by Paul L Maier
Though neither dared to ventilate it to the other, both Jon and Shannon felt a parallel thought surfacing in each of their minds. But it was so extreme, so outrageous, so impossible that neither could voice it. They could only look on with compassion, mesmerized by the pitiful scene unfolding before them. The silence was intense, almost palpable, and it lingered on and on.
At last Joshua pushed himself away from the rock. He turned to Yakov and Yohanan and told them quietly, “Move that stone away from the entrance opening.”
Jon grasped Shannon’s hand tightly.
“But, Master,” said Yakov, “it’s been almost a week, and you know what that means. The body will have—”
“I said, move the stone to one side.” Then he added, almost in a whisper, “Don’t be faithless . . . just believe.”
“As . . . as you say, Master.”
The two pushed and tugged the stone to one side.
Perspiring heavily, Joshua now stood before the opening and bowed his head in prayer once again. Then he opened his eyes, held his head erect, and called out loudly, “Shimon Levine! By the power of almighty God, arise and come out! ”
Nothing happened.
Shannon felt a trembling in her knees. She squeezed Jon’s hand even more tightly.
“I said, come out, Shimon!” Joshua repeated.
Silence.
Jon shook his head and thought, He’s gone too far this time!
“Shimon!” said Joshua, almost angrily. “Do you hear me? ”
Finally a muffled voice called plaintively from inside the tomb: “Yes, Master. I would come out, but . . . I’m trapped in this sheet. I can’t move!”
Shouts of excitement rose from the inner circles that heard the voice.
“Help him!” said Joshua, smiling at Yakov and Yohanan.
They quickly crawled into the tomb, and in a short time Shimon appeared at the entrance to the cavern, a look of confused wonderment on his face. Yohanan and Yakov escorted him outside and helped him stand up.
It was “Peter” all right, though a healthier version with skin ruddy tan rather than sallow yellow. Squinting in the brightness, Shimon walked slowly toward Joshua and fell to his knees before him, weeping in utter gratitude as he grasped his ankles.
Swept by a riptide of total shock, wonder, and elation, the entire crowd fell to their knees also, including Jon and Shannon. No one was left standing except the lone figure in white at the center of many concentric rings of humanity. The camera shots from the helicopter would fill world television screens that afternoon and evening—and for weeks and months to come.
The on-site audio would do the same. A torrent of prayer, praise, and adulation erupted, for any remaining doubts about Joshua’s true identity had now been swept away by the ultimate sign. The shouts greeting Jesus on that original Palm Sunday in the first century now broke out in a dozen languages in the twenty-first: “Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest! ”
The English-speaking segment in the throng vented their awe by singing a familiar hymn amid joyful tears. Jon and Shannon joined them. This time there was a powerful passion in each syllable that they had never experienced before in any church service:
All hail the power of Jesus’ name,
Let angels prostrate fall!
Bring forth the royal diadem And crown Him Lord of all!
Bring forth the royal diadem And crown Him Lord of all!
Not to be outdone, Germans in the crowd sang “Schönster Herr Jesu,” the French, “A Toi la Gloire,” Hispanics, “Lo Ores Dad a Cristo el Rey,” and so on through a dozen other languages. At last the multitude found two words that long ago had been transliterated into all languages and could therefore be shouted in unison: “HALLELUJAH! AMEN!—HALLELUJAH! AMEN!—HALLELUJAH! AMEN!”
Shimon remained kneeling at Joshua’s feet, shaking his head from side to side in consummate reverence. Apparently he had forgiven Joshua his tardy return to Jerusalem, and so did all the many witnesses. Joshua now raised his arms in benediction to the multitude. That blessing by the now-serene and smiling Joshua-Jesus would become the most graphic and intense memory in the lives of all present. Photographic versions would replace all previous artistic renditions of Jesus. Film, after all, was more faithful to fact than canvas.
The raising of Shimon “Peter” may have been a local event in Jerusalem, but it had reverberations across the entire world. Christians everywhere—many of whom saw it “live”—understood it as God’s gracious endorsement of His Son, Jesus Christ, and the final proof of Joshua’s true identity. And they were ecstatic.
Not surprisingly, the resurrection of Shimon had a massive impact on the non-Christian majority in the world as well. Muslims were asking penetrating questions of their mullahs, and Jews of their rabbis. No more editorials with anti-Christian bias appeared in New Delhi newspapers, and even Beijing’s People’s Daily called for a new and more favorable relationship between the Communist government and Chinese Christians.
Skeptics across the world, however, did not retreat, even if many were now less vocal in their disparaging remarks about Christianity. But Harry Nelson Hunt of Philadelphia was not one of them. Calling Shimon’s resurrection “an interesting trick,” he demanded medical and scientific verification that Shimon had actually died, as well as a complete physical report on his present condition.
With Shimon’s cooperation and approval, the Hadassah Hospital in Jerusalem supplied both to the world media a week later: absolute evidence of death from cardiac failure due to a chronic, hemolytic cancer, and absolute evidence of current excellent health in all bodily systems. His blood pressure, for example, would have made a teenager proud.
At last Jon had reached the point where any further questioning of Joshua’s claims was useless. Had he been there, even Yale’s skeptical von Schwendener would have been kneeling next to Jon and Shannon on the Mount of Olives, since Joshua had now filled Heinz’s prescription for convincing proof: the ultimate sign had taken place before their very eyes. Gone were Jon’s agonizing appraisal and reappraisal, the mental hand-wringing, the shuttling back and forth between faith and doubt. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, like peace of mind.
Above all, there was also peace with Shannon. They had never been happier in their marriage. Not only had his nagging qualms about Joshua been gloriously resolved and her faith rewarded, but they no longer had to fight with each other over the issue.
On the other hand, Jon had never been busier in his life. Just as he and his web site had been the clearinghouse for past information on Joshua, he was now deluged with inquiries about Joshua’s future plans—as if he were his spokesman, which, of course, he was not. Communications of every sort—air, surface, electronic—swamped his office. Some church officials asked if he knew how long Joshua planned to stay on earth before returning to heaven, and would he be addressing the church in general? Laymen and -women wanted to know if this was truly the beginning of the end times, and were they preparing properly? Some letters, incredibly, inquired if Joshua were Catholic or Protestant. Archconservative clerics, with millimeter minds, wanted to know all of Joshua’s doctrinal beliefs before declaring altar and pulpit fellowship with him!
Some of the responses were crucially important: Kevin Sullivan, for example, was calling twice a day from Rome, pleading for Jon to arrange a meeting between Joshua and the pope. At the opposite end of the significance scale was a letter from Third Baptist Church of Tucumcari, New Mexico, wondering if Joshua-Jesus might be kind enough to address their mission rally in the fall, provided he had not returned to heaven by then. They would pay his airfare, but the honorarium would have to be small in view of transportation expenses! “Nothing against Baptists or New Mexico,” Dick Ferris said, laughing, “but how do you spell inept?!”
Joshua helped dramatically in solving the economic and disloca-tional problems he had innocently created through his interim appearance. At noon one day,
another pop-up message appeared on all the world’s computers on-line, again with a trumpet fanfare, again in the vernacular depending on the country involved:
Blessed are you who celebrate my return:
For your faith is now rewarded!
Blessed are you who maintain your regular employment:
For spending your time in idleness is asin.
Blessed are you who avoid false prophets:
For they do not know when I shall next return.
Blessed are all who heed my words to the church:
For they shall be heard shortly.
Blessed are all who believe in me:
For of such is the Kingdom of God.
The computer in Jon’s office was on-line at the time, and he himself saw the message scrolling through twice, as it had months ago. It would appear word for word on the evening news, and so reach those who were not at their computers at the time.
“Notice that he didn’t even have to sign the message,” Jon told Ferris. “Everyone knows who the author is, of course.” Suddenly he slapped his forehead and said, “Now I know where I heard that trumpet fanfare before: it was the same as the one up in Galilee at Joshua’s mass meetings. It’s his signature theme, for goodness’ sake! I should have paid more attention to that months ago.”
“What do you think will be his ‘words to the church’? And where will he deliver them?” asked Dick.
“I don’t know, but I can guess.” His thoughts flipped back to Kevin Sullivan’s urgent messages. “Which reminds me that I have to call Joshua as soon as possible.”
Only the Seventy and their closest associates knew Joshua’s private phone number in Bethany. That select group now included Jon and Shannon. He had never called Joshua before—graciously, Jon had always been contacted instead—and he now punched the phone’s buttons with slightly trembling fingers. After three rings, Shimon’s familiar “Shalom” was heard. Jon replied in Hebrew, but Shimon immediately switched to English once he knew it was Jon. Yes, the Master was in, and yes, he would speak with Jon.
First, Jon expressed profound gratitude to Joshua for giving an ultimate sign to the world, and for halting economic chaos with his wise cyberadvice. Then—the reason for his call—he passed on the urgent request of Pope Benedict XVI that they meet.
“How very pleasant,” Joshua responded. “I was about to ask you to arrange such a meeting, Jon, especially in view of your previous contacts with the Vatican.”
“I’d be more than delighted. The Bishop of Rome would be happy to fly here at your convenience. Perhaps you could meet at that splendid retreat lodge overlooking the Sea of Galilee, where you so graciously invited Shannon and me along with the Seventy?”
“I think not. The Bishop of Rome, I understand, is still rather frail, and it would be better if I went to Rome instead.”
“You . . . you’d actually do that, Master?” It was the first time Jon had called him that, he realized, and he did so gladly.
“Why not?”
“Well . . . if I were the pope, I’d probably reply in the words of the centurion of Capernaum, ‘Domine, non sum dignus ut intres sub tectum meum’. ”
Joshua laughed and translated, “‘Lord, I am not worthy that You should come into my house.’ Yes, the bishop and his vast following use that phrase even when they receive Holy Communion, no?”
“Indeed.”
“Well, that’s fine humility, but not at all necessary in this case. I’ll be glad to come to the bishop’s ‘house’ and even happier that you will make the arrangements. But what I have in mind is broader than a little . . . tête-à-tête along the Tiber. In fact, it will fulfill what I conveyed in one of my electronic Beatitudes.”
“Yes! I suspected that it might: ‘Blessed are all who heed my words to the church, for they shall be heard shortly.’”
“Precisely. Tomorrow morning, Jon, I will send Shimon over with a list of suggestions for our visit to Rome. Please communicate these to Benedict XVI and get back to me if you have any problems, especially regarding the suggested dates involved.”
“Excellent. Ah, this is a little awkward: should I also make travel reservations for you? I well realize that you hardly need a plane in order to appear in Rome.”
“Jon, Jon, Jon: you keep forgetting the ‘not always’ and the ‘not fully’ when it comes to my use of divine powers! I will, of course, accommodate myself to the normal means of air transportation, particularly since the Twelve will be accompanying me.”
“Fine. When the date is set, I’ll make the reserva—”
“No. God will provide. Alitalia will provide. Thank you for your concerns, Jon, and for your assistance. And yes, also for your . . . faith!”
Shimon appeared at Jon’s university office the next morning, fully disguised in turban and sunglasses in order to bypass the media. When he delivered a large envelope from Joshua, Jon asked him, “Would you care to sit down and chat for a bit, Shimon?”
“Of course.”
“Would you like some coffee or tea? Orange juice?”
The genial, twenty-first-century version of “the big fisherman” removed his disguise, opted for citrus, and easily filled the large leather chair Jon offered him. Jon, of course, thought it would be, at the least, exotic to interview someone who had endured much more than a near-death experience, of which there were dozens on television programs, reporting the great white light at the end of the passageway and other assorted claims. Here, instead, was a man who had gone the whole way: he had actually died, been buried, and returned to life.
Jon led off. “You know, of course, that you are the most extraordinary human being in the world, Shimon—aside from Joshua, of course—in view of what happened?”
He nodded. “Yes, yes. It is . . . a great responsibility that I now have.”
“Tell me about your family.”
“Well, I do come from Galilee, but my father was a farmer, not a fisherman like Peter’s. He was born up in Banias. My mother came from Safat. Both have now passed on.”
“Any siblings? Any brothers or sisters?”
“Unfortunately, no. I wish I had them.”
Jon thought for a moment, then asked, “What sort of illness caused your death, Shimon?” The reverberation of that question in his mind, of course, sounded like the echo from an insane asylum. “The doctors say that it was a cancer of the blood. I just got weaker and weaker. I hoped that the Lord would notice this and heal me, as he did many others. But he did not.” Shimon paused to wipe several tears from his eyes, then resumed. “Two weeks before I died, I finally asked him to make me whole again. He only said, ‘Divine power will be demonstrated in your weakness, Shimon. Trust in God! You will be blessed.’”
“What happened at Ein Kerem?”
“At the celebration for John the Baptizer, I had trouble breathing even before my address to the pilgrims there. And that’s the last I remember. Oh, except at the hospital . . . I think I saw you bending over me . . . but that didn’t really happen, did it?”
“It did, Shimon: Shannon and I were there indeed. But tell me what it was like when you crossed over into death.”
“I remember . . . nothing at all.”
“No white light? No upward passageway?”
“No, nothing at all.”
“What was your very next memory?”
“Well . . . I heard the Lord calling me. And it was . . . just like waking up from a very deep sleep . . . except that I felt a warm, a hot . . . what is the word, ‘itching’? The thing you feel when an arm or leg has gone to sleep?”
“A tingling?”
“Yes . . . tingling, that’s it. Then I opened my eyes, but I saw mostly darkness. I heard the Master call again and I tried to get up—the bed of stone was not very comfortable—but I just couldn’t move because of the shroud. And then Yohanan and Yakov came in and helped me.”
“When you stepped out of the tomb, did you realize what had happened?”
“No, not at first,
though Yohanan tried to tell me. The light outside was so bright it confused me. And where was I? It didn’t look like a hospital at all! And what were all those people doing there?” “When did you finally realize that you were the ‘Lazarus of the twenty-first century’?”
“When they helped me stand up outside the tomb, Yohanan said, ‘Shimon, I tell you again: you were dead! The Master has given you new life!’”
Jon shook his head and finally asked, “What did you think at that moment? Can you describe it?”
“No . . . I just can’t. Earth and heaven were mine again—and all because of our Lord and Master, Jesus Christ—Joshua Ben-Yosef!” “Thank you, Shimon. It was very kind of you to tell me your . . . your great story.”
“I have no choice! For the rest of my life, I will tell it to anyone, everyone!”
“You’ll be accompanying your Master to Rome, I trust?”
“Of course. I must tell my great story there also.”
“Yes, you must.” Jon thought for a moment, then asked, “Was death a terrible experience for you, Shimon?”
“No . . . no, not at all. The hard breathing at the end was not very pleasant, of course, but fading into death was very much like . . . going to sleep.”
“I think that should be part of your testimony too, Shimon: tell the world that death is not so horrible after all.”
“No, it is not. I will, after all, have to face death again, and our Master would never put me through it twice if it were.”
After Shimon left, Jon opened the large envelope he had delivered and read its contents. For the next fifteen minutes, Dick Ferris in the adjoining office heard him emote with the strangest comments. “Yes!” “Exactly!” “Oh-ho!” filled the air, along with chuckling.
When several more “Good!” “Excellent!” and similar affirmatives followed, he could stand it no longer. Hurrying inside Jon’s office, he demanded, “Okay, what’s going on?”
