by Paul L Maier
But when Isidore Schornstein stood up in the Knesset the following Thursday to introduce his motion of no-confidence in the government, he had a slight smile of satisfaction brightening his usually austere features. He had calculated the votes of the various political parties, called in political favors, and held a series of intense strategy meetings with Shas, Mafdal, Aguda, and the other religious parties. He had just enough votes: Cohen would fall.
When the voting took place, however, he was shocked to see defections from his own list, political favors not repaid on the part of “ingrates,” and members of the Knesset voting their consciences rather than the party line. Cohen and his Labor Party coalition received enough votes to more than compensate for Shas’s defection. The premier would survive indeed, and without the help of the ultraorthodox—the first time this had happened in Israeli politics for some years.
And, in a way, we might thank Joshua Ben-Yosef for that, Jon thought to himself. Still, Jews hardly had any monopoly on polarizations like those that surfaced in the Israeli cabinet, he knew. Every religious system, every government, every institution on earth had its liberals, moderates, neutrals, conservatives, and reactionaries— the too-open minds, the open minds, the centrists, the narrower minds, the closed minds. Israel was simply the world writ small. Perhaps he should discuss the human mind the next time he saw Joshua Ben-Yosef—if there was a next time.
Indeed there was, though without opportunity for any philosophical dialogue. Just after class one morning, several students returned to the auditorium and exclaimed, “Ben-Yosef’s teaching down in the Kidron Valley, Professor Weber!”
Jon left the hall and walked outside to a promenade overlooking Jerusalem to the southwest. From that vantage point he saw a large crowd gathered on a hillside below the walls of Jerusalem, listening to a figure who was speaking at a spot next to the Brook Kidron.
The Kidron, the most famous brook in history, he reflected, never mind that it now looks like a glorified ditch.
Around 700 B.C., pious King Hezekiah had cleaned out the Jerusalem temple—good—but had the trash dumped into the Kidron—bad. On the Thursday of Holy Week, Jesus and His disciples had crossed the Kidron in order to reach the Garden of Gethsemane.
“I wonder if Joshua will try to claim old memories of that brook,” Jon muttered to himself, in a skepticism he would not have shared with Shannon.
A brisk, ten-minute walk brought him to the edge of the crowd, just in time to hear the close of Joshua’s discourse, in contemporary Hebrew. He turned on his pocket cassette recorder so he could later translate for Shannon’s benefit:
“And so, my friends, all of you are burdened with concerns and anxieties of every sort. You worry over the past, but how foolish is that? You worry over the present, but only complicate your situation. You worry over the future . . . but then find that your problems have vanished! Learn from the very birds flying overhead, chirping away without fears of any kind: your heavenly Father protects them—He will protect you. Be concerned only that you ask God’s forgiveness for your sins—and forgive others theirs—and then resolve to improve your lives with His help and His blessing. Now . . . go in peace, and serve the Lord.”
Slowly, apparently savoring a spiritual feast, the crowd started to disperse. But Jon now had the opportunity of witnessing what went on after one of Joshua’s presentations. For some reason, he decided to watch it all from behind a nearby hedge, feeling suddenly uncomfortable about confronting Ben-Yosef directly at that time and place. As Joshua and his associates tried to leave, a handful of people who apparently needed help remained after his teaching and detained them. Patiently, Joshua laid his hands on each, and most smiled exuberantly as a result of what seemed to be healing, many kneeling before him in grateful joy and adoration.
But the quasi-biblical scene was suddenly interrupted when a large, apparently deranged creature came loping up on all fours to the small dais. Clad in a tattered maroon shirt and ragged, dirty jeans, the husky man had froth or spittle drooling out of his mouth. He reared up before Joshua and spoke to him in a Hebrew that ranged from whispers to raving shouts.
“So, you think you’re back, Nazarene, aye?” the madman snarled and muttered. “And after all this time! Well, surprise: we’re back too! And stronger than ever! Aha-ha! Aha-ha-ha!” He coughed and hacked.
“What’s your name?” asked Joshua, interrupting the man’s ghastly monologue.
“My name?” he mumbled. “It’s not my name . . . it’s our name. Our name is Multitude, because we’re a whole army! ”
“No, my friend, your name isn’t Multitude . . . it’s Solomon.”
The man stopped his raving and looked thunderstruck. “How’d you . . . how’d you know that?” he muttered, in apparently his first coherent response, which was quickly lost in the raving that followed: “Jesus once, Jesus twice . . . come to drive us out again, are you? Well, to hell with you, Ben-Yosef!”
With that, he raised both arms and made a lunge for Joshua that nearly knocked him over. Shimon and the others quickly sprang to his assistance and fought to restrain the man, who resisted fiercely. It finally took at least six of them to subdue the demoniac and pin him to the ground.
Joshua now stretched his hands over the man and said, “Hear me, you demonic forces who hold this man in bondage: in the holy name of God, I command you to leave him at once! Be gone . . . now! ”
The man shook, uttered a horrifying shriek, and stopped struggling. The men carried him over to a grassy spot along the brook where he rested briefly. Then he must have opened his eyes—Jon assumed, from the distance of his vantage point—and now he sat up and seemed to smile. Jon could not hear his first words, but later they were clear enough: “Thank you, thank you, Lord!”
“You’re feeling better, then?” asked Joshua. “You are restored?” “Yes, yes, Master! For the first time, I feel . . . I feel as if I am in control of my life again, rather than those . . . evil . . . awful spirits!”
“You are truly healed, my friend. Have no fear: the forces of darkness will not return. Now go in peace, and give God the glory.” “I will. I will indeed! Blessed be the name of the Lord!”
Joshua’s associates gathered round to congratulate the man and renew their obvious admiration for their Lord and Master.
“Come, have dinner with us, Solomon,” said Joshua.
And they all walked off.
After they left, Jon emerged from his botanical hideout, totally struck by what he had seen. Clearly, Joshua was playing to no galleries this time—not trying to impress anyone with spiritual sleight of hand. Only a few stragglers had witnessed this event and the setting, clearly, was far more objective, not staged. In many ways, what he had just seen was far more impressive than the flying pen. Perhaps, too, that was the reason for his hiding, Jon finally told himself: it added to the credibility of the episode that Joshua was not performing the exorcism for his benefit either. But if Joshua were the returned Jesus in fact, he would have known all about his hiding in the first place, much as he knew the madman’s name. Yet Joshua had not called him out of the hedge as Jesus had called Zacchaeus down from the sycamore tree.
This, of course, proved nothing one way or the other.
Would anything? Jon wondered.
TWELVE
Jon thought it interesting that Shin Bet was tracking Joshua again, after first disclaiming interest in doing so. Previously, he had wondered if they might share intelligence with him as to Joshua’s whereabouts. That, however, was no longer an issue. To deal with the hordes of Christian pilgrims arriving, the Jerusalem Post now published a daily column called “Joshua Jottings.” This listed places or events where Ben-Yosef was scheduled to hold forth in Judea or Galilee, along with whether his appearances were open to the public or private. If private, local police would help make them so.
“I think ‘Joshua Jottings’ is too flippant,” Shannon opined. “The editors should show more consideration.”
“Shannon, we�
��re talking about the most prominent Jewish newspaper in English in the State of Israel,” Jon reminded her. “I hardly think they’re reverent Christians! Would you prefer, say, ‘The Redeemer Report’? Or maybe ‘The Savior’s Schedule’?”
“Knowing you, that’s even worse, Jon,” she said with a frown. “Keep your incorrigible skepticism to yourself.”
That little exchange was merely the tip of the iceberg—a chilly, growing mass of disagreement that was slowly wedging itself between them. It was the first real problem in their young marriage, which thus far had been something of a textbook case of marital joy and serenity.
Usually, to be sure, they were able to set aside their differences and enjoy one another to the fullest. Sex—that wild, unfathomable accou-trement to love—easily thrived. Each was “closest friend” to the other. There were delightful excursions on donkeyback to Petra in Jordan, the “rose-red city half as old as time” with its incredible facades carved out of living rock.
During a semester break, they flew to Cairo and climbed the Great Pyramid at Giza, an extraordinary concession granted by the Egyptian Department of Antiquities, which had banned tourist climbs for decades. At the summit of the pyramid, which had originally tapered down to one pointed capstone, there was now a nine- or ten-foot square of stones, thanks to many centuries of sandblasting by winds off the Sahara desert. After a rather exhausting climb, Jon and Shannon lay down on the apex, shielding their eyes from a noontime sun blazing overhead.
Jon now sat up in the lotus position and started chanting, “Ohm . . . ohm . . . ohm . . . ”
“Has the heat gotten to you, Jon?”
“No, darling, I’m just getting in touch with my inner being so that it may better respond to the great oneness of the universe. Ohm . . . ohm . . .” Then he broke down in laughter and said, “At this moment, you and I are the envy of every New Ager in the world. They’d give up their favorite crystals, tarot cards, medicine wheels—their whole collection of psychic bric-a-brac, in fact, just to be where we are.”
“Why is that?”
“Haven’t you heard about pyramid power, my dear? We’re sitting here at the very convergence of earth’s forces projecting heavenward. Can’t you just feel the invigorating stimulus?”
“No.”
“Hmmm. Neither can I.” He lay back down and said, “Guess we’re just not cut out for the New Age.”
Moments later, he edged over and started stroking her cheek softly, another idea in mind. “Wouldn’t it be fun to make love up here, sweetheart?” he asked. “At the very pinnacle of the ancient world?” She gave him a look. “You’re totally whacko, my love!”
He was silent, letting his fingers reply instead.
“Jon!” she said, seizing his probing hand in a grip of iron. “Somebody will see us!”
He roared with laughter. “And just who might that be—here at the top of creation?”
“Quit that, you naughty man!” she exclaimed, with a blushing smile. “Aw, I think you ought to call for help, Shannon!” he teased. “Of course, it would take the help a couple of hours to reach us . . . provided they even heard you scream in the first place.”
She laughed lightly and sat up. “This is awesome, Jon!” she exclaimed. “What a tremendous view!”
He stood up, swept his arms around, and said, “Grandest view on earth, darling! You can see why Egypt is not the northeastern notch of Africa, as the maps have it. It’s only a marvelous green snake of vegetation that runs north and south along both banks of the Nile. The rest is desert.”
“Impressive! But . . . gosh, this is high up!”
“Look to the south: see the Step Pyramid down there at Saqqara? The pharaoh buried there is Djoser. His architect, Imhotep, designed that. It’s the first —”
“Jon . . . later with the history lecture, okay? I . . . I just don’t feel well. It’s scary up here.”
Putting his arms around her, he said, “Only a slight touch of acrophobia, my dear. Nothing to worry about.”
“Jon . . .” It was the whimper of a very frightened little girl.
“Well, okay, then, let’s go back down. But don’t look down, Shannon; just look around at the magnificent scenery on the way.” He moved off the top platform to show Shannon how to manage the descent. Jon knew well enough the reason for Shannon’s growing panic. Although the pyramids may look like equilateral triangles that provide an easy, pleasing climb upward, the view downward from the summit is positively intimidating. The nice, gradually sloping pyramid gives way visually to a cruel and much-steeper isosceles triangle. This optical illusion is one reason that climbing the pyramids was forbidden, since some tourist climbers had previously panicked, lost their balance, and fallen to their deaths.
Abandon hope, all acrophobes! should have been painted in huge lettering at the base, Jon thought. He was also cursing himself silently for not having known about Shannon’s fear of heights.
Shannon looked down in dread. Her face turned white and she froze. Her hands dug into a seam between a row of stones, and she started sobbing.
“Shannon!” Jon cried. “I told you not to look down!”
“I can’t help it, Jon!” she screamed. “It’s terrible! I’m so scared!”
Jon himself had to fight down a tinge of terror, knowing that they had gotten themselves into potentially mortal danger with not a speck of help anywhere on the horizon. Perhaps it was time for “tough love.”
“Stop whimpering like a little schoolgirl, Shannon!” he said firmly. “We’re going to reverse things now: I want you to turn and face the pyramid head-on. I’ll guide your feet each time we get to the next row of stones!”
“I . . . I can’t, Jon!”
“Yes, you can!” he insisted. “You remember how great it was going up: we’re just reversing the process on the way down!”
She turned toward the pyramid, slowly, timidly. He climbed down two rows of stones and grasped both of her ankles, now at his shoulder level.
“I’ve got you, sweetheart!” he assured her. “Now, one leg at a time. You just keep facing the pyramid while I place your left foot one row down—now drop your leg . . . yes . . . that’s it. Okay, your foot’s in a fine, firm place and you can put your weight on it. Good girl! Now do the same with your right leg.”
Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, they descended. Jon’s gentle coaxing seemed to gain credibility when they reached the halfway point and she was surprised to find herself still alive. Soon there were only fifteen rows of stone to go, and Shannon took heart, now a little ashamed of her performance at the summit. When they finally jumped down off the bottom row of huge stone ashlars, Jon hugged her.
“Way to go, darling!” Then he added what he thought was a helpful comment: “Remember what pilots do after surviving a plane crash? They go right up again to avoid the fear of flying. Shall we go for it?”
Shannon glared at him and snapped, “I do hope Cairo General Hospital has a psychiatric ward, Jon. I’m sure you’ll be a model patient!”
He laughed, threw his arms around her again, and said, “I can think of better therapy than that: let’s do a Nile River cruise from Luxor to Aswan! Are you game?”
“Is the pope Catholic?” Shannon beamed and nodded enthusiastically.
On all these jaunts, Jon tried to forget about Joshua Ben-Yosef and how that figure seemed to have monopolized their lives. Shannon, however, did not forget. She had resumed her bedtime prayers with a certain eagerness and regularly invited Jon to join her. Once, when she chided him for his wooden involvement, he said, “It’s just that I don’t know where to face in prayer, Shannon: toward heaven above, or toward Joshua’s latest whereabouts in Galilee.”
Like a legion of couples in mixed marriages—Jewish-Christian, Protestant-Catholic, Lutheran-Methodist—Jon and Shannon let their love bridge any denominational gaps. Theirs did not involve any disagreement over whether Jesus was or was not truly present in the Sacrament, or how much water to apply in baptism and at what a
ge. Theirs, instead, involved an alternative of infinite significance: Joshua the Impostor or Jesus the Returned.
Soon, Jon reasoned, he must find proof one way or the other. Without telling Shannon, he now read “Joshua Jottings” on a daily basis, deciding when and how to intersect with Ben-Yosef. Without telling Jon, Shannon now read “Joshua Jottings” on a daily basis also. Neither, then, was surprised when Jon announced one morning, “Next Sunday, Joshua is holding forth again up in Galilee, at what seems to be his favorite spot. Shall we?”
“Oh, yes! Yes, indeed!”
Jon’s friend at the Vatican, Kevin Sullivan, called from Rome that night. “I just can’t hold off any longer, Jon,” he said. “The Vatican is absolutely swamped with inquiries from the faithful all over the world, and you know what the question is.”
“Sure. It’s ‘why can’t priests get married?’”
Sullivan groaned. “Not a time for levity, Jon.”
“Sorry, Kevin. The pressure’s strong here too. Just trying to keep a sense of humor—and therefore my sanity.”
“Thanks for the steady stream of information you’ve been sending me over that specially secured web site. It’s been extremely helpful in keeping the Holy Father abreast of developments. But now he’s dispatching me to Israel so that I can see for myself.”
“Long overdue. When are you coming?”
“I land at Ben-Gurion day after tomorrow. The Archbishop of Jerusalem will be meeting my plane, and I’ll be staying at the Sonesta. When can we get together?”
“Hmmm. This could be great timing! Shannon and I are planning to drive up to Galilee this coming Sunday to hear Joshua at the Mount of the Beatitudes. Need a ride?”
“Fabulous! Just fabulous!” Kevin called into the phone. “I wondered if I’d even get to see Ben-Yosef while I was in Israel.”
“I’ll pick you up Sunday morning at the Sonesta at, say, seven? Then it’s off to our place for breakfast and the drive up to Galilee, okay?”
