cheek, and said, “Well, all during that time I led a great persecution against the believers in Jerusalem. The ones we could catch were either in hiding—like their leaders, apostles who had known Jesus personally—or were scattered throughout Judea and Samaria. Some of the bravest and most devout of them carried Stephen to his grave , and we heard of much lamenting over him.

    “I tell you, Luke,” Paul said, gulping from a cup, “my goal was to make havoc of this sect, and I accomplished this by entering every suspect house and dragging off men and women, committing them to prison. Maddeningly, I soon learned that those who were scattered went everywhere spreading their doctrine.”

    “So on the one hand you were succeeding, and on the other you were failing.”

    “It seemed that the more I did, the more I encouraged them! All I could think of was threatening and murdering the disciples of Jesus. I begged an audience with the high priest and felt good about myself when he not only agreed to see me but also complimented me on my efforts. I told him I had heard that some of the heretics had fled to Damascus and asked if he would provide letters for me from him to the synagogues of that city, so that if I found any who were of The Way—which is what they had come to be known, whether men or women—I might bind them and haul them back to Jerusalem.”

    Besides his own personal intrigue, the historian in Luke also loved this story and wished he were writing it down. “And he gave you this authority?”

    “He did. He praised me again, provided the documents, told me he was proud of me, and wished me Godspeed. I confess, Luke, I was as proud of myself as I could be. Not only had this been my idea, but I had also clearly already impressed the high priest, and I just knew that if I succeeded on this mission, my