by Paul L Maier
It never appeared. The two, however, seemed enough to rekindle mass speculation about the end times in all computer-literate nations. Although only words were scrolling by on the monitors of the world, prophecy mavens took them very seriously indeed, and, Jon noted with chagrin, Melvin Morris Merton never managed to turn down a television interview.
“I do believe that the Lord Himself is vindicating me!” Merton told ABC on Good Morning America. “All those Ivy League agnostics will rue the day they made sport of genuine Bible prophecy!” He paused. “‘Maranatha—come, Lord Jesus’ was the cry of the ancient church, and today’s as well.” He spread his arms wide, assumed a cherubic smile, and looked heavenward, crying, “Come, Lord Jesus! Come quickly! Amen!”
Jon turned off his TV, hoping no media frenzy would develop and the quirky phenomenon would soon be exposed, explained, and die a quick electronic death. But when he arrived at his office the next morning, Marylou Kaiser, his dedicated secretary, told him, “We now have twenty-three interview requests from the media, Dr. Weber. As usual, I promised only to relay their messages.”
“Well, it’s time for Rod Swenson,” Jon told her, as he punched in Swenson’s phone number at MIT.
If Rodney C. Swenson had not exactly invented the Internet, he came rather close. Colleagues at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, just downriver from Harvard, had given him the moniker “Web Daddy,” and he was centrally involved in building the powerful new Internet superhighway for use by the academic and scientific community. Hackers the world over hated him, since he was one of the preeminent cybersleuths who had ferreted out some of the cleverest in that arcane and repulsive fraternity. In their cryptic communications, they referred to Swenson as Hacker2, meaning “the hackers’ hacker.”
“Rod? Jon Weber over at Harvard.”
Swenson laughed. “Somehow I thought you might be calling, Jon.” “Okay, once again I see you’re in sync with the situation! So what’s your take on the Jesus Bulletin thing? How did they ever bring it off?”
Swenson was silent for some moments. Then he replied quite solemnly, “I don’t think ‘they’ were involved at all. I think we’re talking the real thing here, Jon—a totally miraculous communication from the divine dimension. After all, Jesus and His angels can do anything . . . and we mortals certainly can’t explain it scientifically.”
Now it was Jon’s turn to be silent.
“Jon?” asked Swenson after some moments. “Are you still there?” Finally Jon muttered, “Get serious, Rod.”
Swenson belted out several guffaws and said, “Who said that Swedes don’t have a sense of humor? Okay, Jon, we’ve all been working on it over the last twenty-four hours. I mean everybody: the FBI; the NIPC; the System Administration, SANS Institute; the CERT Coordination Center at Carnegie Mellon, not to mention Microsoft and the antivirus people, as well as my whole staff here at MIT.”
“An impressive alphabet soup! What do you have so far?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Not a blooming thing.”
“Why nothing? I mean, why weren’t all these web people ready for another message the second time around?”
“Well, it didn’t do any damage here or anywhere else, so there was no sense of urgency. It seems like . . . a quirky production cleverly cobbled together by some holy hacker—which is still my best guess as to how it happened.”
“Mine too.”
“But we’ll find him—or them—for sure. In fact, we now have to find out how it happened.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well . . . several reasons. For openers, we have to know how it hit all computers on-line. That’s never been done before—not even close. Think how someone, especially an enemy, could use this as a perfect tool for cyberterrorism! Or, for that matter, what if the creator or creators of the Jesus Bulletin plan to send others that may not be so harmless, this being just a trial run? Or, worst-case scenario, what if the two bulletins—harmless as they seem—may already have infected the world’s computers with a virus or worm that comes to life some time in the future and does horrible damage?”
Jon whistled softly. “Wow! This gets more serious by the minute, Rod—which means I shouldn’t take up any more of your time. The sooner you and your cybergeniuses get to the bottom of it, the better.” “Amen to that!”
“Do stay in touch, won’t you? Especially when you have something solid?”
“Of course.”
“I’m leaving for Israel day after tomorrow, but Marylou Kaiser, my secretary, will know where I am on most days. You have my email address, of course?”
“Right.”
“Thanks, Rod. Good hunting!”
Jonathan Weber left for Israel a month later than planned, but several extra sessions had been added to his class schedule to make up for the time missed. For the remainder of this semester and the next, he would finally assume his visiting professorship at Hebrew University in Jerusalem, where the administration had been more than understanding about his necessarily tardy arrival. He would see his beloved Shannon again shortly.
Before boarding his jet at Logan Airport, he picked up a copy of USA Today and read it en route to JFK, where he would switch to El Al for the nonstop flight to Tel Aviv. The front page updated the Jesus Bulletin story, comparing it to other historic web incursions, but with no further information on how it could have happened. When Jon got to page two, he groaned so audibly that adjacent passengers looked to see if he were in distress. One of the headers ran “MERTON: JESUS BULLETIN AUTHENTIC.” Under a photograph of the prophecy evangelist, his right index finger pointing toward heaven, the story listed Merton’s reasons for believing that this was a genuine notice of Christ’s return.
The signs told it all, according to Merton: another earthquake in Chile, renewed fighting in the Balkans, fresh threats from Al Qaeda, a blazing meteorite over India, the existence of the Trilateral Commission, and wider acceptance of the Eurodollar—all were markers pointing to the end. The only scrap of logic Jon found in Merton’s remarks came at the close: “And why couldn’t some modern-day John the Baptist alert us to Jesus’ Second Coming through the use of the most sophisticated communication medium yet developed?”
At JFK, Jon boarded an El Al 747 for the transatlantic flight. He felt confident that this was an airline with the best security. Long before the terrorist attacks in New York and Washington, El Al had done the obvious in preventing any hijacking of its jets: it had mightily reinforced the cockpit doors on its entire fleet. Had other airlines done that, the tragedies of that fateful September 11 might not have happened.
As Jon drowsed off during the evening transatlantic flight, his last thought was, At last I can leave Merton behind on the other side of the Atlantic. Amazing space . . . how sweet the sound . . .
Jon easily picked out Shannon among the welcoming crowds at Ben-Gurion Airport the next morning. There she was, he thought, with those sparkling sapphire eyes designed by God and lustrous brown locks arranged by the angels, her innocent loveliness always setting a whole new standard for beauty. Rushing over to her, Jon almost felt a stab of regret: if only a given sum of charm existed in the universe, how many women had been denied because Shannon was so radiant?
She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed him tightly. “Can’t tell you how much I’ve missed you, Jonathan,” she whispered. “And I you, little darling.” They stood locked in that pose for several moments, exchanging a long, fervent kiss. Then he added, “Thanks for not bending one of your legs upward during our kiss, the way they always do it in the movies for some reason.”
She gave him a little jab and laughed. “You flew across the Atlantic to drop such a . . . profound comment as that?”
“Yes, and lots more. Let’s go get my luggage.”
Jabbering on the way to Jerusalem, they covered their months of separation in short order. Although Jon hoped she wouldn’t bring it up, Shannon asked about the Jesus Bulletin befo
re they were halfway to the Holy City. “It’s caused a big flurry of excitement over here,” she said. “Not among Orthodox Jews, of course, who dismiss it. But the Messianic Jews and the evangelical community are all agog. Even the Roman Catholics and the Greek Orthodox are showing interest, especially because of Joshua Ben-Yosef.”
“Because of who?”
“Joshua Ben-Yosef. Haven’t you heard about him back in the States?”
“No. Not at all.”
“He’s becoming something of a media celebrity over here. It reminds me of the way young Billy Graham got started: in 1949, hardly anyone had ever heard of him; in 1950, everyone had.”
“How would you know?” Jon laughed. “You weren’t even a gleam in your daddy’s eye.”
“How indeed! I read, you know. They’re called books.”
“Okay, okay. Tell me about this character.”
“Well, he’s Jewish, obviously, probably in his early thirties. Comes from somewhere in the north country. A very nice-looking fellow with lots of charisma and charm. Extremely bright too.”
“So?”
“He’s an incredible speaker, and he has a big following.”
“Your description fits lots of people over here, including your old flame, Gideon Ben-Yaakov. Speaking of whom, have you made any visits to the Israel Antiquities Authority?”
“Suspicious man!” She poked him in the ribs. “Gideon’s happily married, obviously, and besides—”
“Okay, I’ll stop! So what makes this Joshua so different from the rest?”
“I don’t know, but you’ve really got to hear the man speak. Whether he’s giving a public address or just teaching some students, can he ever communicate! I’ve heard him just once, and he was speaking in Hebrew, so I could only gauge his impact by looking at his crowd of hearers.”
“And he made that big an impression on you? Is this guy married?” “Ah . . . no, I don’t think so.”
“Should I—maybe—be jealous, then?”
Shannon laughed, tried to tickle him, and said, “You can be a real dork at times, Jon!”
Jon’s academic hosts had rented a spacious apartment for them atop French Hill in Jerusalem, very near the Mount Scopus campus of Hebrew University. Shannon had moved in weeks earlier and could hardly wait to show Jon their new digs. He was impressed with the apartment, but when she took him out on their veranda, he fairly raved at the view. Directly ahead of them was the Mount of Olives, festooned in greenery, with the Brook Kidron at its base, sites saturated with both sacred and secular history. Adjacent to the Kidron Valley, the Old City of Jerusalem rose triumphantly to the west, surrounded by the massive, sixteenth-century walls of Suleiman the Magnificent. Crowning it all was the golden Dome of the Rock where the great temple once stood, not to mention the dozens of other domes, spires, steeples, minarets, towers, and ramparts that identified this as the religious capital of the world, home to the three great monotheistic religions. Although Jon and Shannon had seen Jerusalem dozens of times, their first view of the Holy City after an extended absence never failed to induce a tingle of delight.
Shannon herself had the same effect on Jon. “Let’s go back inside,” he said. “You haven’t shown me your bedroom yet.”
She gave that light, airy laugh that had always held him captive. Then she grasped his hand, led him down the hallway, and opened a door. “It’s not my bedroom, darling,” she whispered. “It’s ours. ” Jon circled her softly with his arms, and they shared another lingering kiss. There were kisses and then there were kisses, thought
Jon, in his growing passion: this one, after so many weeks’ absence, totally suffused him. Very carefully, he unbuttoned her blouse and slipped her arms out of it. Then with gentle urgency, he tugged off her skirt. They tumbled onto the bed in a nimbus of exhilaration, and the culmination that followed was one of frenzied abandon. Afterward, they lay together for a long time in each other’s arms, not saying a word. Finally Shannon looked over and saw tears in Jon’s eyes. “What’s wrong, my darling?” she asked.
“This was like our wedding night all over again, but somehow even more intense. I think I’m shedding tears for all those who will never experience such bliss.”
She gave him a kiss, laughed lightly, and said, “Our wedding! I’ll never . . . ever forget that wonderful day in Hannibal. What was it, 75 degrees—not a cloud in the sky? Remember how your father was beaming as I came down the aisle at St. John’s . . . and how you stood there with your arms hanging down, grinning like a boy who’d just raided the cookie jar?”
Jon laughed. “Dear old Dad. His wedding address was . . . was like the mercy of God: it seemed to endure forever.”
“Do you remember it?”
“Hardly a word.”
Jon laughed, hoping she would not zero in on the worst gaffe he had ever made in his life. But in vain was that hope, especially when he heard her chuckling softly.
“But oh . . . how you ever blew your lines, Jon!”
“Please don’t, Shannon . . .”
“When we came to the place in the Lutheran ceremony where we recite our vows, your dad says, ‘Please repeat after me: I, Jonathan, in the presence of God and this assembly . . .’ But eager-beaver you say, ‘I, God, in the presence of . . .’”
“I simply wanted to die on the spot.”
“Well I, for one, was waiting for blue lightning to strike you down for blasphemy! And then your dad says, ‘Son, let’s try that again.’”
“Yes, while the rest of the congregation was in stitches!”
“I’ve always thought ‘Freudian slip’ would be the best explanation for that: the great Jonathan P. Weber, professor, best-selling author, savior of the Savior’s Christianity, finally flashing His divine credentials!”
“You take no prisoners, do you Shannon?”
She laughed and said, “Wasn’t our reception something else? I don’t think the Hannibal Country Club ever saw anything like it— my uncle and aunt flew over from England, your Harvard colleagues coming from Cambridge. . . . I can’t believe that Gideon and Naomi actually flew over from Israel!”
“Glorious weather, great music, dancing under the stars, and, of course, the Delta Queen. ”
“Just perfect for our honeymoon! How you ever got that fabulous Mississippi paddle-wheel to dock at Hannibal I’ll never know—”
“With God, nothing is impossible!”
“Monster,” she cried, giving him a playful kick.
“Remember our Honeymoon Suite on board, just back of the wheelhouse on top deck?”
“How could I ever forget that!” she tittered softly.
Jon shared her chuckling and said, expansively, “So here we have this magnificent couple, finally giving ultimate expression to their great love for one another. But can they then fall asleep in each other’s arms? Not a chance! The blasted boat’s steam whistle blew directly over their heads, shattering our couple’s serenity, and —”
“Oh, don’t be such a fuddyduddy,” she interposed. “the Delta Queen was merely saluting our joy!”
“Hmmm,” he murmured. “I like your take on that better than mine. I just can’t tell you how much I love you, Shannon.”
FOUR
While Shannon worked to finish her supplement to the Rama report, Jon plunged into his duties at Hebrew University. The prime responsibilities of his Ezra Bernstein Distinguished Visiting Professorship were to offer a graduate seminar and conduct whatever research he felt appropriate to his discipline—just the sort of open-ended ticket professors dream of.
Jon’s academic sponsor was Professor Mordecai Feldman, the university’s Jewish specialist in Christian studies. The two had been close academic friends for years, and both had studied under David Flusser, the preeminent patriarch in Jewish-Christian studies, now deceased. Whenever Jon wanted an informed Jewish opinion on items in his research, Feldman was always his first contact.
Not one to shy away from controversy, Jon had set “Jews and Jesus” as the
theme for his graduate seminar. But it was so quickly overenrolled that it had to be converted into a general academic symposium for all interested students and faculty, who now convened in a new theater-style lecture hall with three hundred seats. Jon lectured in English, which was no hindrance to anyone in Israeli higher education, including the many international students at the university.
The broadest ranges of religious backgrounds and beliefs regarding Jesus would be welcome. “In fact,” said Jon in his opening lecture, “I’ll dismiss only one opinion as unworthy of our discussion or our time: namely, that a man named Jesus of Nazareth never lived. Only a handful of craz—I mean, pseudoscholars hold that position, and you can count them on the fingers of one hand.
“Now, having said that, it would be helpful to learn where we all come from in our opinions on this extraordinary Jew. We have the nonreligious and religious of all stripes in this symposium: Jews and Christians, as well as Muslims and representatives of other beliefs and nonbeliefs. Let’s first do that familiar word-association test: I’ll throw out a word, and you report the very first thing that comes to mind. It may seem trite, but it works.”
Jon looked out at his audience. “The word is Jesus. Quick now, what are you thinking? Anyone.”
For some moments, not a single hand was raised.
“The first response always takes the longest,” said Jon.
Several more seconds intervened. Had he misjudged his audience? Jon wondered. Then a hand shot up from a rangy, carrot-topped, American-looking student who seemed to have just stepped off the prairie. He stood up and announced in a bold tenor voice: “Jesus? He was—and is—the Christ, the Messiah. He’s the Son of God and Savior of the world. In this very city His own countrymen brought Him up for trial before Pontius Pilate. Then He was crucified, died, and rose again.”
A loud drone of discussion erupted, and a dozen hands shot up. Jon recognized one of them, a tanned Jewish student wearing a yarmulke, who stood up and said, “Jews didn’t prosecute Jesus—the Romans did! In fact, as Justice Haim Cohn wrote in his book The Trial and Death of Jesus, the Jewish high priest, Joseph Caiaphas, was very likely Jesus’ dear friend, who was trying to keep Him out of trouble with the Romans!”
