The Eunuch

"He was led like a sheep to the slaughter,
and as a lamb before the shearer is silent,
so he did not open his mouth.
In his humiliation he was deprived of justice.
Who can speak of his descendants?
For his life was taken from the earth."

"A sheep to slaughter...the lamb is silent...deprived of justice...no descendants...and he's dead? Who's dead?"

My mumbling turned into a sigh, and my sigh turned into a grunt as my chariot thumped in and out of another pothole on the dry and dusty road down which we'd been bumping for hours.

"I'm sorry, sir," the chariot driver voiced for what must have been the eighteenth time. "That one, sir, could perhaps have been avoided." I looked at him briefly and shrugged. "Not a problem," I muttered.

I turned my face upwards toward the dizzying white sky and wiped some sweat from my forehead. The bumpy road was, you see, the least of my concerns. It was this passage—and this journey...not the actual journey, just the reason why we made it.

A sheep to the slaughter...humiliation, deprived of justice...Of whom did the prophet speak?

I sighed again, successfully this time, and let my mind drift from the troubling text to my time in the Holy City. As all the legends had said, the Temple had been beautiful—or, at least, the part of the Temple I was allowed to see. So, in that regard, the walls were quite nice—the walls I stared at day after day after day, nearly memorizing their gentle details as I wondered and wondered what awe might be found inside. I'd never know. It was problem enough that I was a foreigner, but a mutilated foreigner was an even worse identity. I couldn't enter at all.

I glanced back at the scroll. I rubbed the palm of my hand gently over the precious lettering, distantly wishing the meaning of the strokes would bleed into my veins. The scribe had been kind to copy it for me. But...oh, what did it mean?

Halfheartedly, I forced my parched tongue to read it again:

"He was led like a sheep to the slaughter,
and as a lamb before the shearer is silent,
so he did not open his mouth.
In his humiliation he was deprived of justice.
Who can speak of his descendants?
For his life was taken from the earth."

"I'm sorry, sir." I looked up at my chariot driver again. What was he apologizing for this time? I hadn't felt any potholes. Then the voice came again, and I realized it did not belong to my driver at all. "I'm sorry, sir, for interrupting, but do you understand what you're reading?"

I turned around to see a man running alongside my chariot, huffing as he struggled to keep up. Not pausing to consider the oddity of his question or the oddity of his presence, I let out another (yes, successful) sigh, and answered, "How can I, unless someone explains it to me?"

"I can explain it to you," the man said.

My driver brought the chariot to a stop almost before my command to do so had left my lips. Perhaps he was as anxious as I to hear the meaning of the scroll. I invited the runner into the chariot, and we continued our journey. I could scarcely wait for him to catch his breath.

"Tell me, please, who is the prophet talking about, himself or someone else?" I blurted.

My guest smiled. "Someone else," he breathed. Then, as if filled with new energy, he sat up straight and began his explanation. "The prophet is talking about one who would come to save his people: the Messiah. But there's better news than that. This Anointed One, this Savior, has come. What the prophet spoke of has been fulfilled. The Anointed One is Jesus of Nazareth. He was wrongly accused and crucified, like a sheep slaughtered. He never raised His voice to defend Himself, even though the whole process was incredibly unjust. He died that day and was buried."

My brow furrowed. How was that good news? I thought. Then the man continued:

"We thought it was all over. But then, three days later, He rose from the dead."

I sat up and leaned in. "He what?" I choked.

"He rose from the dead! Look at the rest of your passage!" He pointed to the scroll, and I read aloud:

"Yet it was the LORD's will to crush him and cause him to suffer,
and though the LORD makes his life a guilt offering,
he will see his offspring and prolong his days,
and the will of the LORD will prosper in his hand.
After the suffering of his soul,
he will see the light of life and be satisfied;
by his knowledge my righteous servant will justify many,
and he will bear their iniquities."

I looked up, still not quite grasping it. The man motioned to me to keep reading.

"Therefore I will give him a portion among the great,
and he will divide the spoils with the strong,
because he poured out his life unto death,
and he was numbered with the transgressors.
For he bore the sin of many,
and made intercession for the transgressors."

Suddenly the message began to click. "This Jesus—He was like all the lambs in the Temple, the ones sacrificed for sins."

"Yes!" my guest exclaimed. "He was sacrificed for sins and raised to life so that all who believe in Him, who are baptized into His Name, may be reconciled to God."

My heart pounded. Reconciled to God? I, the mutilated foreigner—reconciled to God? I bit my lip, not quite sure what to do. A massive expanse of blue entered my vision. Water.

I looked at the man across from me, searching his eyes for truth. "Look." I motioned to the blur of blue. "Here is water. Why shouldn't I be baptized?" I guarded my heart as I awaited his response. Surely there would be walls here, too; surely one who wasn't allowed in the Temple could never hope to be allowed this either.

But my guest merely smiled. He opened his hand and gestured to the water. Astounded, I commanded a halt. The chariot stopped; we ran to the water's edge.

I paused as the gentle waves touched my toes. Scarred and mutilated, broken, walled out—but now, in Jesus, I'm let in. I threw off my clothes and nearly skipped to my new companion, who was waiting, waist deep and with a gigantic grin, for me to join him. Under, and up—cool water, warm sun—here at last was reconciliation with the One I'd come to worship.

I raised both hands to wipe my face, laughing in excitement. But when I looked again, my baptizer was gone. One minute his steady hands had been lifting me out of the water, and the next he had vanished like smoke. But, ah! It didn't matter—because my angst had vanished too. I dipped my hands into the water again and threw its glittering droplets into the air, exulting in a new peace. "Praise you, Jesus—thank you, Jesus—for all that you have done!"

I climbed back into my chariot, joy rippling through my every vein. My driver, a goofy half-smile sprawled across his face as an illustration of his happy confusion at the events of our stop, signaled the horses to run again. I turned my eyes once more to my scroll. It wasn't long before I read what I never thought I'd see:

"Let no foreigner who has bound himself to the LORD say,
'The LORD will surely exclude me from his people.'
And let not any eunuch complain,
'I am only a dry tree.'
"...The Sovereign LORD declares--
he who gathers the exiles of Israel:
'I will gather still others to them
besides those already gathered.'"

Ah-ha! Sovereign LORD, you have gathered me. I set the scroll down and turned my face up to the sky, closing my eyes and relishing in the light of the desert sun. Praise you, Jesus—thank you, Jesus—for all that you have done! I let out another sigh, catching my breath as we bumbled over a pothole again. Laughing, I threw my hands into the air. Potholes and all, I could breathe; scars and all, I am free.
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Scripture quotations are from Acts 8:26-40 and Isaiah 53:10-12; 56:3, 8 (NIV 1984).