by Paul L Maier
“Why should it?”
“Let me give you a hint: do you remember when Ben-Yosef called three of his friends over here? Their names were Shimon, Yakov, and Yohanan.”
“So?”
“Shimon, Yakov, and Yohanan . . . that’s modern Hebrew for . . . Simon—as in Simon Peter—James, and John!”
Shannon looked startled and said, “Omigosh! Peter, James, and John? Jesus’ Big Three?”
“Exactly! You might say the executive committee of His twelve disciples. And what about the name Ben-Yosef? That’s simple Hebrew for ‘son of Joseph.’ As if that weren’t enough, his full name is Joshua Ben-Yosef? Joshua, of course—actually Yeo’shua in Hebrew—is simply their version of the name we anglicize as Jesus.”
Shannon shook her head in silent bewilderment for some moments. Finally she asked, “What do you think’s going on here, Jon? Is this science fiction and we’re in some kind of time warp?” Jon said nothing.
She persisted, “You . . . you don’t suppose this could be a twenty-first century version of Jesus, do you? Or a Jesus returning again before His final coming?”
“No. I can’t buy that. Probably he’s just—”
“I mean, who else could speak different languages so perfectly? Or say to multitudes today what Jesus would say if He actually came back?”
“Probably he’s just an extremely clever impersonator, Shannon.” She thought for some moments. “Well, if you’re right, why on earth would he do this, Jon? What’s really going on here?”
Jon gazed out onto the open waters of the Sea of Galilee. A full moon was floating up over the Golan Heights on the eastern shore, sending a shimmering silver spear across the placid waters. But Jon’s mind was bending the spear into a question mark.
“We’ll have to find out, Shannon,” he finally replied. “We’ll simply have to find out.”
SIX
When Jon and Shannon returned to their apartment in Jerusalem the next day, the phone was ringing. Propelled by some universal human instinct, Jon made a flying leap to reach it before it stopped ringing, knocking over a chair in the process.
“Hello!” he said.
“Is this Professor Weber?” a male voice inquired.
“Yes?”
“Jeffery Sheler here, U.S. News and—”
“Hi, Jeff! No identification necessary! Calling from D.C.?”
“No, I left Washington last week. I’m here in Jerusalem.”
“You are? What in the world brings you over here?”
“Joshua Ben-Yosef.”
“Figures!” Jon nodded. “So he’s getting big coverage also in the States? I saw your article in last week’s issue.”
“Big and getting bigger. Several days ago, your friend Merton announced to the media that Ben-Yosef could very well be the returning Jesus, just as promised in that cyberevent.”
“Naturally.” Jon laughed. “Who else is first to open his mouth? And whether that mouth spouts fact or fiction seems to make little difference to Merton, just so it’s first. By the way, Jeff, I forgot to thank you for the accurate coverage of Merton’s lawsuit against me. No one does a better job of reporting than the esteemed religion editor at U.S. News.”
“You’re much too kind, Jon. Any chance we can get together soon? I’d like to tell you what we’re up to.”
“Great! How about dinner? Would this evening work for you?” “Sure. Where and when?”
“Let’s say . . . the Seven Arches. Know where it is?”
“Mount of Olives. When?”
“Say . . . 7 P.M.”
“I’ll be there.”
Jon looked forward to seeing Sheler again. His religion features in U.S. News had always been meticulously researched and well balanced, not veering off in thrall to the radical, revisionist critics nor, on the other hand, in any way captive to the right-wing evangelical block. He was very much his own man.
When Jon arrived at the Seven Arches Hotel with its panoramic view of Jerusalem to the west, Jeffery Sheler was already standing in the lobby with his trademark pleasant smile and outstretched hand. During their dinner together, however, he looked over his shoulder several times and conversed in low tones.
“Okay, I admit,” Sheler explained, “this may look a little cloak-and-daggerish. As usual, I’m merely trying to scoop Time and Newsweek. We’re planning to do a cover story on Ben-Yosef, and I’m here to do the spadework.”
“You think he’s that important?”
“I have my doubts. But America’s starting to go ape over this fellow. We’re talking instant celebrity here, especially because a sort of messianic fervor is building back home. What you call the prophecy pack are partially responsible, of course, but there’s a real apocalyptic element curdling the present climate. Ever since 9/11 and the terrorist attacks, the nation’s been on edge, as you know. Then came that cyberthing on the world’s computers. Ben-Yosef’s appearance seems to play into that, and overnight he’s attracting a following that makes the young Billy Graham phenomenon look like a small, preliminary event.”
“But the whole darn thing is probably a hoax, Jeff! Or, to be fair, Ben-Yosef himself might even be sincere, a kind of . . . latter-day ethicist modeling his career after Jesus’. But a real Jesus II? I can’t buy it.” “Agreed. But here’s the point: either way, we have a story here— a very big story. If he’s a fraud, we plan to unmask him and do the world a service. But if he’s genuine . . .”
“Jesus, you mean?”
“Then,” Sheler said with a smile, “U.S. News wants to be the first in line to welcome Him back!”
Both chuckled. Sheler now grew serious and said, “I’d like you to keep this confidential, Jon, but I’m not the only one here from our magazine. Mort Zuckerman has committed three of our best investigative reporters to assist me. He’s sure this is going to be a major story either way, and I think he’s right.”
“Who’s covering what?”
“I can’t reveal any names yet, but one of our people is checking out Ben-Yosef’s background. This man seems to have no past . . . or not much of one! Any decent Messiah—genuine or fake—should have a past.”
“True enough!” Jon laughed.
“Another of our men, with medical credentials, is checking out Ben-Yosef’s supposed cures. The third is interviewing friends, relatives, and associates.”
“Good plan, Jeff. But how can I help? Or do you even want or need my help?”
“Affirmative! You can help us in at least two ways. One, I’d love for us to get together from time to time and exchange information. I’ll supply what we learn, and I’d much appreciate your returning the favor—all in confidence, of course. After all, you’ve spent many months in Israel and have lots of contacts here.”
“No problem. What’s two?”
“No one on this planet knows more about the original Jesus of Nazareth than you, so I want your historical-theological response to this phenomenon, especially when more information comes in.” “While disclaiming the first part of that, sure—count me in. In fact, why don’t we start now?”
“Great!” Sheler smiled. “Want to go first?”
Jon nodded, then proceeded to tell Sheler of his contacts with Ben-Yosef: Shannon’s early reports, Feldman’s observations, their trip to Galilee, hearing Ben-Yosef hold forth on the Mount of the Beatitudes, then seeing him close-up on the pier at Tiberias, where he had even greeted them by name.
Sheler’s eyes opened wide.
“Find that unusual?” Jon continued. “Then try this: Ben-Yosef had twelve men in his entourage out there on the Tiberias waterfront. He called three of them over to meet us, and their names were . . . Shimon, Yakov, and Yohanan.”
“Shimon . . . as in Simon? Oh, no. Simon Peter, James, and John?” Sheler’s eyebrows formed a pair of arches.
“Exactly. And that’s the sum total of what I know. What do you have so far?”
“We’ve checked with the Israeli authorities, of course,” Sheler confided, “but
they haven’t been as forthcoming as we’d like. Frankly, they’re trying to fight shy of any involvement. They just don’t want to wade into matters religious, especially in view of their own problems with the ultraorthodox and all the small religious parties that have so much disproportionate leverage in Israeli politics.”
“Yes, there’s Shas, of course. Mafdal and Aguda, too—all tails trying to wag the dog. Oh, oh, that’s not a very graceful—”
“It’s okay, Jon, I won’t report you to the orthodox chief rabbi here.” Again Jeff looked around, then commented sotto voce, “We don’t have much, but I’ll lay out what we know. Joshua Ben-Yosef was apparently born in Bethlehem around 1973, and—”
“Born in Bethlehem, you say? The one here, or the one in Pennsylvania?”
He smiled. “The one here. I thought that might get a rise out of you!”
Jon tapped his fingers together, then thought out loud. “It’s one thing for an impostor to plan his ruse to run parallel with Jesus’ career and try to bring it off. But infants have very little control over where they’re born.”
“No kidding. But if you find that a little . . . unusual, consider where Ben-Yosef grew up.”
“And where was that? Up in Galilee, I suppose? In Nazareth!”
Sheler nodded.
“Oh, come off it, Jeff!” Jon replied, face darkening. “You’re putting me on.”
“No, I’m not. We’re still sifting the details, but his parents seem to have settled in or near Nazareth when Ben-Yosef was very young.”
“And I suppose his mother’s name is Mary? We know from ‘Ben-Yosef’ that his father is Joseph. They must still be alive, no?”
“We don’t know anything about his parents yet. There seems to be some problem in the records.”
“What are the odds here, Jeff? Twenty centuries later, someone acts the part of Jesus, which he can control, yet was born in Bethlehem and raised in Nazareth, which he could not control!”
Sheler spread his arms, hands upturned. “I’m only reporting what we have so far, Jon. And that’s it, to date. We just got here last week.” Drumming his knuckles on the table, Jon thought for some moments, trying to make sense of it all. “Well, we both have something to work on,” he commented, “and I’d like to be more proactive than passive in this thing. It’s a blooming mystery, all right, and it has some wild implications. Have you or any of your people been to Bethlehem yet?”
“No.”
“Or figured out how a Jew could have been born there, when the place is totally Arab today?”
“No.”
Jon thought for several moments more. “Okay then,” he said, “why don’t you let me do some spadework in Bethlehem? I always like to start at the beginning.”
“Excellent!” Sheler beamed. “Even better than I’d hoped! Meanwhile, our people will follow up some leads in Jerusalem and Galilee.”
“While I, like the wise men of old, wend my way from Jerusalem to Bethlehem.”
There was no star to guide Jon in his quest, but rather complications the Magi never had to face. Only a scant five or six miles south-southwest of Jerusalem, Bethlehem lay beyond the borders of Israel in an area now controlled by the Palestinian Authority. Jon took Shannon along for several reasons: her loveliness never failed to distract officious border guards, he would look less the solo “spy,” and, most obviously, life was always better with Shannon around.
Because of Arab-Israeli hostilities and the terrible siege of the
Church of the Nativity in 2002, the road to Bethlehem was heavily guarded with troop emplacements, barbed wire, not-so-hidden guns, and parked tanks. The border gates, painted in red and white, were down across the road as their Peugeot braked to a stop.
An officer of the Israel Defense Force peered into their window, requested the usual identification papers, and asked what they planned to do in Bethlehem. He spoke in English, correctly assuming that Jon and Shannon were foreigners. Jon was about to reply in Hebrew—he loved to flaunt that wherever possible—but then realized that it could raise suspicions: why was someone who knew Hebrew going into Arab territory?
Shannon saved the moment by announcing, “We’re researching a book on the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem.” Surely that sounded more innocent than declaring, “We’re checking out the shadowy past of one of your new Israeli celebrities.” The IDF trooper returned their papers and waved them through.
Continuing through sixty yards of no-man’s-land, they stopped at the Palestinian checkpoint. A frontier policeman in black-and-white kaffiyeh glanced through their papers, asking the usual questions about destination and intentions, also in English. Jon nodded to Shannon: her explanation worked once, why not twice? After she gave it, the gendarme returned to his guardhouse, checking their names against a master list of undesirables.
When he returned and was about to probe further, Jon added, “I used to bring busloads of tourists to Bethlehem. We’re also trying to see how we can revive tourism here after all the hostilities.” Immediately the guard smiled and waved them through.
They drove up to Manger Square, where Jon let Shannon out at the Church of the Nativity. That would look good in case they were followed. He drove on across the square to Bethlehem’s city hall and located the records office on the second floor. Standing behind a long counter was a clerk who could have been Yasir Arafat’s brother, since he had the same strained features under a black-and-white headdress.
“I’m trying to find the birth record of someone born here in Bethlehem around 1973,” Jon told the man. “Would you be kind enough to help me?”
Faux-Arafat looked at him with a trace of suspicion and asked in accented English, “Why do you want this information?”
“I’m writing a book on the Church of the Nativity, and this person may be involved.”
“The person’s name?”
Jon wrote “Joshua Ben-Yosef” on a slip of paper and handed it to the clerk, hoping that, as an Arab, he would not recognize the name of the Israeli celebrity.
Apparently he did not. The man now did a computer check on the live births in Bethlehem in 1973, but found nothing matching the name. Jon asked if he’d be kind enough to broaden his search to cover all births from 1965 through 1975. Surprisingly compliant, the clerk did so. After some minutes, he shook his head and said, “No, nothing. Nothing by that name. Maybe he went by another name, yes?” “Not that I know of.”
“Do you know the names of his parents?”
“Unfortunately, I don’t, although the father’s first name would seem to be Yosef. I had hoped to learn the names from your records here, or maybe from his birth certificate.”
“Well, he must be Jewish with a name like that. Is he Israeli? Or American?”
Jon was on the spot. Should he concoct some further cockamamy reason for his inquiry that would not prevent an Arab from telling the truth about an Israeli to an American, maybe by adding to the innocent fib about the book on the Church of the Nativity? Or, speaking of the truth, why not try it? Truth expressed in the vernacular, however.
Jon now switched to Arabic and confessed, “Yes, this Ben-Yosef is an Israeli, and we’re trying to track down his background. But I myself am an American, not an Israeli.”
A broad smile bloomed on the clerk’s face. “Aha, you know Arabic! And you speak it well!”
“Not as well as you handle English.”
It was enough. Score one for truth. The official was now a model of cooperation. Leaning over the counter, he confided in quiet English, “There were others born here about that time for whom we have no records. When the Palestinian Authority took control in
Bethlehem, names of the few Jewish families living here were deleted from the records, but not by our staff. Some of our young radicals who ransacked the place wanted to ‘prove’ that no Jews had ever lived here.”
Jon thanked the man for his candor and said, “Here’s my card. If ever you come across any records with the name Joshua or Yehoshua Ben
-Yosef, would you be kind enough to contact me?”
“Indeed, Doctor . . . Webair,” he said, reading the card. “Salaam!”
“Salaam alaikum!” Jon responded.
Jon picked Shannon up at the Church of the Nativity and they started driving back toward Jerusalem on Manger Street. Near the edge of town, he noticed a store across the street and suddenly wheeled a sharp left into its parking lot.
“What’s that for?” wondered Shannon.
“Let’s see if Afram and George are in. Remember the Nissan brothers? You met them a couple of years ago.”
“Oh, yes. They sent us a Christmas card last year, didn’t they?” “Right. That pair are information central when it comes to what’s happening in Bethlehem. Gutsy guys! The Arab-Israeli violence stopped tourism to Bethlehem, of course, and almost ruined them. But they always seem to bounce back.”
Jon and Shannon walked into the establishment under a large sign—“Bethlehem New Store—Nissan Brothers”—and found themselves in a merchandise mecca. There were display cases and shelves full of mother-of-pearl items, gold and silver jewelry, gleaming brass candlesticks, shish kebab skewers, tourist trinkets, and sacred souvenirs of every variety. The overriding specialty, however, was carved olive wood used for every conceivable purpose: crèches in all sizes, Jesus at the Last Supper and other biblical scenes, as well as Bibles with olive-wood panels glued onto their covers.
Jon ignored the two clerks who descended on them, since he saw the sturdily framed, lightly jowled chief proprietor himself at the back of the store.
“Afram!” Jon called out.
The leathery, tanned face of Afram Nissan was cut by a vast smile. “Yonatan! Is it really you?” he called back, displaying a set of gleaming teeth as he rushed forward to welcome them with arms spread wide. “Ahhh,” he sighed, “I see you have brought a magnificent mirage out of the desert with you! Welcome, Miss Shannawn . . . as I recall.”
“You have an excellent memory, Mr. Nissan,” she replied.
“No, no, no: Afram, Afram! And of course I should remember you: I once offered your father twenty camels for your hand! Ah, but he refused, I am sad to say.”
