A/N: OK, this is my first story in the Bible section :). This first chapter is quite short, and I might revise it at some point in the future, so I would appreciate some suggestions! Anyway, I hope you like it.

One Lord, One Faith

Prologue

Stewart stepped off the bus and onto the pavement, wrapping his coat tighter around himself in the chill breeze. He looked down the street with a mixture of apprehension and wistfulness, thinking how unchanged Linwich seemed. There was the post office, and beside it the off-license, and there the grocer's; on the other side the main row of houses, and no doubt behind them his old primary school and its playing fields were still standing. He had only been away a year, true, but it felt longer.

Leaves rustled as the wind picked them up and scattered them down the deserted street. It was late autumn now and the trees stood bare and stark against the white sky. Stewart started to walk, hands in his pockets, his prison haircut giving him scant protection against the cold. It being three o'clock on a Friday afternoon, none of the teenagers were back from school yet, and Stewart found himself feeling lonely in the quiet; but, he reminded himself, he did not particularly want to be seen by the village's entire under-eighteen population. Too many would recognise him, even with his year's absence, and then by Sunday the news of Stewart Scott's return would be all over Linwich.

Soon he had walked the length of the main street and turned off into the side-street where his old house was. He fingered the keys in his pocket. His own house; it felt strange to think that after his year in prison.

Finally he reached the gate. It was open, creaking slightly in the wind, and the tiny patch of grass that was his garden had gone wild. He stopped and looked up at the house, and with a sense of futility noticed the broken windows and the graffiti on the wall. Stewart guessed he was lucky the entire house had not been burnt out or knocked down.

He caught a flicker of movement at the corner of his eye and turned to see a couple of lads crossing the road further up. They stared at him unashamedly, and as he turned away, face red, he heard them talking in low voices as they walked up the street.

Quickly he put his keys in the door and opened it, stepping into the damp-smelling house. At seeing the scene inside, he was about to swear, then checked himself, sighing with frustration. Barely anything was left. He'd not had many things at the time of his arrest – most of his money had gone on cocaine and alcohol – but anything remotely valuable had since been stolen, and most of the rest smashed up. Stewart felt a stab of guilt, remembering the times he had thieved from houses to get money for crack. He'd not thought of how his victims must have felt.

He tried to turn the lights on, but the bulbs had long since been smashed or fused out. The nineteen-year-old sank down onto a packing case that had escaped looting, and remembered.

Two months before the end of his sentence, he'd not had any visitors. Stewart had never had much in the way of family – his dad had left them when he was a kid, his older sister had left not long after to pursue a job in London and his mum had tried to drown her sorrows in alcohol. Her heart attack two weeks after his eighteenth birthday hadn't come as much of a surprise.

So when he was told someone had come to see him, he had been surprised. Who would want to visit him in prison?

As it turned out, he had been even more shocked at the identity of his visitor; the lady minister from Linwich's small church, Reverend Newton. Sitting down at the visitor's table with the prison guard standing watchfully aside, he stared at her in undisguised confusion.

"Stewart," she said by way of greeting. "I take it you recognise me?"

"Um – Reverend," he said, unconsciously taking up a defensive tone. "I don't know why you're here, but if it's about what I did –"

"Listen," the middle-aged woman said firmly. "I've not come to see you to rake over the past. That's done and I don't wish to make it last longer. I simply want you to know that I am praying for you, and have been doing so since I found out you were on drugs."

Normally, Stewart would have thought of a smart answer to statement like that, but now he was simply dumbfounded.

"Praying?" he repeated stupidly.

"To Jesus, yes," Reverend Newton told him, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Stewart could not say anything for a moment. But then he burst out, "But – you hate me, or you should do. I'm not church, I've never set foot in one in my life, and I've done much worse than take drugs."

"Why should I hate you?" Newton said, giving him a quizzical look. "The Lord Jesus loved all people, even the worst sinners. As his child and ambassador, I am called to be like him."

Stewart shook his head, incredulous. "But I –! Don't you get it, woman? I robbed your house and three others! I sold your kid cannabis!"

"And Jesus Christ still loves you. So must I." Newton clasped her hands together. "Think on this, Stewart Scott: you are loved by God. I'll pray for you." And with that she rose and left the room.

Back in his house, Stewart felt overpowering shame at the forgiveness that lady had shown him. Her visit and her words had troubled him for the remainder of his time in prison. What drove her to even talk to the man who had nearly ruined her son's life?

When the time had come for him to be released, at the bus station he had picked up a leaflet. Now he took it out of his pocket and looked at the title: "Greater Love Has No Man Than This."

He read it through. When he had finished, he crumpled the paper in his hands and hung his head.

So this was why Reverend Newton had come to see him. This was the reason Christians had spread all over the world. This was why they seemed to care so much.

Guilt put icy hands around Stewart's heart. For the first time, he acknowledged that what it said in the leaflet was true: he had done so much wrong. He was out of prison now, but he still needed help. He needed help to break himself out of his selfishness and his anger and his greed. And the Christians had the answer. They had this man, Jesus Christ.

Stewart read through the text again, soaking up the words, finally understanding the things he had heard in bits and pieces throughout his life. Jesus Christ was God. And God had come to Earth, long ago, to die and rise again so that every single man and woman who ever lived would have the chance trust Him, and so avoid their punishment. Stewart thought back over his life. He'd fought with his parents and his sister, bunked off school, beat up other kids, and done countless other petty things he now recognised were wrong. Then he'd started to take drugs; first soft stuff like weed, then getting himself addicted to crack cocaine. He'd run out of money and, desperate for his next fix, stole his mum's money and bullied it out of his classmates. Eventually he'd resorted to breaking into houses, including the vicarage near the church, to nick saleable stuff. That was when the police had caught him.

For a long time, the young man sat there in the ruins of his house, dwelling on the mess he'd made of himself. As the sky grew darker, Stewart Scott came to a decision. He was in a deep pit, and he needed someone to pull him out.

Desperate, at last recognising the depth of his sin, he bowed his head and put his hands together awkwardly.

"Um – God," he said, putting all his hope into trusting someone could hear him. "I've messed up. And I'm sorry, I really am. I believe you died for me, and, well, that's amazing… I'm sorry. I want to do better now, and I don't think I can do that without you. Please help me." He felt his heart contract, and knew something had happened, whatever it would mean for his life from now on.

"Amen," he added, as an afterthought. Then Stewart got up, and looked out of his lounge window. The sun had set. But somehow, the young man knew he had made a new beginning.