The Cairo Codex

by Linda Lambert

  “Names used throughout the diary are consistent with the life of Mary: Jesus, Joseph, James, Rachel, cousin Elizabeth, nephew John,” Andrea continued, leafing through her notes. “Mentions of places such as Palestine, Nazareth, Mt. Carmel, and Babylon situate the family in the expected locales. Discussions about the Romans, including conscription, the building of the canal and fortifications, and the growing tension with the Israelites are consistent with what we know about Roman-Egyptian life at that time.”

  “No mention of Bethlehem?” asked Mostafa.

  “No mention of Bethlehem,” replied Ibrahim. “The diary begins shortly before Mary’s marriage to Joseph and continues until Jesus is almost nine years of age. James is seventeen or eighteen by that time. Any visit to Bethlehem would have been mentioned.”

  Al Rasul stared at his notes intently, marking out and adding words and phrases.

  “Other clues are also consistent with Jewish life at the time,” offered Isaac. “For instance, the family held discussions about the Law and ethics and quoted from the Book of Psalms. A lengthy passage describes their celebration of Passover, which tells us that this was a diary written by a member of a Jewish family and not a local Egyptian.”

  “And are we to think they lived in the same place all that time? In the cave below St. Sergius?” asked Mostafa, incredulous.

  “We have no reason to believe otherwise,” replied Isaac, stroking his wiry goatee.

  “Before we continue,” Andrea suggested, “I’d like to ask Justine to tell us more about Mary as a woman, mother, and wife.”

  Justine, alerted earlier that this invitation would be made, had studied the meticulous notes she had compiled as she’d listened to the conversations and translations of her colleagues closely in preparation for this moment.

  All eyes turned toward her. “I am grateful to my colleagues for inviting me to join in these conversations, and I’m representing our team as I summarize our findings and inferences about Mary.” She was immersed in the moment now, a moment she had been waiting for. What a pleasure, an honor, to bring new understandings to light about a woman I admire so much.

  “We believe Mary, often referred to as the Virgin Mary, to have written this diary from the age of thirteen to perhaps twenty-two years of age, at which point she completed these pages or discontinued her writing for some reason. She was a confident, independent, even sensuous woman who cherished her freedoms in Egypt and took full advantage of her liberties, such as going to the market alone or with her son Jesus, traveling across the river to purchase household necessities, and extending invitations to her home. Although she found pleasure in her freedoms, however, there is an unmistakable tone of melancholy that pervades her writing. Yet she was far more than a survivor; she was a purposeful teacher of her sons, and a caring wife.”

  “Sensuous? That seems an odd word to use in reference to the Virgin Mary,” exclaimed Al Rasul. “Disrespectful.”

  “Mary revealed a deep and poetic appreciation of the beauty of nature,” said Justine. “In her writings, we can almost hear the sounds, sense the touch, and inhale the fragrances of her world—the way she describes the birds and her beloved sycamore tree that she brought from Palestine. She is also affectionate toward Joseph and her sons.”

  “She was a teacher to her sons, you say? Give us an example,” ordered Mostafa.

  “Mary reports several conversations with her sons, especially Jesus. She spoke to them of inequities and imbalances, the disenfranchisement of the powerless—not in so many words, of course. Her Aramaic is often intermingled with Greek and Hebrew phrases such as ‘ger,’ meaning ‘other,’ with admonitions to care about the other, watch out for the other, put the other before self. Stories that take place in the marketplace when she is with Jesus speak of compassion and charity and forgiveness. These were her words to him.”

  “My god,” exclaimed Al Rasul, “you’re telling us that Mary was Jesus’ primary teacher?”

  “In important ways. Iwa,” acknowledged Ibrahim.

  “Perhaps your interpretations are being influenced by your own . . . what do you call it in America? ‘Feminism?’” charged Mostafa, glaring at Justine and Andrea.

  Justine smiled and remained composed. Confident of her knowledge and choice of words, she stood her ground. “I’m sure every researcher brings to the task his or her own experiences and biases. Don’t you think, Dr. Mostafa?” Justine then turned toward Ibrahim and Isaac. “I have every reason to believe that our team shares the opinion that these interpretations of Mary are valid. Lest you think that we ignored other influences, we can say that the wisdom of Joseph was influential in teaching the Law, but also in promoting openness to other points of view. Jesus sat routinely with a local Rabbi and was influenced by friends, particularly a young man from India.”

  “India? What young man from India?” demanded Mostafa. “What did he have to teach Jesus?”

  “May I?” interjected Andrea. Justine nodded graciously and slid back in her chair. “This boy, called Ravi, meaning the ‘Sun,’ taught Jesus to meditate, to reflect, to know what it is to be conscious. Jesus retold these conversations to Mary. Ravi and his merchant father followed a trade route from India to Crete that stopped at the marketplaces along the Nile.” She paused. “Imagine a boy of just eight and another of perhaps ten. How introspective and smart they were. We can no longer deny the influence of Eastern thought on Jesus.”

  “While we know Jesus was a Jew, his philosophy has often been seen as more Eastern than would be expected from Jewish Law at that period in history,” added Isaac. “His belief in equality, especially for women, forgiveness, and compassion often transcended the letter of the Law. Dr. LeMartin is correct, for the most part. Jesus’ ministry was a departure from most traditional Judaism at the time, especially as practiced by the temple rabbis. However, there were many smaller clusters of Jews, such as those living in the outreaches of the Diaspora, who also diverged from tradition. These groups could have influenced Jesus’ thinking as well. Now that we understand more about his childhood, we can begin to sort out those influences.”

  “What was he like? Jesus, I mean,” asked Al Rasul with uncharacteristic gentility.

  Ibrahim excitedly spilled out his words. “Jesus was precocious and curious, thoughtful and confident, playful and persistent, particularly in pursuit of answers to his many questions.”

  “What makes you think he was persistent?” Al Rasul’s eyes narrowed. This time he was demanding. After all, Ibrahim was a Copt expressing adoration for his own Messiah.

  “His mother recounted conversations at the dinner table in which Jesus would insistently question his father. If I’m remembering it correctly”—Ibrahim glanced at Andrea for assurance—“in one such instance he interrogated his father on whether it was right to learn about other gods. This was during a discussion of Isis.”

  Andrea smiled and nodded.

  “It’s as though the Virgin was prescient,” concluded Ibrahim, “expecting the diary to be read someday.”

  “Don’t get carried away, Professor,” Mostafa said. “Answer this for me: Why did the family come to Egypt? Why take such a big risk? Was King Herod chasing them, as the Gospels of Matthew and John tell us? Somehow I’m beginning to think nothing is quite as it once seemed.”

  “There was a single defining occurrence involving James that made Joseph decide to go to Egypt,” offered Isaac. “Although there were many cultural and political reasons causing their readiness, the tension between the Jews and the Romans was at a new high. It was like waiting for another sandal to fall away. Joseph had stopped taking James into Jerusalem to find work because it was no longer safe. Then something happened that served as a turning point.” Isaac explained the incident of the eagle Herod had built above the gate entering the Temple and its consequences for the young men involved.

  “What did this have to do with James?” Mostafa asked.

  “James was the one who pulled down the eagle. But he was onl
y about nine years old, so they released him,” explained Isaac.

  “Joseph found this to be a major sign.” Amir joined the dialogue. “Telling the family to leave Palestine. It made sense to Joseph that the land of Moses, the place where Moses was found as a child and from which he led the Exodus, was the best place for his family. Mary was hesitant because of having just given birth. But with Rachel, the midwife, along, Mary tells us she was assured of a safe journey.”

  “So you’re telling us that the story about Herod killing all newborn sons in order to eliminate the Messiah might not be a true story? Damn! Are any of the stories surrounding the Holy Family true? Or are they all just metaphors?” Mostafa was thoroughly exasperated.

  “We have no evidence to tell us this story is true,” said Ibrahim, stroking his beard mercilessly. “Keep in mind, the killing of newborns appears in the Bible more than once . . . but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true . . .”

  “How are we to make sense of all of this?” lamented Mostafa. “The Christian narrative is being changed and we hold it delicately in our hands. Allah, help us.” After an uninterrupted pause, he continued: “Let me complicate our work with the most fundamental of questions. Was Mary a virgin? And, further, was she a perpetual virgin, as the Copts believe?”

  Justine assumed that, like many Muslims, Mostafa believed Mary to have been a virgin when she gave birth to the prophet Jesus. It said so in the Koran, which followers of Mohammed understood unwaveringly as the word of Allah. However, unlike Ibrahim and Amir, the Muslims in the room separated virginity from divinity. Mary’s virginity didn’t necessarily establish Jesus as the Son of God.

  Before the question could be answered, Mostafa’s assistant waved urgently from the hallway. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, and stepped out into the hall. Within moments he returned, his complexion pale. “I’m afraid I have to deal with an urgent matter. I’d suggest we reconvene at ten in the morning. Professor, can we be ready to proceed at that time?”

  “Ten will be fine,” responded Ibrahim. “We’ve made copies of several translated pages responding to the question of Mary’s relationship with Joseph.”

  Everyone nodded. Until this question was answered, no one could return to business as usual.

  “As you like, Professor. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Mostafa rushed from the room.

  OLD CAIRO 2 CE

  On the morning of Passover, a fierce pounding on the side of the cave startles me. Although our family members are awake and sitting at the table, the eastern sun has not yet flooded the rough sandstone floor, so they remain in the shadows.

  “Down there! Show yourselves!” commands an unfamiliar voice. The pounding continues. Shards of an earthen jug—shattered by a soldier’s careless boot—scatter around the work area and tumble into the cave’s walkway.

  Earlier, I started the charcoal fire, replaced the grate, and set on a pot of water for tea. Joseph, James, and Jesus remain below, finishing their tea and getting ready for the festive day ahead. I see the uniformed soldiers enter the kitchen area above. Now my hand tightens on my husband’s shoulder.

  The soldiers shuffle from foot to foot, their boots kicking at the fire. Sparks fly into the air and dance on the hard surface near the exterior worktable.

  “I’ll go—the rest of you stay here,” directs Joseph as he steps out into the open.

  “What do you want?” he demands of the soldiers.

  “We want your sons, old man,” one of the Roman soldiers commands. “Emperor Augustus has decreed that more soldiers are to be conscripted into his army. The prefect Julius Alexander will be here in a few days, and we must give him a full accounting of all of the young men in the village. How old are your sons?” Two of the soldiers rummage through nearby family belongings.

  Joseph hesitates. Our oldest works on the canal, so they know of him. “James is of seventeen years and Jesus is but eight,” he replies as James steps outside and takes his place beside his father. I realize that I must keep Jesus from joining his father and brother. I hold on to his arm tightly. He nods as though to say, “I know what you require.”

  The soldier in charge stares at James with contempt: “So, this must be the canal worker.”

  “I am,” James says with the irritability of a firstborn son who has not been allowed to eat during the first days of Passover.

  Stay calm, my son. My own anger, mixed with fear, tightens my chest. Don’t let your temper get you hurt again.

  “When the prefect arrives in a few days, you will report to the canal zone ready for travel.” The spokesman among the soldiers towers above Joseph and James, his stature enhanced by the hulking uniform and polished weaponry of the Roman military. He directs his comments to James, ignoring Joseph.

  “Where will I be going?” James inquires forcefully.

  “That is not for your ears. Just do as you are told.” The soldier turns sharply on his heels, ready to walk east into the village.

  Before the soldiers can take their leave, Joseph cries out, “We had an agreement with Rome. The Israelites in Egypt do not participate in the benefits of the empire. We pay more taxes and keep to ourselves. We are to be left alone.”

  “Things change, old man.” The soldier laughs, turning to the others, who join in his ridicule. “The Emperor is not bound by agreements with the Israelites. If you do not report,” he warns James, “the consequences will be swift . . . for you and your family.” His expression leaves little doubt that he relishes whatever vengeance might lie ahead.

  Four oil lamps glow with a golden aura, replacing the sunlight receding to the west. I spread the finely mended linen cloth from Grandmother Faustina over the table before adorning it with clay dishes and single-stemmed jasmine and oleander. Our family members take their places for the Seder, each holding his or her own secret. They are pensive, subdued. Rachel, with an air of giddiness, is the exception. Even Samir looks somber.

  I wonder why he is so quiet. Samir is often the most talkative among us—the first to greet, the first to tell of good news. So many mysteries today . . . I feel the tension in James, his pent-up rage. Tears form in my eyes.

  Joseph reaches out and pats my arm, then breaks the silence over the first cup of wine. “God be with us on this day of Passover. We bring our hearts to you and seek your counsel. Let us begin.” Relieved to begin, the others look to Jesus expectantly.

  Jesus does not need encouragement; he is ready to ask the question reserved for the youngest: “Why is this day different from all others?” Glancing at James, he says this in a tone revealing the significance of the question he has asked each year since he was two. Now he understands it.

  Joseph begins the familiar story of the suffering of the Jews in Egypt. Each word holds tenderness, fragility.

  “Finally,” concludes Isaiah, who customarily shares in the storytelling, “the Lord decreed the death of all first-born Egyptian sons. But He passed over the houses of the Children of Israel. The Pharaoh sent his soldiers after the fleeing Israelites, who crossed the Red Sea just before them. Moses lifted his rod and the sea closed in over the soldiers, drowning them in deep waters. Moses and the Children of Israel wandered in the Sinai for forty years and camped at the base of Mt. Sinai, where God gave Moses the Ten Commandments. Sadly, Moses died before the Children of Israel reached the Promised Land.” Isaiah pauses breathlessly as though he has climbed the mountain himself.

  Forty years. Forty years. Such patience, such endurance. Would that my sons had such qualities. Now our oldest will be challenged again by the Romans—he may not be able to survive it this time.

  As though James has read my thoughts, he lowers his head just moments before his father’s invitation.

  “Let us pray,” Joseph says.

  We drink the remains of our second cup of wine, wash our hands, and share a small amount of matzah passed around the table. We are silent once again as the rituals of this important evening are observed. Even more than usual, our actions are deliberate,
as though our very salvation depends upon them.

  Rachel chooses a small piece of lettuce and dips it in the charoset of apples, cinnamon, nuts, and wine. “Bitterness dipped in mortar,” she says. I, too, place charoset on a tiny piece of matzah and take a bite. The others follow.

  “Thank you, Lord, for the delivery of our people from the hands of the Pharaoh and for these eight years in your presence here in Egypt,” says Joseph.

  Thank you, Lord, for these eight years, and the many gifts of this sacred land. Are they coming to a close? Will God take Egypt away from me too?

  After our family has consumed all the lamb we can hold, a small piece of the remaining matzah is eaten with a sip from the third cup of wine. Earlier, I poured some wine for the Prophet Elijah and set it at one end of the table. It was Elijah, my husband reminds us, who told of the coming of the Messiah. “And this coming will be soon, very soon,” he says. We are silent and wait.

  Opening the Book of Psalms, Joseph says, “I have a blessing fitting for us today.

  “By the streams of Babylon, there we sat and

  Wept at the thought of Sion!

  There on the poplars we hung up our harps, when

  Our tyrants asked for a song;

  Those who had harried us bade us be merry, ‘Sing us a song of Sion,’

  they said.

  But how can we sing the Eternal’s songs, here, in a foreign land?

  Jerusalem, if ever I forget thee, withered be this hand! May my tongue cleave to my mouth, if ever I think

  not of thee, if ever I prize not Jerusalem above all joys!

  “Next year,” he continues, “may we celebrate Passover in Jerusalem.” Each of us turns to stare at him. Even though this is a traditional closing for the Seder, it’s the first time in seven celebrations in Egypt that he has suggested we will find ourselves at home next year. The family elders coddle their cups with both hands and examine them like crystal balls.