More Than a Skeleton

by Paul L Maier

  Jon turned to Shannon and muttered, “Not my favorite music. The songwriters compose one or two lines, and the rest is repetition. Where, oh where, is Johann Sebastian Bach when we need him?”

  “Okay, Jon, Bach obviously has the best music. But this is what gets through to the younger set.”

  “Yeah. Sure. Maybe. Nothing against contemporary Christian music, mind you, but some of it is really seedy!”

  “And much of it is not, Judson Judgmental!”

  More and even louder music filled the valley. A sea of arms waved back and forth, apparently to lend additional impetus to the prayers and praises wafting up to God in His own Holy Land. A Christian rock group came onstage to generate throbbing, earsplitting music amplified even more by PA system engineers, who had apparently lost their hearing earlier in life.

  Holding his own ears, Jon told Shannon, “Generation X or Y— or whatever—will soon be known as Generation Deaf! ”

  “What’s that?” she said, smiling. “Couldn’t hear you, Jon.”

  But everyone—especially Jon and Shannon—wondered when Joshua Ben-Yosef himself would appear, at least to deliver them from what was now passing for music. Up on the dais, Merton was constantly looking at his watch and consulting with aides. Mercifully, he finally banished the rock group and tried to keep his audience alive with more traditional hymn sings, though with waning success. Lustily, he himself sang into the microphone, “I come to the Garden alone . . . ,” expecting the throng to join in. Alas, he seemed to be coming alone indeed, since only a few in the older set knew the lyrics. Next he inflicted one of his trademark marathon prayers on the multitude, informing the Almighty of things He already knew and so obviously stalling for time that soon there were shouts of “Amen!” from the crowd, expressed not as enthusiastic agreement but as recommended punctuation. That was clear when a voice yelled out, “So Amen already!” while Merton was still addressing the Lord. Merton heard and heeded at last. His own “Amen” was followed by cheers. Or were they jeers?

  Before he could announce what was next on a program that seemed dead in the water, scattered shouts of “Where’s Joshua?” “Where’s Jesus?” broke out. Then a gigantic chorus seemed to reecho those queries: “WHERE?” “WHEN?” “WHERE?” “WHEN?” The now-rhythmic calls grew louder and louder.

  Waving his hands for order, Merton advised the throng, “We do expect Him shortly, my friends! Please be patient!”

  The deteriorating situation was hardly saved when a fresh combo of gospel guitars, theological trombones, and Christian coronets tried to serenade the increasingly restless crowd. People started leaving the hillside in droves.

  Then Jon noticed someone bringing what looked like an envelope to Merton. He tore it open, read something, reddened, and shook his head angrily. Then he stood up to the microphones and announced, rather lamely, that there must have been some mix-up regarding Joshua’s appearance. They hoped to have him appear on another day. A frustrated and irate mass of humanity grumbled their way off the hillside, many not even staying to hear Merton’s benediction. Jon, however, flashed a big, broad grin as he and Shannon returned to their Peugeot.

  When he saw the rear bumper of the car, he bent over in laughter. Some wag had plastered many of the parked bumpers with this slogan, printed in gaudy red: COME THE RAPTURE, MAY I HAVE YOUR CAR?

  Joshua’s no-show was big news across the world that evening. Speculation bloomed that he was sick, apprehended by authorities, or even dead. The Arab press suggested that Joshua’s disappearance most likely had something to do with Israeli scheming, while Jewish media, in turn, blamed Islamic fundamentalists—until they were called off by the Mossad, who evidently knew more.

  It was the Jerusalem Post that solved the problem, which, as it happened, was no problem at all. An investigative reporter they had assigned to the case located Max Griswold, one of Merton’s top aides, in the bar of the Jerusalem Sonesta Hotel. Griswold had been drinking heavily—against company rules, of course—and now had a loose tongue. Up to that point, many had thought he would be Merton’s eventual successor. He had the same freewheeling overconfidence, the same flair for the dramatic, the same bravado and all-around bluster. More than that, he was a visionary whose ideas often worked, though some worried that he was a loose cannon.

  It was Griswold who had hatched the concept of inviting Joshua to appear at Merton’s rally. In written form, however, Joshua had courteously declined the invitation. Yet before anyone could open Joshua’s letter, Griswold grabbed it and reported a dream he’d had the night before.

  “The letter is a test of faith,” he declared to Merton and his associates the next morning. “If we confidently assume that Joshua said yes to our invitation—and do not open the letter—he will come. But if we waver and open the letter instead, he’ll decline.”

  Never mind that this made no earthly sense whatever: Merton’s associates got on their knees, prayed about it, and felt moved to agree that Griswold had indeed received a sign from heaven and that Joshua would come.

  On the dais that disastrous afternoon, Merton had finally demanded the envelope, torn it open, and read it—just a bit too late to save the day. That evening, he fired Max Griswold from Merton Ministries. When the Jerusalem Post reporter found Griswold at the Sonesta bar, he was seeking liquid consolation for a shattered career. The Post broke the story the next day. No one laughed more heartily at the report than Jon. He read every delicious syllable aloud to Shannon and commented: “Good for Joshua! If he had shown up at Merton’s bash and lent his good name to that mountebank, that alone would have been proof enough for me that he’s not Jesus.”

  “Exactly, Jon. But, as you may recall, he did not show up. Ergo, your conclusion, sir?”

  Jon grinned, thought for a moment, and replied, “Nice logic, my dear, but too fast a jump to any conclusion.”

  Shannon merely shook her head and said, “Jon, Jon. What will it take to get you to see the light?”

  It was long overdue. The biennial meeting of the Institute of Christian Origins in Cambridge, Massachusetts, had been postponed for two months because Jon, its president, was in Israel, heavily involved in the Joshua phenomenon. Because its elite, by-invitation-only membership consisted of world-class scholars on Jesus and early Christianity, the general secretary of the ICO, Richard Ferris, had been able to consult his specialists and answer many of the calls, cables, e-mails, and media queries that had deluged the Cambridge headquarters ever since Joshua appeared. Crucial issues regarding Ben-Yosef, however, only Jon could address, and ICO members, too, were looking to him for answers. Even his secured web site was not providing enough of them. Bottom line: Jonathan Weber had to return.

  “I’ll rely on you to monitor Joshua’s activities while I’m gone, Shannon,” said Jon, kissing her good-bye at Ben-Gurion Airport. “But don’t join his gaggle of groupies!”

  As with Jesus, a coterie of women followers had indeed materialized to assist the mission of Joshua and his disciples.

  “Worry not, Jon: you’re still the man in my life!”

  “Good-bye, darling! Let’s keep it that way!”

  A nasty surprise awaited Jon after his jet landed at Logan Airport and he filed past security. Word had leaked about his return to the States, and his path to the baggage claim area was jammed with reporters, radio stringers with mikes, and network cameras. Twenty simultaneous questions were fired at him, causing a bewildering word salad of nonsense as he tried to make his way out of the concourse. Finally, the head of security at Logan ran up to him and asked breathlessly, “Sorry about all this, Professor Weber! But would you be kind enough to hold a quick press conference downstairs at a room we’ve cleared near the baggage carousels?”

  “A press conference? Well, no, of course not! I had no idea—”

  “Please, Dr. Weber! We had to allow the media inside here because it’s a free country. But now there are just too darn many, and it’s becoming an awful security risk. Please? For the good of the nati
on?”

  “Well—put that way—all right.”

  The security official now grabbed an electronic megaphone and boomed out: “Dr. Weber will meet you downstairs at a room we’ve arranged next to Carousel H. Please clear this area at once!”

  An impromptu dais and a portable PA system were quickly set up in a room used for overflow baggage at the ground level of Logan. Bare cinder-block walls surrounded them, and ugly fluorescent lamps hung overhead from a ceiling jammed with pipes and conduits. But such amenities failed to discourage the media people, who crowded into the room.

  “I’ve seen nicer facilities in a prison!” muttered Donovan Whimpole of Reuters to Katie Couric of NBC. She smiled and quite agreed.

  Jon barely made it to the dais, since the aging box that was supposed to be a step up to the podium broke apart the moment he put his weight on it. This served as a fine prelude to the PA system, which howled fiercely with “mike wash” when he first tried to speak into it. It took fifteen seconds of ghastly yowling, punctuated by a series of earsplitting screeches, before the electronics finally calmed down.

  Feeling petulant and put-upon, Jon nevertheless tried to disguise his mood when he stood up to the microphone. “Clearly, I have no opening statement, ladies and gentlemen, since I had no idea you or I would even be here. I only hope this can be brief, since I’m due in Cambridge for dinner at six. Now, how may I help you?”

  Fifty hands shot up. Jon nodded to Paula Zahn of CNN, who came right to the point. “What about Joshua Ben-Yosef, Dr. Weber? Do you think he is Jesus Christ?”

  Jon smiled and said, “While some extraordinary events have been associated with this remarkable individual, I’ve not yet come to a definite conclusion.”

  “But which way are you tending at this point?” she wondered.

  “Sorry, no further comment on that. Yes?”

  “David Van Biema, Time. Does Joshua really heal people, Professor Weber?”

  “A remarkable number claim to have been healed. I know firsthand of an instance in which a blind man apparently regained his sight.”

  “Did you actually see that?”

  “No, but my wife, Shannon, did. The next day we checked out the circumstances, and the episode seems authentic. I, personally, did witness a successful exorcism.”

  Surprise swept through the media crowd, and a dozen more hands shot up.

  Jon recognized another familiar face.

  “Richard Ostling, Associated Press. They say that Joshua sounds almost biblical in his discourses. Is that true? Have you heard him personally?”

  “Yes to both questions. I’ve heard him speak on several occasions and he’s . . . very impressive indeed.”

  “How so?”

  “It sounds trite, but he holds his audiences spellbound. He can speak over a dozen languages without an accent of any kind. His message is a basic Christian ethic that attacks the evils of society and blesses those who do good. He also speaks in cadences and on themes quite parallel to those of Jesus.”

  “Have you ever seen him make a mistake? Say something incorrect? Do something wrong?”

  Jon thought for a moment, then replied, “No, not that I know of.” “Well, have others seen or heard him make a miscue?”

  “I can hardly speak for others. Yes?”

  “Eric Gunderson, Boston Globe. What about Ben-Yosef’s background, his youth, his earlier career before he went public?”

  “I think most of those details have already appeared in newspapers and magazines. More will be forthcoming, I’m sure. Now, I really must—”

  “Is there any chance that Joshua will get crucified?” Gunderson asked. “Like Jesus?”

  “I hardly think that it will come to that! Crucifixion is now passé, I’m glad to say. I once asked Joshua that very question, and he replied something like: ‘One cosmic sacrifice for the sins of the world is enough. Another would detract from it.’”

  “So! Joshua does identify himself as ‘the returned Jesus,’ then?” “Yes, at first a little indirectly, but lately all his comments point in that direction. Yes?”

  “But why ‘indirectly’? Oh, Bill O’Reilly, Fox.”

  “You’d have to ask Ben-Yosef that, although I do find a dramatic parallel there: most of the time Jesus only indirectly claimed to be the Son of God, though, at other times, more definitely so. Now it’s time to—”

  “I understand that you returned to the U.S. for a meeting of the Institute of Christian Origins in Cambridge,” O’Reilly persisted. “Will that group decide whether or not Joshua is Jesus?”

  “Not a chance!” Jon said, smiling. “That’s not up to the ICO. But now, thank you, ladies and gentlemen. We’ll issue a communiqué after the conclusion of the ICO meeting.”

  Additional questions rang out in that cramped basement room at Logan, but Jon ignored them. He retrieved his luggage, made a broken-field run for the exit, dodging a gauntlet of microphones in the process, and hailed a cab for Cambridge.

  FIFTEEN

  Nearly all thirty members of the ICO were present in the J. S. Nickel Center at Harvard University when Jon entered the conference room, looking fairly well recovered from his overseas flight the day before. As chair, he opened the meeting with predictable apologies for its tardy convening until Heinz von Schwendener—New Testament, Yale—genially cut him off.

  “Stow that, Jon!” he said. “We certainly understand.” A playful gnome whose mouth was often in gear, von Schwendener had gray-silver hair that had forsaken his now-bald pate and migrated southward to a rich stubble covering his cheeks and chin.

  “Thank you, Heinz,” responded Jon. “If any of you have a feeling of déjà vu, we all know why. Several years ago, in this very room, we were all reacting to the Rama crisis over Jesus. Now we have to respond to the Joshua crisis over Jesus, and this time we have more than a skeleton on our hands!”

  Bemused smiles and head nodding accompanied several “Hear, hear!” comments offered around the huge mahogany conference table. “I didn’t have time to prepare a formal agenda,” Jon resumed. “But if you don’t mind, I think the usual three-part division will do fine. First, in pedestrian terms, will be the ‘I ask you’ segment. Then comes ‘You ask me.’ And finally, the section I’ve elegantly titled, ‘What, if anything, should the ICO do in all of this?’ But please don’t tell anyone that I put it in these simplistic terms, or we’ll all lose our reputations as scholarly sorts!”

  “With grade inflation, you Harvards have already lost your reputations,” the irrepressible von Schwendener retorted, with a beaming smile.

  “As if you Yalies don’t have a similar problem!” Jon shot back with a grin.

  “Point taken,” said von Schwendener, holding up hands in surrender.

  “So, getting back to the main stream here. Is my ‘carefully thought-out agenda’ acceptable?”

  After smiles and no objections, Jon continued, “All right, then, first off, how is America responding to Joshua Ben-Yosef? We won’t bother with agnostics and non-Christians, since we know that they think anyone identifying Joshua with Jesus is a blazing idiot.”

  “Yes, except for Islam—among the non-Christians, that is,” said Sally Humiston—archaeology, Berkeley. “On the West Coast, some Muslim clerics are wondering if Jesus actually has returned, as the Qur’an predicted He would. If Ben-Yosef weren’t an Israeli, I think Islam would take even greater interest in him.”

  “East Coast too,” said Brendan Rutledge—theology, Princeton. “Ben-Yosef is really stirring up some interesting thinking outside-the-box, and from the least expected quarters.”

  “All right,” said Jon. “Let’s inch away from the fringes. What are the liberal theologians saying?”

  Katrina Vandersteen—semitics, Johns Hopkins—held up her pencil. “Well, our old friend Harry Nelson Hunt claims—very much like the agnostics—that any thought of Jesus physically returning is just as impossible as was His physical resurrection in the first place. In other words, ‘Jesus wasn’t
God—He just shows us the way to God. He was a nifty, noble prophet, to be sure, but only a man who died, and that’s the end of Him’—except, of course, for His massive subsequent influence.”

  “Predictable,” said Jon, “though he may not reflect all liberal theologians in that regard. But now, I think, things will get more interesting. What does the Christian center say, Katrina?”

  “Well, they, too, have some problems with Jesus actually returning under these circumstances. Not that they doubt He could: that’s all but called-for in the Creed. It’s just that they’d hate to, shall we say, back the wrong horse here. Well, that’s not the best choice of—”

  “Understandable,” Jon commented. “Do continue.”

  “In many ways, I think this is the central point in the whole issue: what if Joshua actually is the returned Jesus? If we doubted it or denied it, then we’d be no better than those who rejected Jesus two thousand years ago. On the other hand, what if this truly is not Jesus at all but an impostor? Then, if we regarded him as Jesus, we’d be guilty of idolatry, blasphemy, folly, and a dozen other deadly sins! It’s . . . just an incredible dilemma.”

  Silence reigned around the table. Then, applause actually broke out. No one had put it more succinctly than Katrina Vandersteen. “Well done!” Jon commented. “That certainly is the nub of the issue. But I’ve heard that this broad center is leaning heavily in the direction of agreeing that Ben-Yosef equals Jesus.”

  “True enough.”

  “All right, then. Going farther across the spectrum, what about the center-to-right wing, the evangelicals?”