Maybe they dictated them to someone else, or passed the stories down orally until recorded by Greek speakers. After all, Socrates never wrote a single word, so we only know of his ideas through the words written after his death by his student, Plato. Like Jesus, Socrates chose to die for his principles rather than run. Ironically, Plato reports one of the charges against Socrates was atheism for questioning the historical truth of the Greek gods.
But Socrates never claimed to be God. Even if Plato made up everything Socrates said and did, the words and ideas themselves remain the important thing, no matter who said them. The words of the Gospels were powerful, but would it be the same if they hadn’t been spoken by the Son of God?
Historians date the Gospel of Mark as the first. It is also the shortest Gospel. The earliest versions of Mark ends with the discovery of the empty tomb, with only later versions containing a narrative of Jesus appearing to the apostles. The third-century Christian theologian, Origen of Alexandria, quoted all the Gospel resurrection accounts in detail, except for Mark, making it likely that Origen’s version of Mark didn’t contain that ending yet. How could Mark have left out the resurrection?
Had someone appended Mark’s Gospel later?
If people added to the first written account, did such a practice continue backward to the oral account as well?
Kayla paced back and forth as she read.
The Gospels of Matthew and Luke paralleled Mark almost word for word in large portions, and then built on that core. The virgin birth is not found in Mark, but only in Matthew and Luke. Even then, Matthew and Luke tell different virgin birth stories, while Paul, Mark, and John don’t mention this astonishing transcendence of human biology at all.
Most disturbing of all, nearly every miracle Jesus performed echoed stories of earlier gods in the region. Turning water into wine had been attributed to Bacchus and other gods for centuries, as well as being a popular miracle performed in temples by Greek and Roman priests to amaze believers.
Historians and archaeologists cited proof that divine claims of miraculous births, healing the sick, and even rising from the dead were nothing new. Maybe these stories of pagan miracles falsely claimed precedence?
Then she came across the writings of one of the early Christian church fathers, Justin Martyr. In a 156 AD letter to the Roman Emperor Antoninus Pius, titled “Analogies to the History of Christ,” Justin wrote, “And when we say also that the Word, who is the first-birth of God, was produced without sexual union, and that He, Jesus Christ, our Teacher, was crucified and died, and rose again, and ascended into Heaven, we propound nothing different from what you believe regarding those whom you esteem sons of Jupiter.”
Under the heading “Analogies to the Sonship of Christ,” Justin gets more specific when he says, “And if we even affirm that He was born of a virgin, accept this in common with what you accept of Perseus. And in that we say that He made whole the lame, the paralytic, and those born blind, we seem to say what is very similar to the deeds said to have been done by Æsculapius.”
So there it was. A church father himself admitting that virgin birth, miracles, resurrection, and ascension into Heaven were nothing new. Justin Martyr and the other writers dismissed these pre-existing similarities as tricks of the Devil, but that seemed rather self-serving.
Her chest fluttered with anxiety at the implications. On what basis did she believe the Christian miracles over the very same pagan stories?
I must find the truth.
Kayla returned to the twentieth century writer, C. S. Lewis, who said that Jesus, by proclaiming his divinity, was either what he claimed, a liar, or a lunatic. Lewis found it unreasonable that someone who taught such a high moral system could be a liar or a lunatic, so a single logical conclusion remained—that Jesus must be God.
Of course, Jesus couldn’t have been a liar or a lunatic. That much seemed obvious.
Relief flooded her like a cool, cleansing stream. But what might Tem make of such an argument?
How do we know Jesus actually claimed this?
Could Jesus be nothing more than an inspiring man whose followers attributed miracles and claims of divinity to him after his death, like so many other tribes and religions had done to great men, and even women, after they died? Once again, that first assumption created yet another circular argument.
Tears rolled down her cheeks as she read on. Why can’t I stop reading? Is knowledge more important than my sanity?
The New Testament reported that Jesus was “famed far and wide.” Surely the numerous contemporary authors living in the area must mention Jesus and his miraculous deeds. That would provide the independent proof she needed. One after the other, the historians of the time remained silent on this miraculous person living in their midst. Maybe Jesus wasn’t that important to these writers and the Gospel’s inflated his fame.
A passage in Matthew described what happened the moment Jesus died on the cross.
“And Jesus cried again with a loud voice, and yielded up his spirit. And behold, the veil of the temple was rent in two from the top to the bottom; and the earth did quake; and the rocks were rent; and the tombs were opened; and many bodies of the saints that had fallen asleep were raised; and coming forth out of the tombs after his resurrection, they entered into the holy city and appeared unto many. Now the centurion, and they that were with him watching Jesus, when they saw the earthquake, and the things that were done, feared exceedingly, saying, ʻTruly, this was the Son of God.ʼ ”
That might be the proof she needed. An earthquake powerful enough to damage the sacred Jewish Temple must have been recorded by others writing at the time.
But she found no mention of this—by anyone.
The rising of long-dead saints from their graves seemed even more amazing than Jesus’ own resurrection. Yet three of the four Gospel writers neglected to mention it, let alone anyone else of the time.
Luke wrote of a census Caesar ordered of the entire Roman world that forced Joseph and Mary to go to Bethlehem. Such a huge undertaking should leave a massive trail of documentation. And yet no one else mentions it.
Matthew described King Herod massacring all young male children in the vicinity of Bethlehem because he’d been warned by the Magi that a new King of the Jews had been born there. But there existed nothing in the historical record of such an outrage, save Matthew alone—writing in Greek.
Kayla expanded her search to writers living in the generation after Jesus died and found only silence from dozens of writers in the area, who should have heard of these miraculous events.
Until she came across Josephus.
He’d been born in Jerusalem a few years after Jesus’ execution and was a Jew himself. As the most prominent chronicler of his time and place, it seemed unthinkable that he would fail to mention such a miraculous person who’d lived in the very city where he grew up. He must have known people who witnessed Christ’s miracles and even spoken with the apostles themselves. Maybe he met people healed by the very hand of Jesus.
What if I find nothing? What will that do to my faith?
In Antiquities of the Jews Josephus wrote, “Now there was, about this time, Jesus, a wise man, if it be lawful to call him a man, for he was a doer of wonderful works—a teacher of such men as receive the truth with pleasure. He drew over to him both many of the Jews, and many Gentiles. He was Christ: and when Pilate, at the suggestion of the principal men amongst us, had condemned him to the cross, those that loved him at the first did not forsake him, for he appeared to them alive again the third day, as the divine prophets had foretold these and ten thousand other wonderful things concerning him; and the tribe of Christians, so named for him, are not extinct at this day.”
Kayla closed the book and fell to her knees. This passage confirmed the crucifixion, resurrection, numerous miracles, and stated directly that Jesus was, indeed, Christ the Messiah in fulfillment of the prophecies. As a non-Christian, Josephus served as an impartial reporter of the facts. A man with
direct access to an entire generation of eyewitnesses in his home city.
“My Lord, my God, my Savior,” Kayla said, hands clasped in prayer. “Tell me what you desire of me.”
But there followed only silence. The minutes stretched to hours. Then, something scratched at the back of her mind. If Josephus believed Jesus was the Christ in fulfillment of the prophets, why hadn’t he converted to Christianity? She’d read a small portion of Josephus’s complete writings and looked at the half-finished book lying on the ground.
Why would someone who spent whole chapters on minor historical figures write only a single paragraph about the long-awaited Jewish Messiah who rose from the dead?
She retrieved the book and continued reading.
Justin Martyr discussed Josephus’s writing in detail, including the very book containing the paragraph on Christ, but never once mentions it, which seemed strange.
The list of church writers who must have read Josephus was long: Theophilus, Irenaeus, Clement of Alexandria, Origen, Hippolytus, Minucius Felix, Anatolius. Not one mentioned the paragraph, despite extensively quoting other parts of Josephus’s writings. Origen stated outright that Josephus didn’t believe that Jesus was the Christ, despite having read the very book where Josephus states in no uncertain terms that Jesus was the Christ. Had Origen somehow missed this paragraph? Or did he think Josephus was lying? Or …?
It wasn’t until two hundred twenty-five years after Josephus wrote the book around 94 AD that the first mention of it appears in the historical record by a fourth-century Christian historian named Eusebius.
If Eusebius forged the paragraph and inserted it into new copies of Josephus, that would explain why none of the previous church fathers mentioned the paragraph beforehand.
The temporary reprieve from her existential maelstrom vanished, and an anxiety rose within her chest like some unstoppable flood. How could a believer in Christ do such a thing?
In one of Eusebius’s writings, he states: “That it will be necessary sometimes to use falsehood as a remedy for the benefit of those who require such a mode of treatment.”
The very fact that forty-or-so other contradictory Gospels existed in circulation at the time, proved in itself that forgery was common at the time. How had the church fathers known which four were the authentic ones?
Continuing through Josephus’s writings, his life proved as amazing as the people he wrote about. Born into a wealthy Hebrew family that descended from Jewish royalty on his mother’s side and the priestly order of Jehoiarib on his father’s, Josephus traveled to Rome in his early twenties to negotiate the release of several Jewish religious leaders, meeting with the Emperor Nero himself. Upon his return, he became a commander of the Galilean forces as the Romans attacked his homeland.
When the Roman General Vespasian and his son Titus trapped Josephus in a cave with forty of his fellow fighters, the group refused to surrender and decided on mass suicide instead. In order to save his own life, Josephus suggested a mathematical method of choosing the order they would kill each other, leaving Josephus and one other soldier the lone survivors.
Once his fellow freedom-fighters were all dead, Josephus surrendered and worked for the Romans as a negotiator while they proceeded with the Siege of Jerusalem in 70 AD that destroyed the Temple as well as most of the city. Josephus wrote that the Romans enslaved ninety-seven thousand Jews and his own wife and parents lay dead.
Kayla paced the library as she read. The fact that so much rested on this anomalous figure’s single paragraph unsettled her, but she continued on.
After witnessing the disaster that would reverberate throughout history for his people, Josephus proved himself a true pragmatist by accompanying Vespasian’s son, Titus, throughout the region on a victory tour that climaxed in Rome. The newly crowned emperor, Vespasian, rewarded his Jewish turn-coat with patronage.
The final nail in the coffin came when Josephus declared the Roman emperor Vespasian the Messiah predicted by Jewish scripture. It made sense for this ultimate survivor to flatter his new boss in such a way, especially since the Roman Imperial cult often turned their emperors into gods. But claiming two Messiahs seemed odd if flattery motivated him. Wouldn’t Vespasian be annoyed when lumped together with a crucified criminal?
The truth was too obvious to ignore any longer. Eusebius forged the paragraph to remedy Josephus’s awkward failure to mention Jesus as the Christ.
Kayla dropped the book and went still.
If someone like Josephus hadn’t bothered mentioning Jesus, what did that say about the truth of this miraculous story written so much later?
“No!” Kayla shouted. “I won’t desert my Savior! I won’t forsake the man who suffered and died to save me!” Why wasn’t faith enough for her? Why hadn’t God made her like the Monads if he wanted such belief without reason? Why give her a brain that could reason and then punish her for using it?
Just as the storm of emotions overwhelmed her, a voice spoke within her mind.
Do not fear, I am with you.
“My Lord?” Kayla fell to her knees.
But there was no answer.
Was it the voice of the Almighty, or her own subconscious protecting its sanity?
Kayla’s shoulders slumped, and her chin drooped to her chest. History contained no proof. The choice was firmly one of faith alone.
“So you’ve read them all,” a low voice said.
Kayla sprang to her feet. In the entrance to the library stood the eight legs, abbreviated body, and malformed face of—
“Ohg!”
Kayla stumbled toward him, but a single leg shot forward and stopped her, the hard talon on the end like the tip of a spear against her ribcage.
“You lied to me,” he said.
“I answered all your questions truthfully.”
“A lie of omission.”
Kayla lowered her gaze. “Am I banished from Middilgard, then?”
Ohg remained silent for a long while. “Are you willing to tell me everything?”
Kayla nodded. “Yes.”
“We shall see.” Ohg led her into the tunnel outside her villa. The corridors stood empty in the dim night-cycle.
“How long have I been … away?” Kayla asked.
“Five months.” Ohg guided her onto a large metal disc lying on the floor and stood beside her. It rose into the air and carried them silently through the deserted city.
They reached a cavern with no other exits and flew straight toward the solid wall. At the last moment, a hidden doorway swung open. Once in the dark passageway beyond, the slab of granite swung back into place with barely a whisper.
The disc descended in a gentle spiral, and the air grew hotter. When the tunnel leveled, a small point of light shone far ahead, growing into an archway flanked by a stone griffin and a dog with three heads. In Greek mythology, Cerberus guarded the mythical underworld and represented the past, present, and future.
The disc glided through a series of volcanic caverns criss-crossed with rivers of lava and smelling of sulfur. Ohg covered his sweating face with a gas mask. The fact that he didn’t offer her one spoke volumes.
He knows my secret.
Then came the machines.
They crowded the caverns like great squatting toads of technology, sucking blasts of heat from the vents they straddled and powering huge steam turbines within. Pipes and cables protruded from the soot-blackened monsters, no doubt supplying Middilgard with its energy. Other belching machines whirred, pumped, and crushed, depending on the particular service performed for their unseen masters in the clean and pristine world above.
The air-lock doors slid aside, and Kayla and Ohg floated into a giant metal chamber similar to the one she’d ridden through with Tem on her first day in Middilgard.
The second set of doors opened into a gleaming room stretching upward and outward to an impossible extent.
“Is that a rocket?”
“It’s an old nuclear missile I found in a forgotten Rus
sian silo,” Ohg said as they glided past the towering cylinder with the warhead lying dismantled beneath it. “I used up the plutonium in experiments long ago. Fissile material is one of the substances the molecular printers cannot reproduce—along with antimatter, of course.”
Kayla gazed into the distance at rows of machines spanning all eras of history. A World War II bomber sat amidst an aisle of half a hundred planes from all eras, each restored to pristine condition. They looked like mere toys compared to the vastness of the room that stretched at least three miles long and half as wide.
“I guess you’d call me something of a collector,” Ohg said, understating the obvious by many magnitudes.
“I thought you banned any weapons in Middilgard?”
“This is not Middilgard.”
“Isn’t that a bit hypocritical?” Kayla asked.
“It’s my job to protect those under my charge, even from one another.”
They drifted past automobiles, computers, hand tools, construction equipment, ancient siege engines, waterwheels, telephone switchboards, and thousands of other oddities—all organized on towering shelves. The room buzzed from an army of robots maintaining the vast collection.
Five identical pairs of robots perched atop assembly-line pallets. A small nozzle protruded from the right forearm in place of a hand, while the left resembled a sledgehammer. The largest pair stood twenty-five feet tall, and each additional twin shrank by five feet so that the fifth pair was man-sized. They seemed identical in all other respects.
“Don’t tell anyone about those,” Ohg said. “I wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise.”
They glided through an arched doorway into Ohg’s personal laboratory. Surrounding them were test tubes, refrigeration units, humming computer arrays, and a confusion of equipment that looked like something stolen from an alien spaceship.
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