The midday heat clung to the desert road like a heavy garment. Dust rose in curls beneath the sandals of a solitary traveler—Philip. He had left the bustling city of Samaria behind, with its healings and joyful crowds, and he did not know why. Only that the voice had come, clear as the sun, directing him south, toward the deserted Gaza road. He obeyed, heart thudding with doubt. Who would he find here, among sunburnt stones and silence?
In the distance, a chariot rolled slowly forward, its wheels groaning under the weight of wealth and weary traveling. Inside sat a man dressed in the silks of a faraway kingdom—an Ethiopian. Philip drew closer, strands of sweat beading his brow. The man was reading aloud in practiced Hebrew, lips moving over ancient syllables. Isaiah… the words were familiar.
The Ethiopian lowered the scroll, brow furrowed. He didn’t notice Philip at first. He stared at the script like one who hoped it would speak—but it would not.
Philip hesitated. Then, hands trembling, he called out, “Do you understand what you are reading?”
The man blinked, startled. Then he laughed lightly, not cruelly. “How can I, unless someone explains it to me?” A nod from his driver, and Philip was soon beside him in the chariot. Inside, the scroll lay open.
“He was led like a sheep to the slaughter,” the man read aloud again, eyes scanning. “But who is the prophet speaking of? Himself? Someone else? I… I traveled all the way to the temple, hoping to worship, and they would not let me in. I am not of Israel— and I am not whole,” he added, voice quiet. “I thought the God of the Hebrews might still let me near.”
Philip felt something stir deep in his chest—a grief he did not own. He looked at the man: exiled by his own body, by foreignness, wealth, race. A seeker who had found only silence among marble courts.
“He speaks of Jesus,” Philip said gently. “A man of sorrow, familiar with rejection. He was nailed to a Roman cross not long ago. That part of the scroll—it speaks the truth. Jesus was slaughtered… but He rose again. Alive.”
The man’s eyes widened. Something cold and brittle inside him cracked. “For me also?”
“For you.”
They rode on in silence, choking on dust and wonder. Eventually, they came upon a pool—a hollow in the rock holding glistening water. The man’s voice trembled. “Is there any reason—any law—that could keep me from being baptized?”
Philip smiled, tears stinging his eyes. “None.”
The man stepped down. The water was cool, foreign, alive. As Philip lowered him beneath, the man felt something lift—grief, shame, a lifetime of questions. He surfaced into sunlight, coughing and laughing, like a man newly born.
When he turned to thank the stranger, Philip was gone.
So he climbed back into his chariot. And though the road home was long, his soul was light, his heart full. He had been found, and he knew a new name now—beloved.
The midday heat clung to the desert road like a heavy garment. Dust rose in curls beneath the sandals of a solitary traveler—Philip. He had left the bustling city of Samaria behind, with its healings and joyful crowds, and he did not know why. Only that the voice had come, clear as the sun, directing him south, toward the deserted Gaza road. He obeyed, heart thudding with doubt. Who would he find here, among sunburnt stones and silence?
In the distance, a chariot rolled slowly forward, its wheels groaning under the weight of wealth and weary traveling. Inside sat a man dressed in the silks of a faraway kingdom—an Ethiopian. Philip drew closer, strands of sweat beading his brow. The man was reading aloud in practiced Hebrew, lips moving over ancient syllables. Isaiah… the words were familiar.
The Ethiopian lowered the scroll, brow furrowed. He didn’t notice Philip at first. He stared at the script like one who hoped it would speak—but it would not.
Philip hesitated. Then, hands trembling, he called out, “Do you understand what you are reading?”
The man blinked, startled. Then he laughed lightly, not cruelly. “How can I, unless someone explains it to me?” A nod from his driver, and Philip was soon beside him in the chariot. Inside, the scroll lay open.
“He was led like a sheep to the slaughter,” the man read aloud again, eyes scanning. “But who is the prophet speaking of? Himself? Someone else? I… I traveled all the way to the temple, hoping to worship, and they would not let me in. I am not of Israel— and I am not whole,” he added, voice quiet. “I thought the God of the Hebrews might still let me near.”
Philip felt something stir deep in his chest—a grief he did not own. He looked at the man: exiled by his own body, by foreignness, wealth, race. A seeker who had found only silence among marble courts.
“He speaks of Jesus,” Philip said gently. “A man of sorrow, familiar with rejection. He was nailed to a Roman cross not long ago. That part of the scroll—it speaks the truth. Jesus was slaughtered… but He rose again. Alive.”
The man’s eyes widened. Something cold and brittle inside him cracked. “For me also?”
“For you.”
They rode on in silence, choking on dust and wonder. Eventually, they came upon a pool—a hollow in the rock holding glistening water. The man’s voice trembled. “Is there any reason—any law—that could keep me from being baptized?”
Philip smiled, tears stinging his eyes. “None.”
The man stepped down. The water was cool, foreign, alive. As Philip lowered him beneath, the man felt something lift—grief, shame, a lifetime of questions. He surfaced into sunlight, coughing and laughing, like a man newly born.
When he turned to thank the stranger, Philip was gone.
So he climbed back into his chariot. And though the road home was long, his soul was light, his heart full. He had been found, and he knew a new name now—beloved.
