The Scribe by Francine Rivers

Elymas flailed around, crying for help.” John Mark paused. “The governor went so white I thought he’d die. But then he listened to Paul. He was too afraid not to listen.”
    John Mark flung his arms high in frustration. “He even ordered a banquet, and Paul and Barnabas spent the whole night talking to him about Jesus and how he could be saved from his sins. But all I wanted to do was get out of there and come home!”
    “Did Sergius Paulus believe?”
    John Mark shrugged. “I don’t know. He was amazed. Whether that means he believed, only the Lord knows.” He snorted. “Maybe he thought Paul was a better magician than Elymas.”
    “How did you get home?”
    He sat and hunched his shoulders again. “We put out to sea from Paphos. When we arrived in Perga, I asked Barnabas for enough money to get home. He tried to talk me out of leaving. . . .”
    “And Paul?”
    “He just looked at me.” John Mark’s eyes filled with tears. “He thinks I have no faith.”
    “Did he say that?”
    “He didn’t have to say it, Silas!” Folding his arms on his knees, he bowed his head. “I have faith!” His shoulders shook. “I do!” He looked up, angry in his own defense. “Just not the kind to do what he’s doing. I can’t debate in the synagogues or talk to crowds of people I’ve never met. Paul speaks fluent Greek like you do, but I stumble around when people start asking questions. I can’t think fast enough to recite the prophesies in Hebrew let alone another language!” He looked miserable. “Then later, I think of all the things I could have said, things I should have said. But it’s too late.”
    “There are other ways to serve the Lord, Mark.”
    “Tell me one thing I can do, one thing that will make a difference to anyone!”
    “You spent three years following Jesus and the disciples. You were at the garden of Gethsemane the night Jesus was arrested. Write what you saw and heard.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “You can sit and think about all that, then write it down. Tell everyone what Jesus did for the people, the miracles you saw happen.”
    “You’re the writer.”
    “You were there. I wasn’t. Your eyewitness account will encourage others to believe the truth—that Jesus is the Lord. He is God with us.”
    John Mark grew wistful. “Jesus said He came not to be served, but to serve others and to give His life as a ransom for many.”
    The young man’s countenance transformed when he spoke of Jesus. He relaxed into the firsthand knowledge he had of the Lord. No one would ever doubt John Mark’s love for Jesus, nor the peace given to him through his relationship with Him.
    “Write what you know so that others can come to know Him also.”
    “I can do that, Silas, but I want to do the other, too. I don’t want to run and hide anymore. I want to tell people about Jesus, people who never even imagined such a God as He is. I just don’t feel . . . prepared.”
    I knew one day Mark would stand steady before crowds and speak boldly of Jesus as Lord and Savior of all. And I told him so. God would use his eager servant’s heart. He had spent his life in synagogues and at the feet of rabbis, as I had. But his training had not extended into the marketplaces or gone so far as Caesarea and beyond.
    “If you want to go out among the Gentiles to preach, Mark, you must do more than speak their language. You must learn to think in Greek. It must become as natural to you as Aramaic and Hebrew.”
    “Can you help me?”
    “From this day forward, we will speak Greek to one another.”
    And so we did, though his mother grimaced every time she heard her son speak the language of uncircumcised, pagan Gentiles.
    “I know; I know,” she said after questioning my wisdom on the matter. “If they understand who Jesus is and accept Him as Savior and Lord, then they will no longer be goyim ; they will be Christians.” Sometimes the old prejudices rose to challenge our faith in Jesus’