by Ray Bentley
Bette shrugged. “I’m not religious,” she said.
“I knew I liked you,” Jack said. “All right, now what? My job is to figure out this place and explain it to my bosses back in London.”
“What demands did you make of Eliyahu?” Lev said. “What did you tell him you’d have to be convinced of?”
“Him again? Jerusalem Syndrome candidate if ever there was one!”
At Lev’s encouragement Jack grudgingly agreed to recall his questions. “The first thing I said was I’d have to be convinced the so-called prophecies were actually accurate—not just vague crystal-ball, smoke-and-mirrors—and the things predicted actually mattered; were of some consequence.”
“There it is, then,” Lev summarized. “The plan of your investigation.”
“Hang on, hang on,” Jack urged. “I’m here to learn what I can about promoting peace in this part of the world. Everyone thinks expanding Israeli settlements undermines the peace process. Rebuilding a temple at ground zero would dynamite it permanently!”
Jack saw Bette was frowning, but he didn’t care. This religious mumbo-jumbo had gone far enough.
“What if you were convinced the land belongs to the Jews? Would that change your thinking?” Lev asked.
“Doubt it,” Jack pronounced before admitting, “It might—some.”
“Then what you heard last night and what you thought you came here to study are not really separate ideas at all.”
“And you have no doubt about any of this?” Jack said accusingly to Lev. “You’re 100 percent in favor of rebuilding the Jewish Temple, no matter how much turmoil it causes?”
“I didn’t say that,” Lev corrected cheerfully. “Actually, my position is much simpler than that. I believe the Temple is going to be rebuilt—no matter what—no matter whether I, or anyone else, approves the idea or not.”
Glancing at his phone, Jack reported, “I just got a text message from London, confirming an appointment I requested for today. Want to come with me?” he asked Lev.
His friend shook his head. “Can’t do it, I’m afraid. Nazareth tomorrow, remember. Have to get ready. Want to drive to the Galil with me? You’d be welcome—you and Bette and Ghassan also.”
“Sure,” Jack returned. “My mandate is bigger than just Jerusalem.”
“Why don’t we pick up Dr. Garrison first, and then you?” Bette offered.
“Great! So where is this next appointment, Jack?”
“I’m going to see the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem.”
Lev looked impressed. “Let me know how it goes.”
The headquarters of the Jerusalem Waqf, the Muslim council that supervises Islamic religious structures, was located only a fifteen-minute walk from the Western Wall. The offices in the Islamic Quarter of the Old City were housed in a 700-year-old former monastery. It once belonged to the Sufi sect—the branch of Islam that practices mysticism.
Jack was asked to produce his ECMP credentials by three secretaries in succession as he passed farther inside. Bette’s police identification card was examined once and then she was told to “Wait outside.”
The man who rose from behind the oak desk in the inner room was slightly built. He wore an olive drab robe over an olive drab necktie and a white dress shirt. His face possessed perpetually arched eyebrows and a thin, white beard.
“Dr. Garrison, welcome,” the man said, extending his hand.
“Thank you, Grand Mufti Hussein.”
“No, no,” the man corrected. “I am Ahmad, the Grand Mufti’s deputy. He was called away unexpectedly at the last minute. He hopes I will be able to answer questions for you. Please, be seated.”
When Jack was installed in the armchair across from the deputy mufti, the deputy gestured toward a brass tray containing a coffee pot and tiny brass cups.
“Please,” Jack said, mentally acknowledging the need to be courteous and secretly suspecting he should have skipped the earlier cups with Bette and Lev.
The last of the three secretaries poured the dark, syrupy brew, distributed the cups, then closed the door after himself as he exited.
“First,” began Ahmad, “let me begin by saying how much we appreciate the efforts of the ECMP to achieve peace. It is the mark of a true follower of the Prophet, blessings be on him, to strive for peace at all times.”
“Thank you,” Jack returned. “Very kind. We believe the lack of a durable peace here is both harmful to this region and dangerous to the entire world.”
“Very true. Now, how can I help?”
“I have been sent, in part, to investigate the likely outcome of any attempt to rebuild the Jewish temple. . .”
Ahmad’s free hand shot up, his palm demanding silence. “Let me correct a misunderstanding right away. The correct question must be about building a Jewish temple. There never was such a place here to be rebuilt. The Noble Sanctuary—the Haram esh-Sharif—has always been and will always be sacred to Islam.”
“I see,” said Jack, thinking this was not starting well at all. On the wall beside Ahmad hung a portrait Jack recognized as Haj Amin el Husseini, the former Grand Mufti who made common cause with Adolf Hitler. “Is it not true a Waqf historian named Aref al Aref, writing in 1929, confirmed the existence of the Jewish temple?”
Ahmad said coldly, “He was mistaken. Later, more exhaustive research disproved any such claim.”
Jack felt his blood pressure rising. Political expediency was one thing but an outright denial of historical fact was a direct challenge to his profession. “And the artifacts recently recovered from sifting the debris of excavations under the southeast corner of the. . .”
“Lies! Deliberate fraudulent attempts to claim a Jewish presence.”
“But the finds have been authenticated as coming from the First Temple period.”
“Ah! From when but from where? There is no proof. They were not investigated in situ as proper archeology protocols require.”
“It’s my understanding many prominent, well-credentialed scientists were not allowed to examine the excavations undertaken by the Waqf until after the material was dumped in the Kidron Valley.”
“Again, either deliberate falsification or clumsy misunderstanding,” Ahmad suggested. “There never was a Jewish presence on the Haram esh-Sharif. As you know, the Qubbat al-Sakhrah is the place from which the Prophet, blessings be on him, took his night flight to heaven.”
“Is it not true the builder of the Dome, Caliph al-Malik, interpreted a reference to a distant location from where the prophet. . .”
“Blessings be on him,” Ahmad interjected.
“As you say. That the good caliph interpreted the ambiguous location as referring to Jerusalem, and then designated this location as much for political as for religious reasons?”
“Are you a Zionist?” Ahmad demanded. “Are you an agent provocateur?”
“As much as I am a seeker for peace I am also a seeker for truth,” Jack responded. “One without the other is deception and not true peace at all.”
“I see,” Ahmad returned. “Well, if there is nothing else, I bid you good day. I hope you will return a true report about how abused my people are by the forces of occupation.”
“Thank you for your time,” Jack said. “I promise to be both truthful and fair.”
Back in his hotel room, Jack Garrison struggled to make sense of what he saw and heard that day. Clearly Lev Seixas had bought into the “modern Israel is the fulfillment of Biblical prophecy” narrative. In Lev’s view of the world, the Bible was the inerrant word of an almighty God. This omnipotent being constructed a covenant with His chosen people, the Jews, and was bent on keeping every promise ever made to them. Such promises related all the way back to the mythological Father Abraham from whom all Jews were supposedly descended and from whom they inherited the land from Lebanon to Egypt and across the Jordan to the Euphrates river, their Promised Land.
How do you argue with someone who takes that view of the universe? For Lev, a real man named A
braham nearly slaughtered a real son named Isaac until God intervened. That demonstration of Abraham’s faith, carried out right up there on the summit Jack saw out his window, sealed the bargain to Jewish ownership of this land—forever. How could you debate opposing views with someone who concluded, “It doesn’t matter what you or I think. God says the Jewish Temple will be rebuilt and that settles it”?
Pouring himself a diet soda, Jack swirled the glass. The tinkling of the ice cubes was an audible reflection of the way Jack’s thoughts bounced around in his head. Lev was an educated, insightful, modern man. How did such conclusions come to someone who otherwise seemed so reasonable?
On the other hand, Jack pondered the irritation he felt in the offices of the Waqf; the outright lies in the face of the overwhelming historical and archaeological evidence of the Jewish Temple; the portrait of a Hitler-embracing Haj Amin el Husseini on the wall.
And the present occupant of the office of Grand Mufti. Muhammad Hussein said suicide bombings were a legitimate tactic of resistance against Israeli occupation. In a television broadcast in January 2012, Hussein quoted one of the most inflammatory passages from the Quran. “Then the stones or trees will call: O Muslim, servant of Allah, there is a Jew behind me, come and kill him.”
Despicable. Not a man of peace at all.
Sinking back in an armchair Jack closed his eyes and tried to assemble his thoughts in some kind of organized pattern. How did you balance political expediency and religious fervor?
Jack had blurted out his need to actually be convinced of the accuracy of Bible prophecy, but after today that seemed not just unlikely but utterly impossible.
The reflection of a spotlight beside the Dome of the Rock was refracted by the window glass until it threw a pattern resembling shards of glass on the wall of Jack’s room. Some unexpected movement there drew his attention.
Was someone moving the beam like a searchlight?
That wasn’t it. Some image on the wall, framed within the fragments of light, moved sideways across the plaster.
It was the outline of a man’s hand—a right hand, moving from right to left on the wall as if inscribing Hebrew script.
Jack’s first response was not surprise or fear but amusement. The handwriting on the wall, he thought. Book of Daniel What a biblical allusion. As soon as he thought of that phrase he turned it into a pun: a biblical illusion. Debbie always hated his puns.
I will turn aside and see this sight, he thought. Take that, Moses; you and your burning bush! I know biblical illusions when I see them.
Despite his feeble humor, Jack was intrigued by the moving hand. Was it writing something? If so, what?
Setting down the glass he attempted to stand—and couldn’t get out of the chair. Now he was alarmed. What was happening? Had someone slipped something into his drink?
A voice Jack recognized as Eliyahu’s—how was that even possible after only one hearing?—spoke to him. Everyone can see the handwriting on the wall. The whole world knows things do not continue as they were before. Though they may not admit it, everyone knows history is racing toward some sort of climax, but they need it explained. They need to be warned. Everyone can see the writing, but only those like the prophet Daniel who seek to understand the divine plan will be able to interpret the words.
Jack tried again to rise and almost vaulted out of the chair, spraying his drink across the floor in the process. He stepped down hard on an ice cube with a bare foot as he neared the wall.
There was no hand—no writing—no longer any fragments of refracted light.
No longer any voice addressing him.
Jack fumbled with the television remote and snapped on an Israeli news program. It was in Hebrew, but it was really just noise and real people Jack craved. Otherwise he might start to believe he was succumbing to this Jerusalem Syndrome thing for real.
Chapter Nine
Jack was surprised to see that instead of the limo, Bette Deekmann showed up in a white Toyota he guessed was her personal vehicle. “Did you get demoted—or did I?” Jack quipped as he climbed in and she motored away from the King David.
“Ghassan isn’t with us today and I think my boss doesn’t trust me with an expensive car,” Bette returned. “My department doesn’t have a big budget. Around Jerusalem is one thing but out-of-town trips are another.”
Jack wondered if there was also a security concern that remained unmentioned. After all, a black limo was more conspicuous than a white Corolla. Am I under some kind of threat? He decided against putting Officer Deekmann on the spot by mentioning it. Anyway, maybe he’d rather not know.
“How long will our trip north take?”
“About two hours,” Bette returned, “after we collect your friend. Back west the way we came from the airport, then north on Yitzhak Rabin Highway for sixty or seventy kilometers and about an hour more after that.”
“Is that all? I thought it was clear across the country.”
Bette looked amused. “Nazareth is not all the way north; not like the Golan or Kiryat Shmona. But most first time visitors don’t realize how tiny Israel really is: eight million people in a space about the size of New Jersey.”
“You speak of New Jersey as if you know it. Are you from there?”
“I have family there. But I’m Sabra—born in Israel. About three-quarters of Israelis living today were born here.”
“I heard you say Kiryat Shmona. It was on the nose of the plane I arrived on. It’s a city, you say.”
Bette frowned and shrugged a half-hearted nod.
“You wanted to say more.”
“It was named for the eight Jewish defenders who died in a battle with Shiite militiamen in 1920,” she said. “But that’s not the only reason we honor Kiryat Shmona. In 1974 three assassins of the PFLP killed eighteen civilians there and it has been the target of PLO and later Hezbollah rocket attacks. My father lost a brother there in 1986—my uncle, but before I was born.”
Jack was quiet for a long moment. “Then the name on the plane at the gate next to mine—Sderot—that’s more than just a city name also?”
“A city in the Negev—about a mile from Gaza. Did you know, for six months in 2007 three or four Hamas rockets fell there every day? The playgrounds all have bomb shelters.”
“So all the planes are named for cities that have been in wars?”
Bette snorted, then smiled. “Try and name an Israeli city which has not seen a shooting, or a knifing or a bomb.”
“All the more reason we must find a way to a lasting peace.”
Bette studied him sadly. “Yes,” she said, turning back to her driving and smoothly changing lanes. “Yes, we must.”
Partners with Zion was the name of the organization with which Lev Seixas was working and staying while in Israel. Their headquarters, which also provided housing for visiting pastors and their families from around the world, was located just off Yermiyahu Street. It was not far from Jerusalem’s International Convention Center.
Bette drove past an area where giant earth-moving equipment scraped and burrowed in the ground beside heaps of steel construction material. Squadrons of workers in neon-green safety vests scurried over the site.
“I confess,” Jack said, pointing toward the excavation, “my thoughts of Jerusalem were all about 2,000 years out of date. This is a bustling, modern city too.”
“They broke ground here last fall. Skyscrapers, hotels—50,000 jobs. But know this: in Israel, past and present don’t just live alongside each other—we live with the past every day. Ancient hatreds, ancient fears—modern weapons.”
Lev was waiting for them. Beside him stood a tall man with close-cropped dark hair, swarthy skin, and sunglasses. The man looked exactly like the actor Liev Schreiber. Lev introduced him as his friend Amir.
“Amir is the director of Partners with Zion,” Lev explained. “He’s an Israeli Arab—former Muslim, now a Christian—former Hamas-backer, committed to the destruction of Israel—now one of the best p
romoters of building bridges for peace and understanding.”
While Jack greeted Amir he noted Bette had a look of suspicious reluctance. She barely overcame it in time to shake hands.
“If it isn’t too much of an imposition,” Lev said, “I’ve invited Amir to travel with us to Nazareth. Jack, I think you’ll find he can shed some light on things, maybe better than anyone here can.”
Jack saw Bette was not happy with the addition, but determined not to be ungracious. It was, after all, Jack’s decision. “We have room,” she said. “Why not?”
On the road again, Jack and Amir sat in the back seat for easier conversation. “Plenty of room,” Jack joked as Lev slid his seat forward to remove Jack’s knees from his back. “Amir, I am very interested in your personal story, but perhaps you should tell me about your program first. I guess the partnership between Christians and Jews is a recent phenomenon?”
Amir laughed. “I suppose it depends on how you define ‘recent.’ After all, the first Christians were all Jews, eh?”
“Point taken,” Jack agreed. “I guess I meant the idea of Christian support for the modern Jewish state.”
“No,” Amir corrected. “You’d be wrong there. Theodor Herzl. . .”
Jack nodded his recognition of the name.
Bette waved her left hand toward a tree-covered slope south of the highway. “His grave is up there.”
“Herzl,” Amir continued, “Who many regard as the father of the modern Jewish state, said the greatest encouragement and support he received was from an Anglican priest named William Hechler. That was in the 1890s. German father, English mother, born in India, missionary in Africa. Hard to imagine a more global perspective, or a less likely Zionist.”
Lev and Jack both laughed. Bette glanced back, conveying this was new information to her. Though she remained quiet, her shoulders relaxed a little.