More Than a Skeleton

by Paul L Maier

  Amid their laughter, Afram shouted, “Achmed! Ali! Bring us tea.” Turning to Jon and Shannon, he said, “Please to follow me.” Inside his modestly cluttered office, Afram Nissan apologized, “Do pardon this mess. I’m only sorry that my brother George is in Ramallah today. He’ll be so sorry he missed your visit.”

  “Do give him our best,” said Jon. “And congratulations, Afram, for continuing to make this the number one tourist emporium in Bethlehem. I can only imagine what you’ve been through. You and everyone around had planned so long for the great bimillennial celebration of Jesus’ birth.”

  “Ah, yes . . . our huge dining room for tourists next door—”

  “Its ceiling spangled with stars,” Shannon recalled.

  “I remember showing it to you and Yonatan.” Afram smiled. “But when those terrible hostilities started with Israel, no more tour buses to Bethlehem, no more festivals in Manger Square. And, of course, we had to stop building on our hotel.”

  “All that, and then the siege of the Church of the Nativity two years later!” said Jon, who was now ready to conclude introductory small talk. Courtesy, especially in the Near East, demanded that one approach the object of any visit somewhat obliquely. But courtesy had been served. Jon now went on to explain what he and Shannon were doing in Bethlehem.

  “Afram, have you heard about this fellow Joshua Ben-Yosef?” he asked. “And the excitement he’s causing in Israel?”

  “Oh, yes indeed,” replied Nissan.

  “But did you know that he was born here in Bethlehem?”

  “He was? Amazing! No, I didn’t know that. When was he born?” “Around 1973, I understand. I checked for his birth registration at the town hall in Bethlehem, but his name doesn’t show up in their records.” Jon gave further details about his visit with pseudo-Arafat. Nissan raised his right index finger and grabbed a phone. While hot tea was being poured for them, he unleashed a torrent of Arabic into the phone, all of which left Shannon baffled. Jon, however, heard his friend talking to the interior minister of the Palestinian Authority, urging that a general search be made of all birth records in the whole West Bank, if necessary, for a Joshua Ben-Yosef, born around 1973. Afram listened for some moments, assured the interior minister that it was that important, nodded several times, and then hung up the phone. “It is done,” he announced. “They will call me.” Jon thanked his friend, although he cringed just a bit at how his “private” investigation had suddenly become quite public indeed. On the other hand, what real harm was there in that? Afram now pressed Jon for more details on Ben-Yosef. Jon opened his bag of growing information on the Israeli, including the detail about Jewish names being expunged from the Bethlehem records.

  “Yes, it was a bad time,” Afram sighed. “A plague on both our hotheaded young people and the Israeli ‘settlers’ building new villages on our territory. The Israelis seem to be the American-style homesteaders, while we are the Indians who are losing our lands. Still, I doubt if our young radicals made much of a difference: many of the names they deleted, I understand, were returned to the public records in Bethlehem later on.”

  Afram rolled his knuckles on the green blotter atop his desk, lost in thought. “Ben-Yosef, Ben-Yosef,” he murmured. “And why was there no record . . .” He stood up and opened a file cabinet, hauling out a large black ledger that served as a company record of operations from the decade of the 1970s. Whipping through its pages, he stopped at an entry and read intently for some moments. Then he nodded several times, smiled, and said, “I just wonder . . .”

  Silence followed.

  “Wonder what, Afram?” asked Jon.

  “I think I may have it. I knew I had heard that name before. It was toward the end of 1973 . . . an Israeli professor came here. His name—can you believe it?—was Yosef Ben-Yosef! That’s why I finally remembered it. Anyway, he was driving from Galilee to the

  Negev with his pregnant wife, but when they came to Bethlehem, she suddenly went into labor. She started delivering near Rachel’s Tomb—that’s just several blocks north of here, you know.

  “Well, the husband—the professor—badly wanted shelter for his wife, so they stopped in front of our store. Our clerks shouted for me to come to the door. When I saw what was happening, I told the crowd inside our place to stand to one side—yes, we had crowds then!—and we brought the couple downstairs into the basement. We have our olive-wood factory down there, so they could have privacy. Then we phoned the Bethlehem hospital to send a doctor immediately. He came just in time to deliver a baby—a boy, I think. I don’t remember what they named him, but . . . could that have been your Joshua? Who knows?”

  Jon shook his head in wonder. “An amazing story, Afram! The extraordinary circumstances could explain why there’s no record of his birth here. But think hard: are you sure you can’t recall what they named the baby?”

  “No. If they did tell me, I’ve forgotten.”

  Then his eyebrows arched upward. “Well now, I think . . . I think that the couple sent me something later . . . in appreciation. But what was it?” He put both hands over his eyes and thought deeply. “This was thirty years ago.”

  Suddenly he got to his feet, startling Jon and Shannon. “I know where to look,” he cried. “Please to come with me . . .”

  They followed him into the hall. Just outside his office door an archaic wooden cabinet stretched from floor to ceiling. Jon whispered to Shannon, “That thing must have been built by one of King Solomon’s craftsmen!”

  Afram opened the door, revealing shelves packed with dusty old trophies, fading pictures, tarnished plaques, ancient awards, and other memorabilia. He searched shelf after shelf, then gave a cry of delight as he pulled out an alabaster paperweight with a little inscribed gold plate across its face. Reaching for a cloth, he wiped dust off the thing and read the inscription aloud:

  With thanks to the Nissan Brothers

  at the birth of our son Joshua

  Mariam and Yosef Ben-Yosef

  December 1973

  Afram chuckled triumphantly. “Well, Yonatan, there is your birth certificate for Joshua Ben-Yosef!”

  Jon merely shook his head in utter astonishment. “And his mother’s name is Mary. Or nearly so!”

  Back in Jerusalem that night, Jon had the weirdest dream of his life. At breakfast he told Shannon about it before it faded from memory. Jesus was born in a basement olive-wood factory. Overhead, it was not angels but tourist shoppers singing hymns of appreciation to the Nissan brothers for sheltering the holy family. He and Shannon were among the shepherds who had left their flocks to hurry, crooks in hand, to Bethlehem for the great event. Down in the olive-wood factory, craftsmen were carving their images for use in future crèches.

  “And what about the wise men?” asked Shannon, almost choking on her toast in glee.

  “Well, there was only one of the Magi—not the usual three—but he was a wise man: an Israeli professor who was also the baby’s father! And he presented a gift of gold—a golden paperweight, in fact—not to the baby, but to Afram Nissan!”

  Shannon chuckled even louder. “I wonder what was in that falafel you ate last night after we got back from Bethlehem!”

  On his way to Hebrew University, however, Jon’s humor turned serious as he ruminated over the dream. No, he was not getting biblical about dreams as regular conduits for divine revelation, but even his smattering of elementary psychology all but shouted what was happening: the parallels between Jesus and Joshua were starting to get to him. In each case, a baby named Joshua or Jesus was born in Bethlehem—under extraordinary circumstances, and in a subterranean place. And his parents were named Yosef or Joseph, and Mariam or Mary—parents who had left Galilee and traveled to Bethlehem.

  After his morning lecture at Hebrew University, Jon picked up the phone, called Afram Nissan, and asked, “That couple of yours and the baby in the basement—do you know what happened to them afterward, Afram? They didn’t . . . perhaps . . . travel on to Egypt, did they?”
>
  “Sorry, Yonatan,” Nissan replied. “I totally lost track of them.” “Hmmm. Thanks, Afram. Do let me know if you recall anything further.”

  “Yes. Surely.”

  “Salaam, my friend!”

  With or without Egypt, Jon mused, the Joshua-Jesus congruence was astounding. Was God really playing some sort of joke on the human race? Jesus couldn’t possibly have returned . . . could He?

  SEVEN

  Comments and questions about Joshua Ben-Yosef’s persona and deeds now intruded into Jon’s symposium at Hebrew University so often that he had to remind his audience, “This is a history seminar, not a conference on current events! Our focus is on the man who lived two thousand years ago, not on any contemporary.” Duly chastened, participants returned to the straight and narrow—for perhaps fifteen minutes. Then another student, with due apologies, would volunteer a fresh report on what Ben-Yosef had or had not done in the past week and wanted the professor’s take on it.

  Nor was his public symposium the only forum for the Ben-Yosef mania. That afternoon, Shannon came home from a university wives’ luncheon on Mount Scopus, breathless with excitement. One of the women had returned from a wedding celebration up in Galilee, to which Ben-Yosef and his band of followers had also been invited.

  “Jon, they ran out of wine. Sound familiar? But Joshua blessed some water jugs in the kitchen, and from then on they had plenty of good red wine for the rest of the festivities! The woman who was there said she had never tasted a better vintage.”

  “Oh, great!” Jon huffed. “Now we’re into party supplies! But Ben-Yosef seems to have delayed this one: water into wine was Jesus’ first miracle up at Cana in Galilee.”

  “Do you have to be so cynical, Jon? Put the case that Jesus has returned in the form of Joshua—though I’m certainly not saying that He has. Surely there’s no need for Him to repeat Himself in exactly the same ways twenty centuries later, is there?”

  “That does it!” Jon announced. “Even you are starting to credit this guy! Well, one thing’s clear: I’ve got to talk to him again. And soon!”

  This was no easy task, since Joshua and his cadre seemed to be always on the move. With great good luck, however, one of Jon’s students, who was related to a follower of Ben-Yosef, confided that Joshua and his Twelve had just arrived in Jerusalem to celebrate Yom Kippur. He thought that they would be gathering near the Garden of Gethsemane on the lower slopes of the Mount of Olives at noon the next day.

  Jon and Shannon planned to be there also. He thought it at least predictable that Joshua and his followers would have chosen Gethsemane, since it was a favorite haunt of Jesus and His disciples twenty centuries earlier.

  At about eleven-thirty they walked across the bridge over the Brook Kidron and turned northward into a grove of ancient olive trees, wondering if Joshua and his entourage would actually show up. “Well, even if they don’t,” said Shannon, “this is a beautiful spot, and we can always enjoy a picnic lunch here. Thanks for carrying the cooler, Jon.”

  “I wonder if it was really necessary,” he trifled. “Joshua could provide food and drink at the drop of an amen, couldn’t he?”

  Had he not been smiling, Shannon would have pinched him much harder than she did. Suddenly she hushed him and whispered, “Listen, Jon . . .”

  They heard talking farther up on the Mount of Olives and walked over to investigate. There, in a small clearing within the olive grove, they recognized the sturdy figure of Shimon, whom Ben-Yosef had introduced at the Tiberias waterfront. The soulful brown eyes and the salt-and-pepper beard edging his benign features were unmistakable.

  Shimon spotted them too. Waving them over, he extended a warm greeting and formally introduced them to his colleagues. “Yohanan and Yakov here, you may remember from our meeting in Galilee.” Both nodded with a smile. “And now, please meet Andru.”

  “Your brother?” asked Jon, though he found little resemblance to Peter in his thinner face and hazel eyes.

  “Why . . . yes indeed! How did you know? Do we look that much alike?”

  Jon shook his head, almost resigned to what seemed inevitable.

  “Not really,” he replied. “There are other reasons, and I think you may know them.”

  Shimon emitted a hearty laugh and said, “I ask your pardon for making a little joke. Andru is not really my brother, only my brother in the faith.”

  Without responding to Jon’s puzzled expression, Shimon continued his introductions. “Next to Andru is Natan’el. You’ll really like him: a very open sort.”

  “‘An Israelite in whom there is no guile,’” Jon answered, almost in refrain, referring to the Nathaniel twenty centuries in the past.

  Shimon smiled knowingly and continued, “And to his left is Thom. He’s something of a skeptic, but we think he’ll come around.”

  As the retinue chuckled, Thom rejoined, “The only thing I’m skeptical about is our eloquent spokesman here!”

  Even Jon and Shannon joined in the laughter. The introductions continued until they came to a swarthy figure in the back of the circle with knitted brow and piercing dark eyes. Later, Shannon would tell Jon that he looked very much like a terrorist.

  Shimon introduced the figure as Yudas and added, “He’s from Judea—the rest of us are from Galilee—but we’re trying to civilize him.”

  Yudas’s brow undid its furrows as he grinned and responded, “More like the opposite. I’m the cultured Judean, trying to teach these boorish Galileans some manners!”

  When the chuckling subsided, Jon finally raised the inevitable question, “And where is Joshua Ben-Yosef? We had very much hoped to see him again.”

  “His many healings down in Jericho have delayed him, but he plans to join us tomorrow.”

  Jon could stand it no longer. If he had had a whistle, he would have blown it—shrill, loud, and clear—to ask for time out. He now spread his arms wide and said, “All right, gentlemen. It’s more than obvious that all of you are directly imitating Jesus’ disciples of two thousand years ago—to the point of using their very names and even their personalities. I know that the following question may sound abrupt or rude or offensive, but I just can’t help myself. Please tell me: what sort of charade is this?”

  Shannon touched his arm in a cautionary gesture as a negative rumbling arose from the group.

  Shimon frowned and said, “It is not a charade!”

  “No? Then tell me truthfully,” Jon persisted. “Those names in your introduction: are those the names each of you were given at birth?”

  Shimon now smiled, shook his head, and said, “Only in my case, by mere coincidence. But, no, the rest assumed those names.”

  “Why did they do that?” asked Shannon.

  “In honor of Jesus’ disciples, of course. Apparently, you and your husband have already assumed that.”

  The candor astonished Jon. “But why in the world are all of you doing this?” he asked.

  “Well . . . isn’t that clear?” asked Shimon.

  “No, it’s not. It’s not clear at all!”

  Shimon walked over to Jon and assumed a stance that gave “in your face” a new meaning. Since he was half a head taller than himself, Jon now expected the worst and started tensing his muscles. But Shimon just smiled serenely and said, “We’re doing this, Professor Weber, because the Master called us, just as He did the Twelve twenty centuries ago. We merely took their names to honor their memories.”

  A cold shiver shook Jon as he tried to digest Shimon’s meaning. At last, he responded, “Well, then . . . your master Ben-Yosef must be doing the very same thing.”

  “Oh, no,” Yohanan interposed. “We are the imitators. But Master Joshua is Jesus of Nazareth, who has returned, thank God, just as He promised!”

  Shannon covered her gaping mouth with a folded fist. Jon felt the electricity at his extremities. He searched for words and finally found them. “You . . . you all actually believe that?” he stammered. “No, Professor Weber,” Yakov responded.
“For others it may be a matter of belief, but for us it is proven fact! In the past months, we have come to know that he is the Messiah, the Christ who has truly and physically returned, praise God!”

  “But what . . .” Shannon gargled, cleared her throat, and continued, “What makes you so sure?”

  “He teaches with divine authority,” Yakov replied, in a tone of earnest conviction. “He is all-knowing. He speaks any language. He commits no sin. He has never made a mistake. His mighty deeds prove his claims—his healings, his wonders, his exorcisms . . . the list is endless.”

  Jon and Shannon were too overcome to respond.

  “I know that this is very difficult for you to believe so suddenly,” said Shimon. “For several months now, you’ve read the news stories and heard the reports and most probably doubted them. But we shall pray for you, Professor and Mrs. Weber . . . pray that Joshua Ben-Yosef will touch your hearts as he has ours. Because our Jesus has returned, thanks to Almighty God! Please—I beg you both— hear his words, witness his deeds, and don’t make the mistake of those who rejected him twenty centuries ago!”

  Jon and Shannon remained speechless.

  “But now, if you will excuse us,” Shimon added, “we must take our leave.”

  With that, he led the modern Twelve out of the olive grove and headed for Jerusalem. Jon and Shannon merely stood there looking after them, arms hanging down at their sides.

  When they returned to their apartment, the voice of Jeff Sheler was on the answering machine, asking if they could meet at the Hilton for lunch the next day. Jon called back immediately, only to learn the somewhat disquieting news that Sheler was returning to the States.

  “But why are you leaving so soon?” asked Jon, as they sat down at the far end of the Hilton’s Garden Court.

  “Have to get back now and finish the special on Ben-Yosef. We’re advancing publication by three weeks, since the story’s starting to explode across the world. Heck, we’ll be lucky now to beat the other newsmagazines.”