More Than a Skeleton

by Paul L Maier

  This time, the buzz of reaction was even louder. Jon held up his hands, restored order, and commented, “Fine. There we have two very contrasting versions on how Jesus was brought to trial. Jews were directly responsible—or Jews were not involved at all. Let’s hear more opinions.”

  A cascade of other views on Jesus made this one of the liveliest symposia at Hebrew University that academic year. Toward the close of the session, Jon said, “What we’ll try to do in this series is to check out all the evidence—sacred and secular—regarding Jesus and Judaism in the first century. We’ll use both biblical and nonbiblical sources. We’ll weigh everything from the rabbinical traditions to the latest archaeological finds and historical interpretations. We’ll search for the truth wherever it leads us. See you on Wednesday.”

  In the next days and weeks, Jon’s symposium would plow through all the evidence on Jesus from the Nativity to what did or did not happen when He stood before Pontius Pilate on the other side of Jerusalem two-thousand years earlier. One morning, a brilliant Jewish student from the Negev pointed out that Jews had always had their so-called miracle workers. “Besides Jesus,” he said, “there was also Hanina Ben Dosa and Honi the Circle-Drawer.” He paused, brightened, and added, “For that matter, how about today and our Joshua Ben-Yosef?”

  A flash of commotion suddenly filled the auditorium, as all eyes fastened on the professor for his response.

  Jon was on the spot. All he knew about Ben-Yosef was what Shannon had told him the day he arrived in Israel. But he was quite literally saved by the bell: the hour was over, and he dismissed the class with, “We’ll take this up next time.”

  Clearly, he himself would have to take it up with Mordecai Feldman, his academic host. The next day they had lunch together in the university’s faculty club. After some delicious matzo ball soup, Jon asked, “Mort—what’s the current fuss over this Joshua Ben-Yosef fellow? His name’s surfaced several times in my symposium.” “Ah, yes—Ben-Yosef,” said Feldman, a pleasantly chubby professorial sort with twinkling green eyes that matched his natty blazer. “A very interesting fellow—in fact, so interesting that we’ve asked him to speak at the university here . . . though he has yet to accept. Heard him once—a real spellbinder, with a message even Hillel would have appreciated. Extraordinary insights. Brilliant ethics. Words poured out of him off-the-cuff as if he’d worked on each of them overnight.” “Bons mots, eh?”

  “Yes, all of them bons mots.”

  “But what did he talk about? What’s his specialty?”

  “Spiritual issues, and how they impinge on politics, society, and culture today. And in the questions afterward, he met every challenge gracefully, supplying answers that fairly rippled with wisdom.”

  “But surely you have a lot of people doing that. What’s so special about Ben-Yosef?”

  Feldman took a long sip of iced tea, then replied, “It’s rather hard to explain. He speaks—and people listen, listen as they’ve never listened before. What a way that man has with words!”

  “One of my students mentioned him in the same miracle-worker category as Hanina Ben Dosa, Honi the Circle-Drawer, and even Jesus. Is this guy also a . . . a faith healer of some kind?”

  Jon expected Feldman to shake his head, laugh, and say no. But he merely scratched the side of his gray thatch and said, “Well, you may find this hard to believe, Jon, but there have been reports of people he’s healed. Or helped—whatever. Personally, I’ve not seen any, but as I said, there are reports.”

  Jon’s perplexity was interrupted when Feldman suddenly smiled and said, “By the way, I should have told you this earlier. Jim Strange up at Sepphoris has been on the phone to me every other week, asking when you planned to arrive in Jerusalem. He seems to have discovered something very interesting up there.”

  Instantly, Jon’s mental antenna shot up. For years, he had been scanning any archaeological reports involving Sepphoris, knowing well enough that if ever a site might yield more information about the hidden years of Jesus’ youth, it would be Sepphoris.

  “What did he find?”

  “A very curious mosaic at an outer corner near the floor of the synagogue. And there are words inside it.”

  “In what language?”

  “Seems to be Aramaic, or even Hebrew.”

  “What does it say?”

  “That, my friend, is why Strange was asking about you.”

  “Is Strange still up there? I thought he’d be gone back to South Florida at the close of the dig season.”

  “No, he’s taking his sabbatical here in Israel, and still spends much of his time at Sepphoris.”

  Jon thought for a moment, then asked, “When’s your next trip up to Galilee, Mort?”

  “Leah and I are planning to drive up there weekend after next.” “Oh-ho—coincidence! So are Shannon and I. Any chance we could meet?”

  “Why not? Where would you like?” Feldman had a twinkle in his eye.

  “I think you already know.” Jon was smiling.

  “Fine. Friday after next? I’ll get in touch with Strange. Why don’t we all have lunch at the Grand New Hotel in Nazareth—which, of course, is neither grand nor new.”

  “Love it. Done!”

  The drive up to Galilee was a delightful reminder to Jon and Shannon of a similar excursion they had taken several years earlier, a trip that had so surprisingly found them in each other’s arms for the first time. For this reason they had declined, with thanks, the Feldmans’ invitation to join them on the drive north. Romantic memories had to be visited in private.

  For security reasons Jon and Shannon took the Jordan Valley perimeter route northward to Galilee, rather than up and down the hills of Samaria. The latest version of an Arab-Israeli truce had only partially taken hold. As they neared Tiberias, they dropped phrases like “Remember when we . . .” and “Here is where we . . .” like some sort of antiphonal chorus. Skirting the southwestern shoreline of the Sea of Galilee and then heading westward to Nazareth, they arrived at the Grand New Hotel in time to join the Feldmans and Strange for lunch.

  The professors greeted each other with predictable enthusiasm, while on the other end of the table, Shannon and Leah Feldman chatted amiably in getting to know one another.

  “So how did you discover this mosaic?” Jon asked Strange, firing the first in his salvo of questions.

  “Credit where credit’s due. I didn’t discover it: it was one of my student volunteers, a very bright girl named Jenny Snow, who turned out to be a real gift to our dig. I think she had some kind of radar—or maybe an archaeological angel on her shoulders telling her where to dig, because she also found some beautiful pottery pieces, coins, and such.” Strange described how Jenny and he had found the mosaic while the others at the table sat spellbound.

  After the salad course Jon extracted a piece of paper from his pocket, thrust a pen into Strange’s hand, and asked, “How about a simple sketch of the find area, Jim?”

  “You’ll see it in an hour or so.”

  “I know, I know, but I just can’t wait that long.”

  “Okay, an artist I am not, but it looks something like this.” A few swift strokes of the pen produced this sketch:

  “The circles are the synagogue’s column bases, of course,” Strange explained, “with a drum or two stacked on top of each. Not all the columns are there: I just wanted the sketch to look pretty! Anyway, X is where the mosaic was found.”

  “What does the inscription itself look like?”

  “You’ll have to see for yourself, my friend.”

  “Any of this published as yet?”

  Strange shook his head. “I wouldn’t think of publishing until I know exactly what the inscription says. Mort, here, has studied several of my photos, and we both have some hazy ideas. But we figure if anyone could tease out the actual message, it would be you.” “Uh-oh. A command performance! What happens if I fail?”

  “Then your world reputation as a Semitics linguist will be shattered fore
ver!” replied Feldman with a wink.

  “Shannon,” Jon remarked with a grin, “I think we should head back to Jerusalem.”

  The five hurriedly finished their lunch. No one thought of lingering for dessert.

  The Feldmans left their car in the hotel parking lot and joined Jon and Shannon in their Peugeot. An eight-minute drive following Jim Strange’s Land Rover across the Beit Netola Valley brought them to an abrupt rise named, by the Israeli Park Service, Zippori. “That’s how they spell Sepphoris today,” Jon told Shannon.

  “I know that,” she replied.

  Jim Strange unlocked the gate and waved them through. He first gave his guests a guided tour of the principal discovery sites, then took them to the excavated synagogue and its remarkably preserved, tessellated floor.

  “Isn’t that mosaic menorah spectacular?” said Shannon. “It should have been on the wall of the synagogue, not the floor.”

  “Then we’d probably not have it at all.” Strange chuckled. “The walls are gone, but the floor remains. Note that we have mostly geometric designs here and just a few nature motifs. That’s all because of the warning against engraved images in the Second Commandment, of course.”

  “Where do you peg the synagogue time-wise, Jim?” asked Jon.

  “We think that it’s early first century C.E., most likely part of Herod Antipas’s reconstruction of Sepphoris. His dad rebuilt the great temple in Jerusalem; Junior did the job on the synagogue here.” Nice first-century New Testament horizon, thought Jon. Jesus could have attended here as a lad.

  While Shannon stooped down to examine the floor of the synagogue in closer detail, Jon paced its southwestern perimeter, looking for the mosaic. Trying hard to stifle his mounting impatience, he decided to feign composure instead, knowing full well that Strange would identify the object of their quest in his own good time.

  At last Strange announced with a playful grin, “But I suppose you may want to see the new mosaic. We’ve left it in situ, of course.” He paused, then continued with mock pomposity, “I awaited the arrival of Jonathan P. Weber and his linguistic, historical, and archaeological skills, of course.”

  In the same lofty tone, Jon responded, “In which case you may well have waited in vain, my friend.”

  Strange walked over to where Jon had been searching and crouched down over nothing more than plain, apparently untouched ground. Grabbing a trowel, he carefully lifted off several inches of dry, sandy overburden, and the mosaic came into view. He brushed it clean.

  Shading his eyes from the surrounding brightness, Jon dropped to his knees to examine the piece. There was the design, there was the lettering, but his first attempt to decipher it, let alone read or translate it, went nowhere.

  “Here, I’ll help things along,” said Strange. Unstrapping a water canteen from his shoulder, he poured its contents over the mosaic. Again, the artifact suddenly took on color and life.

  The outer perimeter was of bluish stones, the inner of red or carnelian. Inside, against a buff background, were lines of lettering in black.

  “There, Jon,” said Strange, almost proudly. “Have at it!”

  After studying it for some moments, Jon nodded and said, “It certainly looks to me like Hebrew rather than Aramaic. And very likely a . . . late biblical form of Hebrew, maybe even from the Herodian era, judging by the lettering. But pieces of the tessera are missing, obviously, and some of the black has faded to gray. Hmmm . . . we’ll have to check the calligraphy carefully and reconstruct parts of it. The mosaic format also tends to garble the letter shapes somewhat.”

  He looked up and asked, “Any clues during your dig as to date, Jim? How’s the elevation? Same as the synagogue floor?”

  “It does seem contemporary with the synagogue,” Strange advised. “I measured the elevation of that piece carefully, and it’s on the same level as the floor.”

  “Fascinating! Both would seem to have a first-century provenance then.”

  “But what does the mosaic say, Jon?” asked Shannon.

  “I thought you’d never ask,” he trifled. “I don’t know yet. I’ll try to translate . . .”

  The inscription was not in the conventional Hebrew lettering that students learn, but in a much earlier style, further complicated by the missing bits of tessera. After jotting down notes and scratching his head for some minutes, Jon finally shook his head. “I can’t make much sense out of it,” he confessed. “The first line I can’t make out, but the second is about going and coming. The third line also baffles me . . . although . . . yes . . . there’s the name David! And it’s the best-preserved word on the mosaic! This is fabulous, Jim and Mort, just fabulous!”

  “Then we were right about the word ‘David’!” exclaimed Feldman. “The only time David’s name has ever been discovered archaeologically was Avram Bihran’s find up at Dan!”

  “Up to now!” Strange added, grinning wildly.

  “I really have to work on this,” said Jon. “May I take some photos, Jim?”

  “We already have some that you can have. But sure, snap away with your own camera. I know you’ll guard the prints carefully and won’t publish them or report anything about this find for now.”

  “Goes without saying! You’re the only one who has the right to announce this.” Jon shook his head in wonder, adding, “David’s name: the second time he shows up in stone!”

  “Oh yes, one more thing,” said Strange. “Make sure I’m the first to get your translation, Jon—well ahead of Mort here.”

  Feldman chuckled, “Of course. You know I’d publish first!”

  They all laughed and left the dig, though not before Strange had carefully recovered the mosaic with its sandy camouflage.

  Jon and Shannon drove back down to the Sea of Galilee and the hotel they had booked for their weekend in the north country, the Plaza in Tiberias. The place was saturated with euphoric memories: it was over a candlelight dinner here that he had fallen helplessly in love with her. They had taken a swim in the Sea of Galilee afterward, during which they had exchanged their first rapturous embrace, followed by a hail of passionate kisses. One of the great romances in all of history, Jon would later style it, in his own (occasionally pompous) fashion. However they would age in the future, the memories of that wondrous night along the moonlit sea would remain young, fresh, indelible.

  After dinner that evening they tried to recap the event by strolling along the beach.

  “Do you think it’s a sign of aging, Jon?” she asked. “Our not taking a ‘memorial swim’?”

  “Bite your beautiful tongue, sweetheart!” He laughed. “It was hot on that night of nights; now it’s October cool. By the way, how’s your supplementary report on Rama coming?”

  “I’m not nearly as far along as I’d like. No wonder some archaeologists take years to publish their results.”

  “And, of course, you have to get your father’s input too.”

  “And surprise, surprise: the great Austin Balfour Jennings is being cooperative!”

  “Who wouldn’t want to cooperate with you, darling? In fact, I’d love to do some cooperative snuggling right now. Shall we head back to the hotel?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  The next morning—mesmerized by Shannon, refreshed, emboldened— Jon did something far less romantic: he plugged in his laptop to check his e-mail. Finally, a message appeared from Swenson at MIT about the cyberphenomenon announcing Jesus’ return:

  Hi, Jon! You’re probably wondering why I haven’t gotten back to you on the Jesus bulletin. It’s just that I wanted to give you something hard and specific before e-mailing. Unfortunately, that doesn’t seem to be feasible as yet.

  The most that all of us can come up with is this: using our best technology, we’re now reasonably certain that the originating message came from somewhere in Israel. Yes, Israel! We still don’t know where in Israel it started, or how, but we’re checking with their best people. One consolation: it doesn’t seem to be cyberterror
ism at all. We’ve had no reports of any computers being adversely affected. Now if you get any information on-site there, be sure and pass it on to me, okay?

  Best wishes, Rod

  “Come here, Shannon,” said Jon. “Check this out.” While she was reading Swenson’s message on the laptop, he commented wryly, “Of course it would have to be Israel as the source of the Jesus Bulletin, wouldn’t it? Where else would a modern version of John the Baptist live?”

  Shannon shook her head in amazement. “For your sake, Jon, I only hope Melvin Morris Merton doesn’t learn about this!”

  FIVE

  Lunching at a garden table along the shore of the Sea of Galilee in the carefully groomed grounds of the Plaza, Jon and Shannon were startled to hear loud shouting and whistling from the street in front of the hotel. It was so noisy, in fact, that they got up from their table and hurried to the wrought-iron fence surrounding the Plaza to see what was going on. Jon asked a cheering bystander what the fuss was all about.

  “Ben-Yosef’s here!” the man cried.

  “You mean Joshua Ben-Yosef?” asked Shannon.

  “Yes! He’s on his way to Tabgha. He’ll be giving an address on the hillside there.”

  “When?” asked Jon.

  “Around three o’clock in Hebrew, at four in English.”

  They thanked the Israeli and returned to their table, finishing their coffee in silence. Shannon finally broke it: “We’re certainly going there, aren’t we, Jon?”

  “As the French would say, ‘But of course’!”

  A pleasant, fifteen-minute drive along the western shore of the Sea of Galilee brought them to Tabgha, a secluded seaside spot nestled at the base of the Mount of the Beatitudes between Kibbutz Ginnosar and Capernaum. They got out of their car to look around. “Up there,” Jon said, pointing, “is where Jesus is supposed to have delivered His Sermon on the Mount.”