The Demas Revelation

by Shane Johnson

  “I departed my teacher Paul, telling him that my family needed me, that I intended to return to my native Thessalonica. But after my departure, I instead remained in Rome, with Jessana. She promised to agree to marriage if I proved my love for her by helping to stop the political revolution she said was being sought by the brethren, an upheaval that she feared would being great harm to her family.

  “To this end, with Jessana’s encouragement, I formulated a plan whereby their message would be weakened so as to prove impotent against the emperor. Although the plan was intricate in conception and difficult to execute, I became certain it would bring the desired result. Using those materials with which I had written so many letters for my teacher Paul, I devised a set of writings in the names of the original Twelve, as well as that of my teacher, setting forth that they had knowingly falsified the glorious resurrection of our Lord, that they denied his rightful claim to the throne of the kingdom everlasting, that they had continued in professing the miracle, not because it was truth, but because the power of its message would result in changed lives and the overthrow of Rome, that which had taken hold of Judea.

  “And having thus created the denials, I placed them inside two stone boxes made for me by an artisan in the city, half the writings in one box and half in the other. I placed into each of the boxes directives for finding the other, and I sealed the boxes with wax, warming them first as we learned to do in preserving food in jars of clay. And I placed one, late at night, within the house at Pompeii where I had taken a room, inside a wall being rebuilt, for it had been all but destroyed in an earthquake. And the second box I placed in the wall of the gathering place beneath the home of Septimus the noble, behind the remembrances of the birth of our Lord …”

  Anna paused, a huge grin on her face. “I’ll come back to this part.”

  Skipping slightly ahead, she continued.

  “And I sealed up the wall and awaited the deaths of the Twelve, after which no one would remain to deny my account; then to inform the authorities of Rome of the proof of their insurrection, and of Christ’s falsity.

  “But soon thereafter, Septimus passed away, and so that he might protect the believers, his brethren, he ordered with his last breaths that his house be destroyed and the hidden stairway be filled with earth, sparing the hidden room itself out of respect and love for the faith, that no future owner of the house might discover its secret and endanger them. The denials I had hidden there thus were lost to me, and to all beyond reach.

  “After this, Jessana, mocking me for my failure, departed me, first revealing to me that she and her father had devised a strategy from the start, by which I had been used against the brethren, and that she never had loved me …”

  “Ouch,” Dyson said.

  “And I began to regret my evil deeds, and I determined to return to Pompeii and there destroy the first box as well. Along the way, as I stopped for dinner at a thermopolium in Herculaneum by the sea, I met a young man whose family lived in an upstairs room in the house of Calatoria, widow of Gaius Petronius. As we spoke, I came to realize he was of the brethren, and when I confessed a lost faith in our Lord, he took me to his room, where he showed me a small wooden altar he had built. Above this, embedded in the plaster of the wall, was a cross also fashioned of wood, and there he prayed for me.”

  “He’s talking about the House of the Bicentenary,” Dyson noted.

  Anna nodded. “Isn’t that exciting?”

  “Go on.”

  “And there I wept, realizing the enormity of my sins against God, our Lord, and my teacher Paul, and I did plead for forgiveness. My guilt became like a millstone, a burden such that I dropped to my knees and could not rise again. Within the hour, the mountain of Vesuvius began to disgorge the wrath of hell, and I knew it was a judgment upon me for what I had done. The people of the city did flee, but I, knowing the wrath of God would only follow wherever I ran, remained. Travelers from Pompeii, escaping to the north, told of their city being buried already beneath a rain of brimstone; indeed, the same had begun to fall upon Herculaneum. Therefore, resigned to the imminence of my death, I went into the ancient Temple of the Old Ones, therein to wait, and discovered this catacomb, where now I lie.

  “Old Ones?” Dyson wondered.

  “I know,” she said. “No wonder it didn’t look Roman. Apparently, it was there before Herculaneum was.”

  She paused, emotion taking hold.

  “Are you okay?” Dyson asked, reaching for her hand.

  “Yes,” she said, wiping a tear. “This next part is … difficult.”

  “So, the denials I hid away in Rome were buried by man, and those I hid away in Pompeii were buried by God, as now I myself am. I have heard the rumbling and have felt the ground shudder around me and know I am entombed. The fires of hell lick at the door; the air grows oppressive and bitter, searing my throat, and I cannot bear it much longer.

  “I cannot undo what I have done, for the heinous works of my hands are beyond my reach; I pray that the Father in his wisdom has hidden them away forever, that the eyes of no man ever find them, and my wicked act bear no deadly fruit.

  “I, Demas, student of Paul, have written these things. May the risen Lord Jesus Christ bear mercy toward my soul, that in that mercy his glory be shown.”

  Anna laid the printout on the table, her eyes wet. She was sniffling.

  “Demas?” Dyson quietly wondered, the weight of the words like none he had ever heard. “The Demas?”

  “Yes,” Anna said. “It’s tragic.”

  “He was seduced into walking away from a faith he knew was true. Even as he sat at the feet of Paul, he let the world come between himself and God.”

  “Not the first time someone yielded to temptation,” Anna said. “And it sure wasn’t the last.”

  “The part you skipped before,” he reminded her. “Go back. What was it?”

  With a smile, she flipped to the earlier page.

  “And the second box I placed in the wall of the gathering place beneath the home of Septimus the noble, behind the remembrances of the birth of our Lord, sweet spices and gold, which were kept in three vessels; one Roman, one Hebrew, and the cup of acacia wood used by our Lord at that last Passover supper.”

  Dyson’s eyes grew as large as saucers as he realized what she had said.

  “No way,” he uttered, his voice failing him. “No way!”

  Anna reached into the gym bag on the floor beside her. From it, she produced the polished wooden cup she had found in the vault, now emptied of the precious yellow metal it had held.

  “Yes way!” she said, smiling broadly, holding up the wooden chalice.

  He reached out and took it into his hands, knowing whose hands had once held it during that last earthly night before the ultimate sacrifice brought to pass the final and everlasting redemption of humankind. The cup’s inner surface was darkened by a reddish stain.

  As if from wine.

  “I can’t believe it,” he said breathlessly. “I just can’t.”

  “I know,” she squealed.

  “We weren’t even looking for it,” he said in amazement. “For all those centuries … all throughout the Crusades. The Arthurian legends, the Knights Templars. Then the Nazis, and thousands of treasure seekers. All those years they were searching in all the wrong places.”

  The Holy Grail.

  “And the whole time,” Anna said, “it was buried under a hill in Rome. Paul must have carried it there with him.” She ran a fingertip lightly along its rim. “Everything else from the vault is still in the safe-deposit box. It never left Italy.”

  Dyson studied the cup’s featureless contours. “How did you get this through customs?”

  “They didn’t look at it twice. It was just a plain wooden cup to them. It doesn’t look valuable or particularly old, so they didn’t
even ask about it. But I wasn’t going to let it out of my sight … not before I was sure.”

  Dyson shook his head, unable to tear his eyes from the acacia goblet. “It’s going to take me a while to absorb this, Anna.”

  “I still can’t believe it.”

  “How in the world did you keep this to yourself?” he asked, visibly astonished. “I’d have burst wide open trying to keep that inside.”

  “Because I knew this moment would come. You and I, together, alone, now.”

  For several long minutes they sat quietly, pondering what Demas had written and trying to convince themselves of the chalice Dyson held in his hands.

  “We can’t keep it,” Dyson said with a measure of reluctance. “It has to go back.”

  “I’ve already called Albert. I didn’t tell him it was the Holy Grail, but I did tell him I had an artifact I wanted him to escort back to Milan.”

  “Carlo will be beside himself,” he said, smiling. “His museum is about to acquire the single most valuable artifact in the world.”

  “What do you think they’ll say when they hear all this?” Anna wondered. “The world, I mean. What will people say when they learn that the lie they embraced was a lie, that all of it was the work of a single misguided man?”

  “I think,” Dyson replied, “God only knows.”

  Epilogue

  The world took the news as it had the first reports. Those willing or wanting to believe did. Those unwilling to believe did not.

  And those who had moved on, who had dropped their faith like a hot rock, never looked back.

  Worldwide, the number of those who called themselves Christians had fallen by two-thirds. Everywhere, across America and the continents, former churches had become synagogues, mosques, lecture halls, social clubs, libraries, schools, markets, or laundries. In the eyes of some, the faith had lost a credibility it could never regain. For others, whose conviction had seen them through, the crisis had only made them stronger.

  As the final written confession of Demas became known, a few did come back into the fold, truly penitent for their lack of faith. Only a few. But this time, word of the discovery had to spread without help from the media. No stellar book deals were signed. No science- or faith-based television specials were made. No blockbuster movies were released.

  There was just no commercial, worldly interest to be found in Jesus Christ, after all, being God.

  No hat.

  As Orsen scanned the crowd before and below him, his hands gripping the pulpit as if to steady a shaky foundation, a sense of relief rose. Nowhere did he see the fedora-crowned man who haunted him even in absence, whose words, absurd though they were, would not cease to echo:

  “He will tear down what you have covered in whitewash and will level it to the ground, and when it falls, you will be destroyed in it.”

  “Crazy old man,” the pastor uttered, barely audibly.

  Most of those gathered were new to the church, though a few holdovers from his father’s days remained. And there was, as always now, one conspicuous omission among those present.

  We’ve moved on, Pop. I know what you believed, but there’s just no money in clinging to that old-time religion. A church can’t survive by hanging itself on Jesus … we’ve turned a corner and there’s no going back. Maybe he was real and maybe he wasn’t, but if there’s a God in heaven, he won’t turn away a good soul. No way. Christ or no Christ.

  His father’s face hung before him, a countenance shining with a silver light Orsen did not recognize. The worth of faith, Son, the man once had said, is measured not merely in its quantity or existence, but in its object. It isn’t what you believe, but in whom you believe.

  Never had Orsen agreed. Believing is an end in itself. It doesn’t matter what you believe, so long as you believe in something.

  “And judging from the till, I believe I’ve saved this church,” he whispered.

  He turned on the microphone and began to speak, a wolf before the sheep, leading a flock that never had known the shepherd.

  Mr. and Mrs. Jack Dyson walked through a city park, watching the falling leaves scatter in the autumn wind. Streaks of red and gold and orange swirled around them, a clatter set to the music of the winds. His arm was around her, holding her close as he treasured her. Her hand rested lightly upon the generous curve of her belly.

  She was with child.

  “How about Nicole if it’s a girl?” Anna suggested. “And William if it’s a boy.”

  “Or,” Jack returned with a smile, “Angela if it’s a girl, and Roger if it’s a boy.”

  “I can see we’re miles apart on this,” she laughed.

  “We still have two months to decide. Quite a Christmas present we have to look forward to. Was Willowdale okay with extending your maternity leave?”

  “Yes,” Anna said. “Professor Winsett will sub for me starting the second week of November.”

  “Are you still happy to be back into history? No regrets over hanging up your shovel, giving up the thrill of discovery?”

  “Not one. I’m very happy to be in the classroom, especially now. I’ve had quite enough on-site thrills for one lifetime.”

  “I guess I can’t blame you there.”

  “Besides,” she teased, “one archaeologist in the family is plenty. How was Oldefield this week?”

  “Same as ever,” he said. “And enrollment’s up. Seems the publicity you generated led to good things, after all.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “And,” he added, “the shiny new computer labs don’t hurt, either.”

  They continued along the sidewalk, watching children at play in the cool of the day, knowing they would soon share in the joys of family. Anna looked down at the deep wine maternity dress she wore beneath her open car coat, remembering how many times she had dreamed of such a moment.

  Oh, Father, if only there were words enough to thank you for this gift.

  Her thoughts drifted back. Not to the horrors of Vesuvius, or of that day in Herculaneum, but to the entirety of her ordeal.

  “What was it all for?” she wondered aloud. “I mean, I trust God that he knew what he was doing, but what was it all for? Why the pain that came upon the church?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” Dyson said. “A lot. And I think I figured it out.”

  “Oh, did you?” she said, smiling up at him. “Just over a year as a believer, and you have all the answers?”

  “Not all,” he said. He kissed her on the forehead.

  “So, tell me.”

  “Think of the things that happened, that taken by themselves seem tragic, even cruel. Presenting to the world evidence that Christ was a fraud. A violent nuclear detonation, without warning, in a populated area. An even more violent volcanic eruption. Seems at first glance that God was asleep at the switch.”

  “Okay, go on.”

  “But take everything together,” he proposed. “Look at the events as pieces of a larger puzzle.”

  “I love when you do this,” she said.

  “You find the scrolls. They become public. Two-thirds of all self-described Christians leave the church, their faith swept aside by an unproven assertion because that faith was rooted not in Christ but in worldly things. Convenience. Social needs. The approval of those around them.”

  “I’m with you so far.”

  “Then a nuclear bomb goes off. Not a huge one, but bad enough. Creates a zone of destruction a mile wide. You know, I looked at aerial shots of the detonation point. It went off exactly at the spot along the road where it needed to for the death toll to be minimized. Small rural area. Just another mile or two farther along or farther back, and tens if not hundreds of thousands more would have died. And then, the whole region, including several towns with narrow streets
and no viable means of rapid flight, gets evacuated over the next several days because of spreading fires and fallout.

  “And the nuclear blast kicks off the seismic force necessary to move uncounted tons of volcanic sediment and reveal, beneath Herculaneum, the truth about Demas and his forgeries.”

  “A force only Vesuvius could provide,” Anna said with a nod of understanding. “And when it erupted, once the truth of Demas had been uncovered and physical proof secured for all the world to see, the wrath of the volcano was unleashed against an abandoned area.”

  Dyson’s astonishment played on his face. “Instead of the few thousand lives the bomb took, more than a million would have died had Vesuvius suddenly erupted with the normal population in place.

  “It’s hard to accept, but in the outworking of God’s design, seemingly horrible things sometimes have to happen in order for wonderful things to follow. He uses the deeds of evil people for good, as we saw with Joseph’s brothers. Millions died in the Holocaust, but that was what it took for the world to be sufficiently moved to allow Israel to exist as a nation once again … as the Bible said would happen. And then there was Darfur, and 9/11 … You just have to trust that God knows what he’s doing.

  “It’s amazing the way he uses even the actions of terrorists. The volcano was set to blow at any time, and without warning. Seismologists have known it for years. It would have gone up anyway, just like it did in AD 79, and in 1631, and in 1944, and dozens of other times. The way it worked out, who knows how many lives were saved?”

  Anna stopped as they passed a bench and gingerly took a seat, pausing to consider her husband’s words it all. She watched a cluster of tiny sparrows just across the walk as they fed on a generous scattering of seed, tossed on the ground for them by an earlier occupant of the bench—sunflower, millet, cracked corn, safflower.