by Paul L Maier
While munching on rolls and drinking coffee from a thermos, they stood on the esplanade in front of the Seven Arches and looked westward at the incredible scene. The far side of the sprawling Kidron Valley was obliterated by people. Some hundred thousand on the hillside were singing ten different hymns concurrently, in as many languages. At the southern edge, a huge charismatic assembly was speaking in tongues, the sounds from many thousands of mouths blending into a thunderous general din.
As dawn broke, Jon and Shannon could read the long, serpentine banners that had been unfurled, some thirty people long: “WELCOME BACK, LORD! ” “GRÜSS GOTT, HERR JESU CHRIST!” “AVE, JESU!” “BONJOUR, SEIGNEUR!” and a dozen other languages. Some, assuming that Jesus would prefer His own native tongue, had carefully lettered “MARANA THA” in Aramaic square script. This ancient prayer, probably the Church’s earliest, meant “Our Lord, come!”
A tiny figure below knew how to unify the crowd. Dr. Melvin Merton climbed onto a dais, took his place before a battery of microphones, and boomed out: “GOOD MORNING! HALLELUJAH!” pausing as each phrase was translated into French, German, Spanish, Italian, Greek, and Polish. Then Merton dropped a word of Latin: “VIVIT! He lives! He is risen!”
That seemed to require no translation, as more than 100,000 voices easily resorted to the unifying Latin and chanted, in rhythmic unison: “VI-VIT! VI-VIT! VI-VIT!” for five long minutes. Then the Resurrection Gospels were read in the various languages.
Merton’s Easter address, with pauses for translation, was scheduled to end just as the sun started peeping over the brow of the Mount of Olives—the time when many thought the Son Himself would also be appearing. And so Merton concluded, “He is risen! He is risen indeed! And He shall return! Even so, come, Lord Jesus! Marana tha!”
The multitude of pilgrims went wild: “MARANA-THA! MARANA-THA! MARANA-THA!” they started screaming, in a near-frenzied, hypnotic unison. The effect was so contagious, so overwhelming, that even the doubters strained their eyes toward the summit for the possible luminescent glow of Jesus returning at long last, as He had promised.
The chanting continued with thunderous intensity, terrifying all birds and other fauna on the Mount of Olives. The very atmosphere became so mesmeric that even Jon and Shannon caught themselves looking toward the crest of the Mount, Jon wondering for a moment if God were that much “The Wholly Other” as to render Merton and his followers right after all, and “normal” Christians wrong. But only nature’s sun brightened the summit.
“Let’s go, my love,” said Jon.
While walking back to the hotel, Shannon commented, “I wish I could have followed Merton on the dais.”
“Oh? What would you have told the crowd?”
“I’d simply have quoted Jesus on the subject of His own return: ‘Of that day and of that hour knows no one.’”
Jon smiled and said, “A student once asked Martin Luther what he’d do if he learned that Jesus was going to return the next day. The student expected that the good doctor would spend the night in repentance, maybe in one of those white robes. But Luther merely replied, ‘I’d plant an apple tree.’”
“What in the world did he mean by that?”
“Well, the tree happened to be on his next day’s schedule, and Christians shouldn’t be leading the sort of lives that would compel a ‘white-robed’ scenario.”
She laughed.
Jesus of Nazareth did not physically return that Easter Sunday morning.
TWENTY
Blizzards of letters from all over the world descended on the Rama staff and the scholars’ pan-els. Some urged an immediate end to Phase III as a waste of time “in view of the obvious authenticity of your finds.” Others offered advice on test procedures. Still others pounced upon some “flaw in the evidence that everyone seems to have overlooked.” Jon soon had a bulging file of these, exposing such “errors” as:
Both Aramaic and Greek would not have been inscribed on Joseph’s sarcophagus. [Wrong: there are many such inscriptions from that era.]
The titulus was simply a painted sign—no parchment was involved. [Nothing in the Gospels precluded a sign achieved with parchment. The “surprise” rather added a note of credibility.]
John’s gospel tells of linen grave wrappings left inside the Jerusalem tomb. If Joseph had removed the body, he would not have left these behind. [If, as seems likely, they were soiled from Jesus’ many wounds, he probably would have. He may also have left only the outer wrappings.]
The onetime reference in the papyrus mandated Jesus’ crucifixion later than AD 30. [In fact, the date was most probably 33.]
Joseph would not have waited a Sabbath day before reburying the body, as claimed in the papyrus, in view of decomposition. [The remains had been packed with spices. A journey on the Sabbath would have attracted attention.]
And on down to the simplest flaw of all, born of faith:
Jesus rose from the dead: How could those be His bones?
Another tumescent file contained letters of complaint. Elders of the Two-Seed-in-the-Spirit Predestinarian Baptists in the South wondered why no representative from their church body—hundreds strong!—had been invited to Jerusalem. Afro-Asian theologians felt scanted. Several lawsuits were filed against Jennings, Jon, and the Rama staff for having undermined the faith of someone who subsequently committed suicide. Inevitably, some of the letters were particularly virulent, others outright scatological, and the cheery note with membership applications sent by the Freedom from Religion Foundation hardly compensated for them.
But what disturbed Jon most was a long, confidential letter from Kevin Sullivan. The pope had sent him back to the States on a damage-survey mission, and his report was devastating. All Church statistics were plummeting, from attendance to contributions. Sunday school and confirmation classes were emptying, while parochial schools were closing. Sullivan wrote:
I never realized how vulnerable is Christian public worship. The disruptions are increasing. Out in California, Robert Schuller was starting one of his sermons in the Crystal Cathedral, still wearing a confident smile and assuring the faithful that “Possibility Thinking” still exists, when a booming bass voice cut into his PA system and thundered, “The ‘possibility’ is that Christianity is a fraud and you are a fake!” It went all over the nation on TV. . . . The same Sunday, while the organist at Riverside Church in New York was playing a Bach prelude, someone took an ax to the bellows of the great Aeolian-Skinner organ, causing a ghastly, deflating sound of dying music in the sanctuary.
Jon put down the letter and muttered, “The Lost Chord? Or a death knell?”
Was it just a coincidence that the glorious news broke at the summer solstice? The world would mark that moment! On the morning of June 20, Jon and Jennings were sitting in the auditorium of the Hebrew University in Jerusalem, attending a plenary session of the Theology Panels, when a page walked down the aisle and handed them a letter. It bore an archbishop’s coat-of-arms and was signed by the Latin patriarch of Jerusalem.
My dear Professor Jennings and Professor Weber:
With great joy, I am pleased to announce that a most definite proof of fraud in the cavern artifacts at Rama has been discovered by Father Claude Montaigne. He will deliver a public explanation of his findings tomorrow afternoon in the aula of the Latin patriarchate at 2:00 PM. You and all your worthy colleagues in this investigation are welcome to attend.
Sincerely yours in Christ,
Umberto Cervantes
Archepiscopos Ierusalemi
Jennings turned pale and stared at Jon, who was also shaken, for he uttered the most stupid question of his life, “What should we do, Austin?”
“Make the announcement, of course!”
Jon stepped to the microphone, interrupted the proceedings, and read the letter.
A vast hush blanketed the auditorium. Then bedlam.
The next afternoon, the aula or audience hall of the Latin patriarchate, seat of the Roman Catholic Archbishop
of Jerusalem, was thronged with scholars and media personnel. Lights and television cameras lined the perimeter, and every chair in the structure, near the Jaffa Gate, had been occupied since one o’clock, with hundreds still begging for admission. Jennings, Brampton, Shannon, and Jon would never have gained access had the patriarch not reserved seats for them in the front row.
Promptly at 2 PM, Claude Montaigne stepped into the aula. The diminutive Dominican was introduced by the Archbishop, and he opened with a prepared statement. His hands shook just a bit as he held his manuscript on the dais lectern and read. “With the greatest gladness, I announce to you that the Rama papyrus is a forgery. It was impiously concocted by someone who had a great command of Aramaic, but who wished to inflict a mortal wound on the holy Christian church. May God in His mercy forgive that individual for what he has done . . . for I cannot.”
Montaigne stopped momentarily, giving way to his emotions. Then he regained control of himself and read on. “After months of studying this document, I became aware of tiny lapses in syntax and grammar that would not have been made by some-one as educated as Joseph of Arimathea must have been. I also found problems in the length of the document, its too felicitous ‘preservation,’ and the unlikely atmospheric conditions in the Rama cavern that somehow managed to be arid enough to ‘preserve’ both the titulus so-called and the papyrus too.
“In sum, this is a masterful forgery, but a forgery nevertheless. My only prayer is that the entire world learn the truth about this deception as soon as possible, so that much needless agony can be ended. The hideous reports of despair among believers, mental breakdowns, suicides, abandonment of religious vocations, and the malaise of morale, particularly in Western countries, must stop immediately. I ask you, ladies and gentlemen of the press, to assist in this noble effort. I shall now try to answer your questions.”
Several of the press corps had already dashed out to use their cell phones as Jon leaned over to Jennings and whispered, “That’s it? ”
But Jennings had his hand up. The little silver-haired sage recognized him, and Jon realized that this was the first time, in fact, that Montaigne had looked directly at them—unlike the television crews, who had been training zoom lenses on them to gauge their reaction to each syllable of Montaigne’s presentation.
“Ah, Père Montaigne,” Jennings’s voice crackled. He cleared his throat and tried again, “Père Montaigne, what are some of the ‘tiny lapses in syntax and grammar’ you speak of in the document? We’ve had a congress of the greatest Semiticists in the world examining the papyrus, and nothing’s been found amiss.”
“D’accord, Professor Jennings. I did not see the flaws either, at first. On much further study, I did. . . . Yes—”
“Ah, before you take another question, Père Montaigne,” Jennings interrupted, “would you please give us an example or two of those ‘flaws’?”
Montaigne grew quite agitated, and his hands started trembling once again. “Surely they are much too technical for discussion here. Perhaps afterward we may discuss them. . . . Yes?”
A barrage of questions followed about how other aspects of Rama could have been fraudulently man-aged, and Montaigne replied with scenarios that were quite similar to Berthoud’s.
Montaigne was on the point of closing when Jennings raised his hand. “Please, Père Montaigne, give us something to chew on. Professor Weber and I would like even one example of an inconsistency or flaw in the papyrus.”
The pointed silver beard under the Dominican’s chin started trembling, and his eyes were filling with tears. “Very well, then, I shall tell you. In fact, I shall do even more. Not only have I discovered the forgery, but . . . the forger himself! I shall name the forger!”
The aula hushed to a sepulchral silence. Montaigne glanced about in agitation and held both hands on the lectern to control their quivering. “The perpetrator—may God forgive him—the wretch who caused such misery in the Church and the world . . . is . . . I myself! ”
Not a sound was heard. Then pandemonium broke out. The Latin patriarch held his head in his hands. Jon stared speechlessly at Shannon and Jennings. He groped for words and finally found them: “Incredible, Austin! That would explain why the Aramaic’s so perfect in the papyrus, wouldn’t it? Montaigne’s the only one who could have brought it off!”
“Beyond belief!” Jennings sighed, shaking his head.
A forest of hands begged for recognition. Schmuel Sanderson of AP managed to get the floor with what, of course, was the universal question, “Why did you do it, Dr. Montaigne? What were your motives?”
“Quite simply this—I lost my faith years ago. I believed that the world would make much greater intellectual progress without the fetters of religion. You recall what the medieval church did to Galileo? In subtler ways, it has slowed the progress of science and knowledge ever since. Faith has blinded many people into believing the world is only a few thou-sand years old rather than billions. The truth of evolution is discarded. In America, I understand, Fundamentalist pressure has led to some textbooks denying that dinosaurs ever existed, when their great bones clutter our museums, not? . . . Yes?”
“Renee St. Michel, Figaro. But why, Père Montaigne, did you then change your mind and reveal all this?”
“I had planned the whole scheme purely from an intellectual point of view. I didn’t realize the . . . the terrible suffering it would cause. The response, especially within the Church, was much, much worse than I had dreamed. I could no longer bear it.”
Jon’s hand shot up. “Père Montaigne, I shall not break your confidence by reporting any details of a conversation we had in the dining room of the Seven Arches Hotel some months ago, but I should like you to recall it and—”
“You mean when I tried to purchase the papyrus for fifteen million dollars? I don’t mind if you make that public. You want to know, of course, why I would have offered to purchase the papyrus with the intention of destroying it. Is that your question?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“At that time, I still wanted to dupe the world. That was purely a psychological trick, a ‘ploy’ the English call it, I think, to make you believe the papyrus authentic. I knew you would never sell it.”
Jon felt like a fish into whose mouth the fisherman had not only lodged the hook, but given it a firm, embedding tug. The canny little apostate had really brought it off, making fools of himself and the whole scholarly world.
Jennings waved his hand. “I hate sounding like a broken record, Monsieur Montaigne—and I shall call you that henceforth, since you have disgraced the priesthood—but we have many scholars in attendance here. I really must request that you tell us where the papyrus is flawed. If you forged it, why didn’t you announce that immediately today, rather than faulting the Aramaic?”
“I . . . I was only trying to spare myself embarrassment. But, very well then . . . let me prove the forgery. When I wrote the papyrus, years ago, I intentionally cut a small fragment from its bottom edge—a sort of key to prove the forgery should I ever change my mind about it. I have that fragment inside this gold case.” He held it up for all to see. “I suggest we proceed to the Rockefeller Museum and match it against the papyrus, yes?”
A long cavalcade of scholars, priests, monks, patriarchs, bishops, and reporters—looking like a Good Friday procession in reverse—filed out of the Latin patriarchate and turned eastward to the Rockefeller. Jon and Shannon hurried on ahead to prepare Nikos Papadimitriou for the onslaught. When everyone who could manage pushed inside the main hall at the Rockefeller, and with guards on all sides of a work table, Jon had Nikos bring in the papyrus. Then he beckoned to Montaigne, who opened the little gold case and extracted his small fragment with padded tweezers. “Aren’t you going to lift the glass plate on top of the papyrus?” he asked.
“Yes, but first let’s see if we have a general fit,” said Jon. “Lay it into position on top of the glass, if you please.”
“Very well,” Montaigne placed the fra
gment directly over a rhomboid-shaped declivity along the bottom edge.
Jon and Jennings peered closely at the fragment. It seemed to fit indeed.
“Please step back,” Jon told Montaigne. “I’ll remove the glass and place the fragment.” Carefully, he lifted the glass plate and slowly nudged the fragment into position. He and Jennings then examined it with a magnifying glass from various angles, and under a strong light.
Jon turned to the assembled throng and said, “The fragment is a flake of papyrus—of the same color and texture as the document here. It also fits perfectly. I presume, then, that Dr. Montaigne has told the truth in his confession, and that the ‘Joseph Papyrus’ is indeed a forgery.”
A deafening roar swept the hall. The clergy started weeping for joy, embracing one another ecstatically. Someone started singing the great Common Doxology, and all joined in:
Praise God from whom all blessings flow.
Praise Him all creatures here below.
Praise Him above, ye heavenly hosts.
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!
The press corps stampeded out of the Rockefeller and television crews into their waiting vans. The world would not long be denied the earthshaking news.
Head bowed in shame and tears coursing down his cheeks, Claude Montaigne turned to the Rama staff and said, “I shall not even try to ask your forgiveness at this time, mes amis, though I do seek it. I only hope you will in time . . . try to understand what I attempted, however great my failure.”
They said nothing. Montaigne continued, “May I . . . have my papyrus back, along with the fragment?”
“You may have neither,” Jennings replied, evenly. “Good day, Monsieur Montaigne.”
The chastened cleric bowed and left in the custody of his Dominican superiors.
Just as they were about to leave the Rockefeller, Jon had some disturbing second thoughts. “I wonder if I wasn’t a little quick with my statement, Austin,” he said. “We didn’t examine that fragment very scientifically, did we?”
