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THE JESUS PUZZLE

A Novel About the Greatest Question of Our Time

by Earl Doherty

“As an historian, I do not know for certain that Jesus really

existed, that he is anything more than the figment of some

overactive imaginations. . . In my view, there is nothing about

Jesus of Nazareth that we can know beyond any possible doubt.

In the mortal life we have there are only probabilities.

And the Jesus that scholars have isolated in the ancient gospels,

gospels that are bloated with the will to believe, may turn out to be

only another image that merely reflects our deepest longings.”

Robert W. Funk, Jesus Seminar Founder and Co-Chair

(From The Fourth R, January-February 1995, page 9)

Chapter One

The conference room at the Flamingo Hotel in Santa Rosa was the size of a basketball
court. The 40-odd players in the game being played on this particular day occupied the
center space, while spectators were ranged in bleachers around three sides. The hoops,
however, were metaphorical, and the balls being bounced across the court were finely-tuned
arguments and quotations from scripture.
Only one team commanded the court floor: the Fellows of the Jesus Seminar, vanguards
in a renewed quest to discover the true nature, the genuine historical words and deeds, of
the most influential figure in the history of the world. This was a quest, over the last two
centuries, which had had lives as numerous as the many-headed Hydra. When one bit the
dust under the slash of new discoveries and the ongoing advance of modern enlightenment,
another sprang up in its place. The current “Third Quest” had all but reduced Jesus to
earthbound dimensions and was fearlessly proceeding to debunk much of what Christians
had held dear for almost 2000 years.
The members of this particular team, however, did not all jump as high—or in precisely
the same direction. The scholarly ranks of the Jesus Seminar included a few more
conservative elements. And on this sunny California afternoon, whose light spilled through
floor-length windows like manna from heaven, the issues under discussion were guaranteed
to bring these natural divisions of opinion into the open.

On this day it seemed that the spectators, too, were edgy. Perhaps they saw themselves
as party to an exercise in heresy that would finally stir a lethargic Divinity to retaliate. The
Jesus Seminar had garnered publicity verging on the notorious for several years now, in its
unflinching examination of the teachings attributed to Jesus in the Gospels. As a body they
had issued rejection notices right and left. When the dust had settled, only 18% of the early
Christian sayings put into Jesus’ mouth were given votes of confidence in varying degree,
the remainder consigned to later invention as the product of faith, legend and the attraction
of non-Jesus traditions.
To this outer darkness went “I am the resurrection and the life,” and “Take up your
cross and follow me,” and a host of other sayings which had enriched the voice of Jesus
heard over the centuries and filled the sermons of generations of pulpit orators. Nor had the
authentic Jesus spoken any of the damnatory words thundered over the heads of the
Pharisees, or the predictions of an apocalyptic End-time when fire and judgment would
come to engulf the world.
Evidently, Christians would have to make do with a pared-down body of Jesus’
teachings. But could they accept a recasting of Easter? For after closing the books on the
sayings of Jesus, the Seminar was now embarked on an exhumation of the cross and the
tomb, and the ancient stories were crumbling like dessicated papyrus fragments before the
inrush of light and air.
For this two-day meeting, a list of several dozen propositions surrounding Jesus’ burial,
resurrection and post-resurrection appearances had been prepared for voting. That
morning the Fellows, among other things, had consigned Joseph of Arimathea, whom Mark
introduced to remove Jesus’ body from the cross and place it in a tomb, to oblivion. He was
apparently Mark’s invention, the Fellows decided. Other details surrounding the burial
were similarly dispatched. Matthew’s posting of a guard at the tomb was rejected by 94%.
And the Fellows were split almost down the middle as to who had actually disposed of
Jesus’ body: his followers or the authorities.
So far so good. Now as the Seminar returned from lunch break and the spectators
refilled the several rows of seating, the media people with their hand-held cameras scurried
around the tables once more, ready to capture the drama of the moment, as though
Christians throughout the world were waiting on theological pincushions to learn what they
might continue to believe. In fact, most of those Christians, if they were even aware of the
Jesus Seminar’s existence and its controversial deliberations, had tended to heap more
scorn than praise upon the presumptuousness of those findings. Today only promised to fuel
the fires of their indignation.
Out of the 100 or so official members of the Seminar, a little under half were in
attendance today, along with a few scholarly guests. They were ranged about the outer
sides of a rectangular arrangement of tables covered in white cloth. Each had his or her
own microphone, whose cables snaked into the central space like beguiling serpents at the
base of a new and seductive tree of knowledge. At the ‘head’ of this continuous chain sat
Robert Funk, chairman and co-founder of the Seminar itself. A deceptively mild-mannered
figure, he had directed the morning’s deliberations and voting with a firm, if understated,
hand. Other luminaries of the new quest were ranged about him: James Robinson, Marcus
Borg, Karen King, John Dominic Crossan.

At the top of the afternoon’s agenda stood debate and voting on the heart of this
conference’s deliberations. Four propositions blithely undercut the entire foundations of
the Western world’s religion: the belief that the Son of God, Jesus of Nazareth, had literally
risen from the grave.
On each of these four statements, the Fellows would vote by choosing from a set of four
colored beads, dropping one into the ballot box. Those who fully agreed chose a red bead;
those who felt the statement had some degree of reliability, a pink one. If the proposition
seemed at all possible, though lacking any reliable supporting evidence, a grey bead was
dropped in. For improbability, the verdict was in black. The count was tallied and
immediately announced.
These were the four propositions:
1. Jesus’ resurrection from the dead involved the resuscitation of his corpse.
2. All statements in the New Testament and other early Christian literature about Jesus’
resurrection are statements of faith, not reports of an historical event.
3. Jesus’ body decayed.
4. Belief in Jesus’ resurrection does not depend on what happened to his body.
Robert Funk invited Professor Thomas Sheehan to deliver a brief paper as part of the
pre-voting debate. Sheehan remained seated, but the cameras turned their searching eyes
on the bearded, intense-looking professor of philosophy from Loyola University, one of the
guest scholars at these proceedings.
“I would agree,” Sheehan began, “that the Easter victory of Jesus was not an historical
event. It did not take place in space and time. The appearances of Jesus did not require the
sighting of a ‘risen’ body in either a physical or a spiritual form. The resurrection is a
matter of faith and not susceptible of proof.”
That prominent Christian scholars could gather under the glare of God’s sun and the eye
of the believing world and voice such radical opinions surely showed that while the forces of
faith and tradition were sleeping, someone had pulled a switch and sent the train of biblical
criticism hurtling down a brave new track. Like the dust motes in the glare of the divine
sunbeams, these distillations of heresy jostled the air.
At Sheehan’s opening words, not a few of the spectators seemed to squirm in their seats,
and even the odd Fellow around the rectangle fidgeted in uncertain discomfort.
Sheehan proceeded to outline “four stages” of doctrine concerning the resurrection, as
revealed by the early documents of Christianity. Stage One was represented by elements
imbedded in Paul’s letters and elsewhere, such as the pre-Pauline hymns recorded in
Philippians 2:6-11 and 1 Timothy 3:16. They spoke of Jesus’ “exaltation to glory” directly
from the cross, in a spirit state, not physical resurrection three days later. The earliest
proclamations, including by Paul, contained no reference to the discovery of an empty tomb
or the appearance of angels to women on Easter Sunday morning.
Sheehan also offered the evidence of a collection of sayings of Jesus which scholars
called “Q”. This was a lost document extracted from Matthew and Luke. “Q originates
before 50 CE,” claimed Sheehan, “and bears witness to the earliest Christian faith, but
nowhere does it mention Jesus’ resurrection.”
One of the Fellows on the opposite side of the rectangle piped up, “Q mentions nothing
about Jesus’ death, either. How much can we deduce from a silence on the resurrection?”

“Something that close to the event itself,” Sheehan retorted, “has to be significant when
it makes no mention of the supposed central event of the Christian faith. Q’s silence cannot
be ignored.”
Funk’s interjection was softly curt, putting a lid on the impromptu exchange. “Anybody
can die. Not everyone walks out of his tomb.”
Sheehan went on. Stage Two constituted Paul’s own ideas as expressed in his letters, all
written in the 50s. Here Jesus was “raised” or “awakened” from death by God. There was
no suggestion that this rising was in any sort of body. Paul in 1 Corinthians 15 presented a
series of ‘appearances’ to various apostles and groups, Jesus being “made manifest” to
them. But Paul included his own experience with the rest, a vision of Christ acknowledged
to be entirely spiritual. This certainly implied, Sheehan pointed out, that all the other
appearances were of the same nature. Paul’s phrase “on the third day” was a biblical
reference and not a temporal description of when this “awakening” had taken place.
“Here we have proclamations of faith, not historical witness,” Sheehan declared. “Paul
even goes on in 15:12-19 to claim that if humans are not raised, then Christ was not raised.
He says this four times in one way or another in the course of a few sentences. If
eyewitnesses had seen Jesus returning from the grave in some kind of body, you surely don’t
think Paul could have made even a rhetorical denial of the resurrection?” This question
seemed directed at the dissenter on the opposite side of the rectangle.
The other Fellow countered sharply, “Paul also said: ‘If Christ was not raised, your
faith has nothing in it.’ Surely he is speaking metaphorically here. He means ‘If you do not
acknowledge Christ’s resurrection.’ And where is the challenge to faith if all he means is
that Jesus’ spirit was raised to heaven?”
“I daresay there are other fates in the spirit world. And the reality of Paul’s faith isn’t
advanced by sleight-of-hand tricks.”
“Let’s be careful of our imagery, gentlemen,” Funk cautioned. “None of us here are
magicians.”
A voice carried just audibly from the back row behind him. “Sorcerers, maybe.”
Funk gave the faintest of starts. Sheehan pushed ahead. “The Gospel of Mark gives us
Stage Three: a tomb visited by women on Easter morning and found empty, attended by an
angel who announces Jesus’ ‘resurrection’. And that’s the end of it. No appearances to
these women or to his disciples. Shall we ignore the naked ending of Mark at 16:8? Or
does anyone wish to give credence to those transparently derivative verses we find tacked on
to some manuscripts of Mark’s Gospel?”
No one took up Sheehan’s rhetorical challenge.
“The final stage, Four, comes with the later Gospels over the next few decades,
essentially revisions and enlargements of Mark. Here a physical Jesus, having emerged
from the tomb, appears to various people, eats and converses, even offers his wounds to be
touched. Moreover, these differing narratives of Easter in the later Gospels cannot be
harmonized to produce a consistent story. They contradict each other too much. It’s clear
that the physical resurrection of Jesus on Easter Sunday is a fictional evolution arising a
good half-century after Jesus’ death. It is impossible any longer to accept such a
miraculous event.”

There arose an audible hiss from two different sections of the gallery, seemingly from
several mouths, and it floated out over the tables like the advance echo of a tidal flow that
was rising just over the horizon. Sheehan defiantly closed his folder.
Casting a sideways glance at the gallery, an action which momentarily threw up a dike
against the threatening flood, Robert Funk thanked the speaker and called on a tousled,
dour-faced gentleman to his left. Gerd Luedemann, author of the controversial ‘The
Resurrection: The Greatest Hoax in History?’ breathed on his glasses, adjusted his
microphone, and grasped his sheaf of papers like a mightier pen.
“The evidence of Paul shows that the earliest reports of Jesus’ appearances were of
luminous apparitions, visions of a glorified Jesus which were interpreted as evidence of his
resurrection. If a video camera had been present at one of these appearances, it would not
have recorded anything on the tape. This was not an event open to empirical verification.”
“It was verified by faith!” The shout came from one of the directions of the earlier hiss.
Funk shot it a withering look. At none of the previous sessions had the public expressed a
vocal objection to the proceedings or the views being aired. Though conservative positions
were hardly checked at the door, it was an unspoken protocol that the audience would
refrain from commenting during the deliberations, as a public question period was always
offered after voting took place. Indeed, most audience members tended to be of a liberal
mind, and usually applauded the Seminar’s radical leanings.
The gallery had become visibly restless. Luedemann charged into the rising fray. “We
have questioned whether Jesus’ body was disposed of by his friends or by his enemies. In
view of the flight of the Apostles, and the obvious fictional quality of Joseph of Arimathea, it
is highly unlikely that Jesus’ followers had anything to do with the disposal of his body. I
would agree that in keeping with Roman practice, Jesus may not have been buried at all, but
left to the mercy of the elements. His corpse may even have been eaten by scavenging
dogs—”
At that point, several things happened simultaneously. One of the Fellows threw his own
sheaf of papers out over the central space, where they floated down like fragments of
shredded scripture. Nearby, another stood up and protested: “Mr. Chairman, are we going
to ridicule ourselves before—”
He, however, was interrupted by the abrupt and powerful chant that arose from over a
dozen figures who stood as one in the midst of two sections of the gallery, an infiltration of
dissidents who had obviously been forewarned that an event of unacceptably heretical
dimensions was due to transpire under the roof of the Flamingo Hotel on this sunny
afternoon in California. . . .
“He is risen! The Lord is risen!”
Robert Funk arose in his seat, but the chant sang to the room’s rafters. After a moment’s
hesitation, the two cameramen coordinated their all-seeing eyes, one upon the faces of the
Fellows, startled, appalled, disgusted; the other upon the inundation which now moved
along the rows of equally nonplussed spectators, flowing onto the floor of the center court.
The opposing team had arrived. . . .

Hmmm. I looked back over what I had written. I was fairly certain that no such uproar,
or even infighting, had ever taken place at any of the Jesus Seminar sessions, though there
were some, no doubt, who would have liked to witness such a scene. Or engineer it.

For it was true that an unprecedented civil war was being waged within the ranks of
today’s New Testament scholarship, and the Jesus Seminar under Robert Funk had been
almost entirely responsible for its outbreak. In each generation, the conservative element
always looked upon the avant-garde ideas in its midst as unacceptably radical, but the scope
of the Seminar’s ongoing conclusions had carried the study of Christian origins into new,
uncharted waters. Many, I knew, were feeling engulfed.
Well, perhaps I could get away with it. Artistic license. My scene would, after all, be
part of a novel. But much of the material I had put into the debate had come from recent
Jesus Seminar publications. And the Fellows themselves were real, though I might need to
authenticate my depictions a bit. A friend who had attended one of their sessions had let me
pick his brain about the goings-on. But I would probably have to get to one myself.
Maybe I could ask Robert Funk to check my manuscript.

The route to the writing of my novel, as well as to the startling conclusions it embodied,
had been a long and unexpected one. So too had been the route to the radical and eye-
opening work of the Jesus Seminar. The picture summed up by Thomas Sheehan about
early Christian views of the resurrection, the path of evolution plotted from Paul’s
predecessors to the Gospels, had always lain in plain sight, yet only today, as the world
careened toward the end of the second millennium of Christian history, had such things been
perceived by professionals in the field and presented to the light of public examination.
Why had it taken so long?
And why now?
As I glanced out the windows of my study to the mellow afternoon colors of a late New
England summer, I realized that all I had to do was look into my own past, the latter half of
the 20th century, to understand the answer to that question . . . .

I used to say that I was born and grew up just before the end of the Middle Ages. I would
have put the change of era somewhere around the year 1960. Before that, everyone I knew
in my youthful life, young and old, lived in a state of mind I would now call medieval. We
moved in a layered universe. Somewhere below the earth we walked on lay a real place of
horror and unthinkable suffering, the eternal fate, so we were led to believe, of many whom
we knew and had dealings with every day—perhaps even ourselves, for salvation was a thing
not easily won. The dread ruler of this place of torment, aided by his demon minions who
lurked in the very air around us, worked unceasingly to ensnare our souls. This was an
endeavor not all that difficult, since most human activity was either sinful or entailed
tempting opportunities in that direction. Prayer, attendance at church, the aid of priestly
counsellors, these were things no one would have dared do without if he or she hoped to
avoid a terrible destiny after death.
The regions which lay in the other direction were altogether opposite. Even though, in
this late medieval period, the science of astronomy told us that above the sky lay vast
reaches of empty space dotted by other stars and galaxies to an unfathomable distance, we
knew that somewhere up there lay heaven, the abode of God and the saved. Attending to
them were myriads of angels, some dedicated to countering the efforts of their infernal

counterparts below, others assigned to protective roles for humanity—a task not always
carried out with complete efficiency.
Though the year 2000 still lay a long way off, we were becoming increasingly conscious
that history’s most important event had occurred “almost 2000 years” in the past: the life of
Jesus, the Son of God and Savior. “Our Lord” was still the most common way of referring
to him, and he was the figure who dominated our lives. I was to remember more about
Catechism than any other grade-school subject. One of our teachers drew the outline of a
human soul on the blackboard, smudged in the sins with a piece of red chalk (they were
“wounds” on its surface) and expounded at length on how the sacrificial death of a man-God
“almost 2000 years ago” had erased and healed them. Even the smallest child had the power
to influence heaven itself, for each sin committed, large or small, struck its own wound in
the heart of the Savior sitting on his celestial throne. Fortunately, the redemptive power
generated by that ancient sacrifice was infinite and could, with suitable contrition and
repentance, be drawn upon to neutralize any and all affronts to Deity, even those of a child.
Like a divine “good cop/bad cop” routine, Jesus saved, but left the matter of punishment for
those who failed to seek his mercies to his more forbidding Father.
On the surface, Western society had been officially “secular” and “scientifically
enlightened” for a good two centuries; even the Inquisition had sputtered out with its last
execution in Spain in 1826, the hanging of a teacher for changing the wording of a school
prayer. But in that place inside itself where a society as a whole dwells, the years up to the
middle of this century had remained part of the medieval era. Religious ideas, leaders and
institutions were still the true controllers of most thought and behavior. The vast majority of
the Western world lived in a universe of heaven and hell, angels and demons, guilt and self-
denigration, all of it colored by the redemption through blood sacrifice of a crucified god
born of a virgin. Jesus was its king, and he received the obeisance of all his subjects in their
very hearts and souls.
Many would have said that even today Jesus was still waxing strong in many hearts and
pulpits, but such beliefs now ran counter to the outlook of society as a collective entity, for
that society had become profoundly secular, skeptical, and unaccepting of religious control
over its institutions and expressions.
I had often wondered what was responsible for the evolution of modern society within my
own lifetime from the religious mindset to the secular. I had no ready answer. But for some
time now we had been witnessing the established churches of time immemorial dying on
their feet. Diminishing attendance, a shortage of priests and ministers, sexual scandals, the
rejection by many laity of traditional dogmas and directives still being issued by Head
Office, had created vast empty spaces throughout the naves, where the ever dwindling clink
of the collection plate echoed forlornly. Ironically, it was not long after 1960 that the
fundamentalist churches began to experience a surge. Part of it was a phenomenon which
came out of the “hippie” movement of the 60s: a kind of back-to-basics Jesus cult. This had
much in common with—and ended up largely joining—the “born again” movement of the
Baptist and Pentecostal faiths which had existed for decades in the shadow of the
mainstream churches.
With the latter’s waning, such fundamentalist expressions had assumed center stage. Far
from having left the Middle Ages, they now revelled in their medievalism. Not only was
Satan alive and well, the Bible in its every word was declared inerrant, the scientific theory

of evolution (which even mainstream theology had accommodated) was condemned as a


godless fraud, requiring suppression along with social advances like abortion rights, family
planning and population control. Creation of the world 6000 years ago had become the
“science” of choice, and almost all things sexual were regarded as shameful perversion.
Jesus was once again “the Lord”, while paradoxically assuming the status almost of a family
member. Believers had turned him into a cult figure who was more accessible than ever.
In North America especially, Christianity’s most vital expression and growth today lay in
these right-wing, cult-like churches. Many had well-organized agendas to get into political
power and return society as a whole to a medieval twilight. They had declared war on all
things modern and secular. In recent years I found myself spending a lot of time wondering
where these deep philosophical divisions within society were destined to carry us.

All my life I had had a consuming fascination with history, the more distant the better.
As a boy, while others were out swinging a wooden bat in an effort to drive a ball over into
the next street, I was avidly reading of ancient empires. At barely more than twice my pre
pubescent age, Alexander the Great had conquered half the known earth, and many times I
shared with him all the great battles he fought as he rolled like a juggernaut across the sands
and mountains of Asia and into India. I took his early, tragic death as a personal loss. Even
as I shivered in my own skin, I felt a fascination for the cruel, enigmatic Assyrians who
wreaked such havoc on the ancient Near East and skinned their enemies alive. My mind
reached back into the dimmest of historical pasts, to the haunting, sun-baked Egypt of the
pyramids, to the Sumerian dawn of civilization and the invention of writing, an invention
which soon recorded the legends of Gilgamesh who searched for immortality and found it
only in that written record.
As I grew older, I found that my youthful interest in military battles and political
chicanery matured into a fascination for the history of ideas, a thirst to know how the mind
of ancient humanity thought, how its many strands viewed the universe and its workings.
The ancient world was a rich cacophany of ideas, many of them being tried out for the first
time, a riotous tower of Babel. One of the great sins of the Christian church as Antiquity
passed into the long Middle Ages was its wanton eradication of most of these ideas, the
reduction of their multifarious richness into a dull grey mush in the cauldron of imposed
faith. Correct belief became the watchword and obsession of medieval times, and many
were the crimes committed in its name.
Not long after opening my first history book, I discovered another medium which could
bring the past vividly to life: the historical novel. The writer in this genre had assumed the
task, besides that of entertaining the reader, of opening a window onto the past, giving us a
sense of what it was like to live, strive, suffer, think and believe in a bygone age and often
alien culture—as well as, perhaps, of providing along the way some insight into ourselves.
When at the age of 12 I read Mika Waltari’s The Egyptian, with its powerful atmosphere and
bittersweet picture of the timeless Nile and its long-dead civilization, I knew what I wanted
to be in life.
After a few ambitious and immature efforts throughout my teen years, I produced a first
publishable novel at the age of 22. It told of the ill-fated Athenian expedition to Sicily at the

turning point of the Peloponnesian War. Here, perhaps, was Greek history’s greatest
example of “hubris”, that overweening pride which leads to utter downfall, in this case the
destruction of Athens’ naval fleet and the cream of her fighting men in a presumptuous
enterprise to conquer the great city of Syracuse. What more dramatic natural event could a
writer be offered than that fateful eclipse of the moon on the 27th of August, 413 BCE, the
very night when the Athenians, admitting failure to penetrate the city’s defences, were about
to withdraw from the harbor in their great-oared triremes? The superstitious general Nicias
held the eclipse to be an omen from the gods, telling them to wait and make one more
attempt. The very next day their retreat was cut off and the entire expedition soon perished
in blood and ignominy. Here, I thought, were great lessons to be learned and comments to
be made, and if I did not yet possess the maturity to do them full justice, a publisher felt that
they were effective enough to be offered to the world.
There followed novels on Hannibal, on the building of the Colossus of Rhodes, on the
Greek philosopher Democritus who anticipated modern atomic theory by 23 centuries. But
my favorite was an ambitious attempt to convey the significance of a great turning point in
the evolution of rationality and the history of ideas: the career and trial of Socrates. The
eccentric old philosopher and gadfly who buttonholed his fellow citizens in the marketplace
of Athens wanted people to examine their ideas about the gods and the world, to question the
assumptions and prejudices which underlay so much of what they accepted as truth or the
“right way” of acting. His defence that “I am trying to make people think with their own
heads,” and his refusal to hold nothing sacred that could not be subjected to critical
examination, were principles that had not only guided Western humanism for 2500 years,
they were still needed almost as urgently today in our own marketplaces and temples.
My publishing career was checkered, and not everything I wrote saw the light of day.
Now that I was living half my life, it seemed, in the ancient world, I returned to university in
my 30s to build upon earlier studies in ancient history and classical languages. I also dipped
my foot into Semitic waters, for I was feeling a pull toward the cradle of Western religion
and the great events of Jewish history. I had almost settled on the Jewish Revolt of the first
century, when the Temple as the center of Israel’s religious life for a thousand years was
swept away by the Romans, and Judaism swung in a new direction. But that was before
Brenda Segal wrote her brilliant novel The Tenth Measure, which I came to believe could
never be surpassed for sheer beauty and impact.
But there was another event that was beginning to tug at my writing hand. I had often felt
surprised that so few writers in my field had been attracted to the man whom I, and just
about everyone else, I supposed, would have regarded as the most influential figure in world
history. Was that reluctance because this man was inseparable from the claims made about
him, that he was God come to earth? Other figures in world mythology had been so
characterized, but never one who had lived in an accessible period of history, and none had
produced world religions still flourishing today. Jesus of Nazareth seemed unique, and
perhaps that uniqueness was daunting.
If one left aside the myriad “devotional” novels written by Christian writers about Jesus,
there had been only a handful of first-rate novels which had Jesus of Nazareth as a central
character. I thought of Robert Graves’ little-known and very unorthodox King Jesus, or
Frank Yerby’s melodramatic Judas, My Brother. James Mills wrote The Gospel According

to Pontius Pilate, the story of Jesus’ trial and crucifixion from a neutral human standpoint,
an open-minded mix of skepticism and philosophic consideration..
But eclipsing them all was a novel contained within the most ambitious project ever
undertaken in historical fiction: Vardis Fisher’s “The Testament of Man”, an eleven-novel
series tracing the evolution of humanity’s religious and moral ideas from the dawn of
intelligence two million years ago to the Christian Middle Ages. Fisher was a distinguished
American novelist who turned to this project in the 1940s and 50s and met controversy and
opposition for its insightful, uncompromising presentation of Judaeo-Christian history and
ideas; both his career and this crowning achievement of his work went into an eclipse from
which they never emerged. Despite the “message” they were often at pains to convey, I
found these novels to be powerful pieces of storytelling.
The eighth of the series was Jesus Came Again: A Parable. Fisher was the first fiction
writer to address the question of “the historical Jesus”. That is, he was fully conscious of the
great issue of New Testament scholarly research in this century: who and what was the real
man who lay behind the early Christian faith? Perhaps, even, did such a man exist at all?
Fisher’s answer was not to portray a Jesus as he believed that man to have been. It was to
present a “parable”, a story about the sort of man and events whose perceived meaning could
have given birth to Christianity. Fisher’s Jesus was not so much the deliberate creator of
anything, but a focal point to which the needs and expectations of those around him could
attach themselves and propel a new movement into existence.
I had often returned just for my own pleasure to this gentle, touching story, a masterpiece
of quiet understatement that got inside the soul of an era. In sensing my own pull toward
that dramatic yet enigmatic figure in the history of ideas, I was always intrigued by the
paradox: if one of the focal points in history lay in first century Palestine, why was it so
difficult to discern the real character of the man who supposedly stood at its very center?
Little did I know that this question was going to prove more intriguing than I could have
dreamed possible.

*************************

Chapter Two

How often it is that significant things in one’s life happen almost by accident, through
combinations of inconsequential events. One Sunday noon, Shauna and I were on the
outdoor terrace of a local eatery, basking in an early spring sun and indulging in some
marinated East Indian fare too exotic for the hour, when a couple seated at the next table
spoke up and invited us to visit their local evangelical church.
The earnest young man spoke of unusual manifestations during their services, and of
experiences in which he went weak in the knees and felt his body swept by some
overwhelming intoxication. Shauna, in her ingenuous manner which masked a sly and
not-so-innocent wit, began to allude to recent experiences of her own in that vein, until I
hastily asked the man what he felt about the news accounts which told of statues drinking
milk during recent services of the Hindus in their local temple. Did he give as much

10

credence to these unusual manifestations? After a momentary blank stare, he simply said
that he knew little about such things. As they departed the restaurant, the couple again urged
us to sit in on one of their prayer meetings, which was due to be held that afternoon only a
few blocks away.
On a lark, we dropped in. It was an affair of jeans and guitars conducted by a pony-tailed
pastor, and much chanting on the name “Jesus”. At one point there was an announcement
that Jesus himself was due to return on Christmas Day in the year 2000. As we sat in a back
row pew with the sun of a late-century spring streaming through the windows, I thought of
Jesus riding those beams down from heaven, the way I imagined it as a boy, bringing life and
the world as we knew it to an end in fire and judgment—though perhaps today he would be a
little more “cool” about it.
I realized that I was beginning to hear the same prediction, or something like it, more and
more as the century rolled down into the great watershed of the next millennium. What
would it be like as the Day itself approached? My mind conjured up visions of a world-wide
frenzy, a millenarian madness. As the year 2000 dawned, I wondered, would sanity be
washed away in an inundation of Jesus fever?
Later, Shauna and I talked of what we had seen that afternoon. What could possibly
explain, we wondered, the continuing appeal and influence of this figure who had lived
almost two thousand years ago?
“There should be psychiatric conventions held to examine this one question,” Shauna
suggested. She was Jewish, and was never quite sure how guilty those of her race should
feel for unleashing this force upon the world. I tried to reassure her that, from what I knew
of the affair, it was more than just the Jews who were responsible for launching Jesus on his
mad career down the centuries.
“Much of what was made of Jesus was quite alien to Jewish thinking. Christians are
always talking about the Judaeo-Christian line of development, but Greco-Christian would
be just as accurate. But try telling a Christian that his faith owes as much to Plato as it does
to Moses, or that the Stoic Zeno should be listed with Abraham among the patriarchs.”
Shauna, not surprisingly, had never read the New Testament, though elements of it, even
the odd quotation, were familiar to her. I myself, after a boyhood saturated with the stuff,
had gone through a decade following my conversion to atheism when I left all things
pertaining to my religious upbringing in a musty mental box, revelling in my vastly
broadened horizons of secularism, both ancient and modern. But on one rainy, solitary
weekend when I was around the age of 30, I had read through the New Testament for the
first time since my orthodox days. I was looking for some elucidation on the question of
Roman persecution of Christians, and I found myself bringing a maturer and freer mind to
the books which had governed my childhood.
I told Shauna that two things had impressed me overwhelmingly on this new, uncut
reading of the early Christian writings.
“I was suddenly struck by how primitive most of it is. The ideas are so naive, and there is
so much narrow-mindedness. Any science is non-existent. And the writing itself can be
pretty crude. There are a few gems of wisdom and literary expression, mostly in moral
directives and parables and such, but they get swamped in a great sea of embarrassing
nonsense—at least when one labels it the word of God.”

11

“How could it have survived so long if it was so primitive?” Shauna had never been
overly knowledgeable—or particularly interested—in the past, either yesterday’s or that of
her ancestors; she was never one to dwell on things she had no control over, she said. But
since our relationship began and my work brought her into a new and flagrant contact with
the past as a living entity (or so I tried to present it), she had begun to share some of my
interest and fascination.
I said in answer to her question: “Religious writings—not to mention religious minds—
are tremendously flexible, since new rules can always be invented for interpreting them. But
I wonder if we haven’t run out of options by now where Christianity is concerned.”
For the second thing that had struck me about the New Testament was the sense that so
much of it seemed alien, especially the writings outside the Gospels. I had realized that this
was the product of a time and culture which had nothing to do with my own and could
scarcely be made relevant for today. An epistle like Hebrews seemed as though it could
have been written on another planet. Paul’s picture of the universe and the process of
salvation was in many ways unintelligible to the modern mind. And yet the idea of Jesus
was the most enduring, adaptable creation of Western civilization. How had a simple Jewish
preacher accomplished such a feat? Or if those who came after him were responsible for his
transformation, whence came their motivation? Somewhere behind the simple—or
simplistic—outlines of Christian history lay a mystery, a true puzzle.
“But I don’t expect anyone will unravel it soon. Certainly not before a good slice of
Western society slips into some kind of psychosis a few years down the road.”
By this time, Shauna decided that we had spent enough time mulling over the mysteries
of the past and offered for my investigation a mystery of more immediately exciting
prospect. Perhaps as we proceeded I subconsciously foresaw that I would soon be tilling a
fresh ground in my own work, for part of my brain conjured up a scene from George Rippey
Stewart’s grand novel about the history of a fictional Greek colony, The Years of the City.
Here the first farmers tilling the virgin soil had taken a maiden upon it by night for a rite of
impregnation—though neither Shauna nor I were maidens. I refrained from revealing my
imagery at such an intimate moment, but that a part of my mind could be capable of
travelling back almost 3000 years even under these circumstances was something which
probably wouldn’t have surprised her.

Was it only a coincidence that the very next day I was contacted by my agent with a
proposal which was destined to have an impact on more than just my own future? Stanley
and I went back over a decade, though he had hardly gotten rich off the limited role he
occasionally played in getting a novel of mine published. No doubt the enthusiasm he
displayed over the phone was sparked by the opportunity he saw to rectify that situation.
But his afternoon call was preceded by a delivery in the morning, accompanied by a curt
note which said: “Read this! Now! I’ll call you at 2. Stan.”
The courier handed me a copy of a recent publication by the Jesus Seminar people, an
issue of their bi-monthly magazine called The Fourth R. This one covered the Seminar’s
debates and conclusions concerning the Gospel account of the resurrection of Jesus. I
already knew that critical scholarship, and especially the work of the Jesus Seminar, had

12

been creating a stir in New Testament circles for some years now, a stir whose ripples had
finally reached the media and even a few pulpits. But this publication was an eye-opener.
The Gospel story of the resurrection was being stood on its head by these progressive
scholars. Probably for the first time in its history, I realized, the field of New Testament
research was in disarray. I was amazed at how members of the Seminar could ridicule the
fundamentalists, and even some less liberal colleagues, for their naive and uncritical
acceptance of the Gospel accounts.
“Unbiblical nonsense,” they called it. One headline in the magazine read: “Christianity is
not defended by fudging the facts....And God is not served by telling lies on his behalf!”
I was still perusing the more than 100 questions the Jesus Seminar had voted on
concerning the resurrection account when the call from Stanley came in.
“Well, are you writing yet?”
“Writing what?”
“Your next bestseller, of course.” This was generous, since only one of my novels had
ever approached that status, and the memory of it was fast fading from everyone’s mind,
including my own. “The one that’ll bring you your long-deserved fame and fortune.”
In a flash I knew what he was getting at. The question of the historical Jesus, who and
what he had really been, would without a doubt be the hottest topic in the media and public
interest over the three years still to go before the next millennium arrived. Stanley had been
the first to realize that I had to get in on the action.
“You mean a novel about Jesus?”
“What else? The real man, the mover and shaker, the lost, misunderstood soul—
whatever. That’s up to you. But make it controversial. Cutting edge. That’s what the
market is going to want. Take six months, tops. I want you to be first in the door.”
I took a deep breath. “Uh, Stanley, look. Jesus isn’t just your run-of-the-mill historical
character. Do you have any idea—”
“I know you can do it, Kevin. And keep one eye on the movie rights.”
And that was that. Feeling caught up by what was beginning to look like a runaway train,
I let Stanley sign off with a promise from me that I would give it some serious thought. But
by the time I had hung up the phone, I knew the decision was inevitable. The moment had
arrived for me to tackle that daunting, mysterious figure who stood in the eye of the storm.
One thing was going to need some review: my classical Greek which I hadn’t delved into
in a few years. The entire corpus of early Christian documentation was originally written in
Greek and would have to be gone through in fine detail. Moreover, it was a Greek which
had evolved from the language of Plato and Thucydides and had its own characteristics. It
was the international language of the empire in the first century (known as Koine—or
“common”—Greek) and every educated Jew, Roman, Egyptian and Syrian, indeed almost
any literate person in every corner of the eastern Mediterranean, could speak it.
An intriguing question: did Jesus know Greek? There seemed to be no question in any
scholar’s mind that he would have preached in Aramaic, which was the everyday language
of Palestine and the Near East generally. The average person today might well wonder why,
if some of the Gospels and epistles were the product of people who had followed Jesus,
nothing was written in any other language but Greek. Why had the career of Jesus,
presumably not conducted in Greek, left us no product reflecting the language he did use?

13

I had recently heard about something called “The Muratorian Project”. Some institution
had just put the entire Bible online, with a minute subject index plus detailed commentaries
by leading scholars. (“Muratorian” referred to the first listing by the Church of an official
canon of sacred writings at the end of the second century.) This would be critical, to be able
to locate particular topics throughout the sizeable array of material which constituted early
Christian literature. As for non-canonical writings, I would have to enter some of these into
the computer myself. If I scanned in the texts I could do my own searches of this important
secondary material.
The first step was to renew some contacts at the University, the same institution where I
had obtained my MA. I had used its extensive Library in the past, but this project was going
to require some extra resources, maybe even some special privileges.

As it turned out, the contact I made the next day was an unexpected one. David Porter
and I had been good friends during our MA years, sharing philosophy and linguistics classes.
After graduation he had gone on to another city to teach philosophy to first year under
graduates and we had lost touch. When I ran into him at the university that day, twenty years
melted away.
“All things come round,” he said. “Who’d have thought I’d be back here teaching some
of the very classes we took together? Shows you the universe is cyclical, after all. Of
course, none of the students today are of the caliber we were.”
I nodded sagely. “Certainly not. These poor devils have had their brains fried by
computer screens.”
“Lot worse than beer, let me tell you.”
David showed me to his office. It looked as though moving day had been last week, but
he had actually taken up residence the previous August and now had seven months under his
belt of teaching pre-Enlightenment philosophy to three different levels of undergrads.
“Quite seriously, the computer-formed mind in the 1990s has an entirely different way of
absorbing courses on philosophy—and probably everything else—than we had. They’ve
taught me a few tricks. If Descartes were around today he’d probably have to say, ‘I
compute, therefore I am.’ ”
I struggled with what I could recall of Descartes, which amounted to little. “Didn’t
Descartes declare that because he could conceive of God, therefore God had to exist? God is
a perfect being and part of being perfect is that you must exist. Besides, the imperfect mind
of men and women couldn’t conceive of a perfect being, so the idea itself had to come from
God. Or something like that,” I finished lamely.
David laughed; he knew it had been a struggle. “That’s pretty good. Especially without a
database. It’s amazing how many philosophers have come up with proofs of God’s
existence, and yet it’s possible more than ever to doubt the fellow.”
I agreed that God was an elusive character.
“But I haven’t been ignorant of your own career, Kevin.” David looked over at his
dishevelled bookshelves, as though he actually expected to find one of my books there.
“I’ve read two or three of your novels. I remember the one on Socrates. You have a good
knack for getting across philosophical ideas and keeping the reader interested. In fact...”

14

He rather pointedly trailed off, looking at me with an exaggerated expression, as though


he had just thought of something quite intriguing. “I’m wondering if you mightn’t be
interested in getting involved in a certain enterprise of mine.”
I said a little hastily, “As a matter of fact, my agent has just talked me into a new project
that may afford me precious little sleep over the next three years.” When his eyebrows went
up, I pushed on. “I want to write the definitive novel on the career of Jesus of Nazareth.”
David let out a whoop. “Three years? How about thirty? Early Christianity isn’t my
specialty, but if there’s one figure in history on whom zero agreement exists, it has to be
Jesus. What makes you think you can solve the puzzle—if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Ignorance, I guess,” I answered sheepishly.
“Actually, it sounds like an exciting project. But you know,”—and here he adopted his
intrigued look again—“it might not be too far removed from what I was about to propose.”
He picked up a pencil which he proceeded to wield for emphasis.
“About ten years ago I got involved with a group called the International Skeptics.
They’re mostly interested in debunking UFOs and alien abductions and paranormal
phenomena, stuff like that. I started, just subtly, raising these issues in the classroom, mostly
to see who thought what, how many young people today believed in these things, or perhaps
might even have imagined they’d experienced them. There didn’t seem to be an alarming
incidence in my students subscribing to what the Skeptics were most concerned about, but
my net gradually went wider and I found I became more interested in the views they held in
more ‘spiritual’ categories—for want of a better word.”
“Like?”
“Angels, for one.” David made a motion in the air with the pencil, as though he were
tapping one of the creatures on its wings to gain its attention. “It’s one thing to read that
62% of Americans believe in angels, it’s another to actually hear half your philosophy class
express a belief or acknowledge the possibility that such creatures exist and even interact
with humans. It kind of makes you wonder what you’re doing in the classroom at all.”
I nodded without commenting.
“I don’t teach science, but how much scientific literacy can they possibly possess when
they’re willing to allow that perhaps we should offer the theory of divine creation 6000 years
ago alongside Darwinian evolution? Keep in mind that this is not a Bible College. We like
to think we’re one of the leading universities in the state, if not the country, and yet a good
portion of our students think that everything in the bible must be true.”
“I guess we’re not really as secular a society as we like to believe.”
David grimaced. “Personally, I’ve decided recently that I don’t much care if UFOs exist
or not, or whether someone claims he can bend a spoon with his mind. I’ve decided those
things are not nearly as dangerous as belief in angels or the inerrancy of the bible or whether
a God lives in the sky and has a department that spends its time pulling yours or my strings.
It’s things like this that are undermining the rational basis of society, and they are going to
extend into a lot of areas we’ve started to take for granted, whether it’s the efficiency of our
educational system and the nation’s productivity, or the right of a woman to have an abortion
or even to go out and work. When you pull the shades down on one window and block the
light of rationality, the whole house gets dimmer, and soon you get to accept the darkness
and eventually the rest of the shades get pulled down.”
“But it’s not just religion,” I pointed out.

15

“No, it isn’t. Some of this New Age stuff is just as irrational. But it doesn’t matter, it all
has to be harmful to a healthy view of the world.”
I used my finger in imitation of his pencil. “And you want to do something about it!”
David nodded earnestly. “Three months ago I proposed to the Skeptics board that we
broaden our scope and even focus on debunking the worst spiritual and religious excesses. It
would mean taking the bible on—head on, since that’s the source of a lot of them.”
“And how did they react?”
“Cautiously. Essentially, they showed me the door. They said: ‘Have a run at it and see
what you can organize, then get back to us.’ I took a deep breath, said ‘What the hell’ and
started e-mailing. I’ve sounded out friends and people who had long forgotten I’d existed, as
well as a lot of complete strangers. And not just in university philosophy faculties. Contacts
gave me contacts. I decided I needed a specific concrete proposal, so I came up with this
one: we organize in cells and present a promotion for rationality and secularism in everyday
beliefs and outlooks, attracting as much publicity as we can, and then hold a nation-wide,
maybe even world-wide, Symposium for Rationality”—the pencil gave the words capital
letters—“in the year 2000.”
“Impressive.” It wasn’t a lie. “And the response?”
“About 50 hearty endorsements, a hundred or so ‘I’ll think it over’s, and about as many
‘Don’t bother me’s, or words to that effect. I’ve got a core of about six, all but one being
university profs, who are actually trying to organize things. About three dozen are putting
various ideas on paper and a few are starting to trickle in. We’re feeling our way.”
“And just how did you think I could contribute to this worthy enterprise?”
“At the U, I always thought you were one of the most rational people I’d ever met, even if
you had an overly romantic streak about you. I still haven’t decided whether there may be
some kind of God or not, but one thing I do know is that he—or she—has to be rational, and
I see precious little rationality in the God most religionists bandy about these days. I
remember you adopting an atheism which was serene and secure and sat perfectly well with
you, like it was a good breakfast you’d eaten that morning.”
Now there was a metaphor I’d never thought of! “I guess for me, abandoning God was
pure release and freedom: seeing the universe crystal clear for the first time—and being
exhilarated by the look of it. I know I was convinced that within a few decades at most,
maybe even by the time I’d reached this age, the rest of the world would have followed suit.
Naive, obviously.”
“Who knows? Maybe you were right—just a bit premature. Maybe this is a temporary
aberrant phase, some kind of death throes. Unfortunately, I’m living in it, and I’m not
exhilarated by the look of it.”
I asked David again what he thought I could contribute.
“Well, now that you’ve told me about your latest project, there may be material there we
could use. Biblical scholars these days are a schizophrenic lot. They’re either pulling down
the battlements or busy trying to throw them back up. They’re raising a lot of dust and we’ll
have to wait and let the air clear before we see what comes out of it. The only one I
approached, somebody at Claremont, says he’s too busy campaigning for rationalism in his
own field. He’s embroiled in some new ‘quest for the historical Jesus’, he says.”
“It’s funny,” I remarked. “This ‘quest’ for the real man has been going on forever, it
seems. It’s true the Gospels can’t simply be accepted as factual, historical accounts. After

16

all, they don’t even come close to agreeing with one another on a lot of details, big and
small. And none of the New Testament writers were historians. They presented the Jesus of
their own faith, sometimes long after the fact. But somewhere under all this superstructure
must lie the actual figure of history. How hard can it be to dig him out?”
“This fellow I spoke to sounds pretty confident.”
“Well, they’ve been on the site with their picks and shovels for a good two centuries now,
and it seems every generation of scholars tosses the previous one’s diggings onto the scrap
heap and claims to have finally uncovered the genuine article. But I wonder how they’re
going to be sure they can recognize it when they do.”
I didn’t voice the thought that I had to ask the same question of my own new project.
The time was getting well toward the middle of the afternoon, and I had yet to visit the
library to map out my strategy. David picked up my signals.
“Think about it,” he said, putting the pencil down. “This research of yours is very
intriguing, and maybe being an outsider you’ll bring a fresh perspective to it, who knows?
I’d really like it if you’d keep in touch with me, as often as you want. Maybe when we get
things a little further organized here I’ll have a more concrete proposal for you. You may be
interested in spite of yourself.”
I assured him that I already was. “By the way, what are you calling yourselves?”
“Well, we don’t know yet. We’re knocking a few ideas around. Do you always title your
books before you write them?”
“Sometimes. Though titles are subject to change. You never know where the writing
process is going to lead you. Or the research itself, for that matter.”
We exchanged e-mail addresses and other sundries. David had a final, somewhat
ominous word. “You know, something like this—even your own work you may find—
inevitably attracts opposition. I haven’t yet put out any general feelers on the Internet, and I
may not. But already I’ve got somebody or some group on my tail who doesn’t like our
complexion. They managed to get a hold of my e-mail address and sent some text from a
recent rationalist magazine they knew I’d be interested in. Even though I wasn’t certain who
had sent it, I decided to download it. Fortunately, I’ve gotten into the habit of checking for
viruses whenever I bring in something I don’t know. Believe it or not, there was a nasty
little bug worked into the thing that would have screwed up my whole drive and destroyed
some very useful files we’ve been putting together. On top of everything else, we’re now
forced to establish a security system.”
“Cyber-terrorists. Every advance in rationality has occasioned a counterattack from those
who prefer to hang on to the old ways of thinking. Hemlock takes many forms.”
“I’ll watch what I drink. Let’s hope they don’t try anything worse, but I don’t think
we’ve heard the last of them.” He stood up and shook my hand. “Kevin, it’s great seeing
you again after all these years. Who knows what might come of it? Maybe it wasn’t just a
chance meeting.”
I chided him for his note of irrationality. I said goodbye and set off for the library.

A three-hour search of various indexes and reference books gave me a working list of
documents I would have to investigate. I was particularly interested in Christian writings
outside the New Testament, since instinct told me that anything not part of the sacred canon
might have preserved information or views about Jesus that were more original and

17

dependable. I knew before I started that relying entirely on the Gospel picture would be a
mistake and give me nothing that a thousand writers before me hadn’t come up with.
I spoke to an assistant librarian I didn’t know, and who hadn’t read any of my novels. On
the basis of my status as an alumnus and on my reputation as a successful writer, which I
was at pains to impress upon her, I managed to wring concessions for a few privileges not
normally enjoyed by someone who was not on the university staff.
In the early evening I departed for home with several books, some for immediate
scanning into my hard drive. I hoped it had enough free space and a good resistance to
indigestion. On the other hand, the spirit of my computer (I was often convinced that it had
one) should have felt well at home by now with the ideas and atmosphere of ancient world
religion and philosophy.
Those visions of riches and acclaim which Stanley had tried to plant in my head
continued to dance in the background, but I knew that the task itself would be a challenging
one, with no guarantee of success. To be controversial was one thing, but if I could not tie it
to some appearance of reality, some meaningful picture of what had actually transpired in a
backwoods part of the Roman empire in the early first century to shape the entire future of
the Western world, the whole thing would probably be dismissed out of hand.
Nor could I ignore the ‘political’ ramifications of any portrayal of Jesus I would come up
with. Today’s environment, with its burgeoning struggle between religion and secularism,
might well react to any such novel in ways that had nothing to do with its literary or
entertainment merit. Could I juggle all these balls at once?
And there was an additional ball closer to home. How would Miss Shauna Rosen, Jewess
extraordinaire with whom I was engaged in another kind of juggling act, react to my
immersion in the figure which had brought so much misfortune to those of her race who had
lived for two millennia in his overwhelming and grievous shadow?

*****************************

Chapter Three

As I usually did when embarking on a new writing project, I bought a special bottle of
wine to mark the occasion, and as she usually did since our relationship had taken flight a
few years earlier, Shauna joined me that evening to help in the marking. I told her of my
unexpected meeting with David Porter.
“If your friend thinks he’s going to eradicate spirituality, he’s in for a disappointment.”
Shauna with wine on her lip could lead in a number of directions, any of which would be
quite stimulating. Tonight we were headed for some animated conversation.
“Oh, I don’t imagine David plans anything so ambitious. He just feels that some brands
of irrationality sap society’s potential. He wonders how we can properly understand and
control the world around us if we believe in all sorts of forces and entities that don’t exist.”
“Do we really need to control the world so thoroughly? Doesn’t our obsession for control
and understanding get us into a lot of trouble?”

18

Shauna and I rarely quarrelled. There was always a streak of humor in even the most
adamant of her discussions, few of which were deemed important enough to upset her keel
of sensibility. I, on the other hand, could get determinedly supportive of my own views.
More often than not, Shauna enjoyed playing off that determination.
“If someone would show me,” I declared, “how you can come to the best decision about
something when your opinions on that thing are irrational or erroneous, I’d be glad to hear.”
“Is it irrational to want to feel that there’s something ‘out there’, something beyond what
we can study with our scientific instruments? That way, there’s always a little mystery to the
world. The potential for what can happen in it, what can happen to us, becomes unlimited.
If we’re able to understand everything, if we lay everything bare to the light of day, we’re
stuck with what we can perceive. We can never go beyond that.”
“That should be more than enough, I would say. Those horizons are huge. Just how
much space do you want?”
“Personally, I have all the space I need. But for some, it’s the quality of that space. They
don’t especially like what they see around them, so they invent other dimensions where
things can be the way they’d like them to be.”
“No problem was ever solved by inventing a fantasy that promises to take you away from
the problem. The problem just grows bigger by neglect.”
“Spoken like a true pragmatist.” Hadn’t David called me overly romantic? “But it’s not
just the God-in-the-sky fantasy. Lots of people have abandoned any such figure and yet they
still believe in things science can’t detect. Look at some of these New Age ideas. Energy
flows and reincarnation and that sort of thing.”
“That was David’s point. How can we turn out competent scientists who are going to
understand the world if we believe in angels, or powers in crystals?”
“Oh, I think that’s selling it short. Anyway, a lot of New Agers think that energy forces
in humans, or between humans and the universe, are real. It’s just that they can’t be detected
by our narrowly scientific methods.”
“Then let’s broaden our scientific methods. But if we still can’t detect something, it’s too
easy to fall back on the claim that our equipment is faulty or our science too limited. Too
many pink elephants are let in the door that way. Ultimately, if reason or the senses or the
instruments our senses have created to help them can’t accommodate something, we have no
right to hold on to it, much less build our lives around it.”
“You might be missing out on things science can’t give you.”
“I’ll accept any judgment made in the court of reason.”
The argument was winding down. We both knew it. Besides, Shauna’s lip was looking
less argumentative and more sensual by the moment. Middle age has its fascinations which
youth cannot yet imagine. Shauna was just entering it and I had been saving her a place for a
few years—even before I knew her. The mind is a wonderful storehouse, and a woman with
two or three decades of sexual experience has a fascinating inventory of responses and
sensitivity. When the body moves more slowly, the savor is sweeter, and like the lip
glistening with red wine Shauna’s flavors had ripened to perfection.
Joy at being alive is also richer when experience, rather than a flood of hormones,
produces it. Shauna was a medical laboratory technician, so she dealt with the manifesta
tions of life on a daily basis. Her down to earth realism and common sense appealed to me
greatly. And still there was something exotic about her. Partly it was her Jewish character,

19

which for me spelled subtle depths extending back into misty pasts, an innate tenacity, a
swirl of fecundity (though she herself had no children). The broadening in the middle of the
nose spelled a sensual richness, and I often spent more than a few moments attending to that
very feature, to her great amusement. Like her coloring, her lovemaking was in smoky hues,
mellow browns and burgundies. To be enclosed within her was to enter a place of warmth
and deep pleasure.
As for myself, the energy of youth had been replaced by more thoughtful quests. The
sands of time wash quickly over the imprint of Alexander’s stride, but the measured pace of
Plato’s words reechoes down the long centuries and will probably never die out.

Afterwards, there was a little more wine and a late night snack.
“This is my third christening of a new project with you,” Shauna said between munches.
“But I must say this is probably the most ambitious one you’ve taken on yet. What are you
going to do with him?”
“With who?”
“Jesus, of course. If he’s not the divine Son of God, which I presume he’s not, what are
you going to have him be?” She rolled her tongue provocatively along her upper lip. “Are
you going to give him a Jewish girlfriend?”
I shuddered. “Getting torn apart by the critics is one thing, but being rended limb from
limb by enraged Christians is something I’d rather not experience. I don’t think I’ll work in
any love interest.”
She looked disappointed. “Isn’t that what sells? You’ve had some racy stuff in some of
your other novels. Are you going to suddenly become politically correct?”
“I don’t know what I’m going to become. I really haven’t had any time to think about it.
Is the focus going to be on the man himself or on some secondary figure—a fictional
character, perhaps, with everything seen through his or her eyes? That’s a common device
in historical novels. But it would certainly be challenging to present the story through the
eyes of Jesus himself. That’s what Vardis Fisher does, though his Jesus—Joshua, really—
has no sense of himself as a special man with a special mission. He just has a knack for
attracting people to himself, men and women. Especially women. Here, let me read you
something from a study of Fisher’s Testament of Man.”
I fished out one of the many ringbinders crammed into my bottom bookshelf, in which I
kept some of the many copies I’d made from this or that source in the course of years of
research. “I don’t remember the author of this study, some college thesis I think it was.” I
flipped the sheets. “Here...he’s talking about the novel Jesus Came Again: A Parable.
“ ‘Speculation and expectation about a coming Messiah and the cataclysmic change he
would bring had been fermenting in Judea for two centuries until it had reached the level of
almost national insanity, especially among the common folk. Migrations across the land of
vast numbers of people: farmers, city dwellers, rabbles of poor and sick, are recorded during
the early decades of the first century, and many a man who sought to lead them, or claimed
to be a wonder-worker or teacher or even the actual Messiah, was seized and executed by the
Roman authorities as an instigator of public disorder. Such disorder was easily provoked.
The average man and woman outside the privileged classes were ground down by a crush of
tithes and taxes. Working of the land was crude and injurious. Slavery caused major human
misery. Rampant superstition, and a belief in a world full of demons who tormented with

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illness and possession, produced nervous disorders and psychotic behavior among many. In
an era of primitive medicine, sickness and physical degeneration made millions wretched.
Fisher creates a heart-wrenching view of a world full of pain, insanity and injustice.
“ ‘At one such fevered moment during the reign of Herod Antipas, a young Jew named
Joshua joins the throngs of poor and sick who crowd the roads of Judea, making their
disorganized way to Jerusalem and other holy places. They are expecting the imminent
appearance of the Messiah, who will rescue the downtrodden, heal the sick, right all wrongs.
Several people attach themselves to Joshua, mostly women: from the simple widow with
child, to the educated Greek, to the mystic who has visions of heaven. Some of them begin
to believe that Joshua is himself the Messiah, though he vigorously denies it. Fisher has
shaped his story in the classic ‘quest’ mold: the little travelling band of diverse characters
who pass through experiences and trials in their search for something to give them hope and
a new life.’ ”
I skipped a few paragraphs ahead. “ ‘When a growing number of those following him
imagine that he has healed the sick and even caused a dead man to return to life, Joshua is at
last seized and led before Pilate. His humble admission that he believes the Messiah will
conquer even Rome with love, clashes with the sympathetic Pilate’s need, in a land ever
teetering on anarchy, to keep in check all ideas and advocations which encourage a belief
that Rome’s authority will be overthrown. For one Jew among many, it means crucifixion as
a “rebel”. But among Joshua’s followers, a seed of belief has been planted.’
“That’s Fisher’s approach, you see: understated and touching, sometimes even naive.
He’ll probably influence my background presentation. I want to convey what makes the
times tick—or at least those who responded to Jesus. But how are we going to know what
made Jesus tick? The Gospels give us nothing like that. Each evangelist just offers us a
divine figure in the image of his own theology.”
“What about ‘Suffer the little children,’ or whatever that saying is? Doesn’t that show he
was supposed to be compassionate and sensitive?”
I shrugged. “Was he? What about—I think it’s in Luke—‘you have to hate your father
and mother, wife and children, and so on, if you want to be a disciple of mine’? In one
Gospel he tells his disciples to go out and preach to the world, in another he tells them not to
cast pearls before swine, the swine being gentiles who are too ignorant to appreciate the
Law. The contradictions are so numerous and significant, you can’t trust anything that’s said
of him. Unlike Fisher, who didn’t pretend to be at all historical, I’d like to construct my tale
around at least a kernel of something reasonably reliable. But the trouble is, earlier writers
like Paul are supposed to have created some cosmic resurrected Christ and filed the man
himself in some bottom drawer and ignored him. If the early stuff has so little about the
human Jesus, where are we going to unearth him?”
“Perhaps it’s an impossible task.”
“I certainly hope not.”

I spent part of the next morning scanning pages into my computer from the books I had
taken out of the library the day before: letters of Ignatius, Polycarp, Clement of Rome,
Barnabas. These so-called Apostolic Fathers, all writing around the end of the first century

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and the first few decades of the second, were almost the only non-canonical record we
possessed of the “post-apostolic generation” of the Christian movement, but before any
centrally organized Church began to take shape.
I realized I had to put one thing together before I could start assembling data: a time chart
showing the approximate dates when all the Christian and related documents were written.
That wasn’t as easy as it sounded, because the dates of so many of them were uncertain, little
more than educated guesses. I could easily have constructed a chart on the computer, with
an icon for each document that I could shift around at will as I learned more. But I felt like
having something concrete, in real space, something I could rest my eyes on away from the
screen. So I mounted a date strip along the wall, running from the year 30 CE to 150.
Below it I affixed a Post-It for each document: green for the Christian ones, blue for the
Jewish, red for the Roman. After three days of quick research I had over 40 pieces of paper
fluttering on my wall above the computer screen.
Seven green ones stood for the genuine letters of Paul, all in a clump under the 50s of the
first century: 1 Thessalonians, Philippians, Galatians, 1 and 2 Corinthians, Romans and
Philemon. Six more letters had been written later using Paul’s name, and I sprinkled them
over the next few decades: Colossians around the year 80, Ephesians a few years after that, 2
Thessalonians around 90. The group called the Pastorals—1 and 2 Timothy and Titus—
seemed to be dated by different scholars anywhere between 100 and 130. I compromised
and stuck them at 115.
The group of three letters known as 1, 2 and 3 John were usually dated somewhere
around the year 90. I Peter went below 85. 2 Peter, judged late, I stuck at 120. Then the
ones considered early: James, Jude and Hebrews. They were anybody’s guess, but I affixed
them a little before the year 70, the climax of that watershed which constituted the First
Jewish War, perhaps the greatest upheaval of its time. Putting down the Jewish revolt and
destroying the city of Jerusalem was the most demanding military campaign the Romans had
to undertake in the first century. Three-quarters of the population of Palestine were either
killed or displaced. I marked that event with its own piece of paper. The Book of
Revelation, an upheaval in itself, went under the 90s (though some thought it written during
the Jewish War), along with the non-canonical epistle 1 Clement.
The seven letters of Ignatius, the bishop of Antioch who perished in the arena at Rome,
went on a single piece under the year 107, followed shortly by two other writers who didn’t
make it into the canon either: Polycarp and Barnabas. A church manual called the Didache
(which meant “Teaching” in Greek) belonged somewhere around 100. For now, that was it
for the early Christian writings. I would leave the apologists of the second century until
later, as I didn’t know if I would have occasion to dip into them.
That left an assortment of Jewish and Roman documents. The historians Josephus,
Tacitus and Suetonius could be fixed to specific dates in the late first and early second
centuries. But then came a slew of documents from a set of miscellaneous Jewish writings
known as the Pseudepigrapha, coming from the period 200 BCE to 200 CE. (The word
referred to writings under “false” names, usually great figures of Israel’s past.) They
promised to be a significant asset. A day and a half of reading the little commentaries
attached to these roughly six dozen works had given me a feeling that the background to
early Christian thought was much more complex than most people imagined. The most
promising ones went up on the wall.

22

As for the Gospels, things were not quite as straightforward as I had anticipated. The
controversy over which one had been written first was pretty well settled by now: Mark, the
earliest, was usually dated around 70 or so, with Matthew, Luke and John (all of them, in
various ways, dependent on the Markan foundation) strung out between 80 and 110. But
recent scholarship had concluded that all of the Gospels had been written in stages, edited
and revised over time; the later Church had lost sight of that early history of development.
Moreover, a search of all the non-Gospel writings had shown scholars that evidence for a
knowledge of the Gospels’ existence was difficult to find before the middle of the second
century. I decided to leave them off my chart for now. The same applied to the Acts of the
Apostles, whose suggested date of writing fluctuated wildly over almost a century. The
dating of anything purporting to be history would have to be given the closest examination.

The next day was a Friday, and a dreary start to the weekend. Winter was being shown
the door, but putting up a protest on its way out: March days damp and dirty, with a half
snow half rain falling. Shauna had left the evening before to visit some out-of-town family,
and in the morning I had only a cup of coffee to give me a kickstart on this first day of data
gathering. As usual, however, it wasn’t long before I found myself slipping into the
atmosphere of the ancient documents I was perusing, both on the printed page and on the
computer screen. The window into a long dead mind is often clouded and grainy, and clarity
of meaning can be elusive, but the wonder of bringing alive a forever departed past out of a
few recorded words by one who had lived it is something we should never lose or neglect.
Without it, we would be little more than the animals.
Yet today that departed past contained an unexpected curiosity. I decided that to get at
the historical Jesus, one should perhaps start by looking at his background: his parents, his
family, the places of his birth and life. The Gospels, of course, contained a lot of that stuff,
though they didn’t always agree. But one couldn’t prove the validity of the Gospel story by
appealing to the Gospel story.
But here was the problem I encountered. Using the Muratorian Project Index and my
own search of the non-canonical material I had entered, I could find no references to the
names of Mary and Joseph, nor to Bethlehem, Nazareth or Galilee, anywhere in the non-
Gospel documents of the first century. I decided to look up the name of the man who one
might say was the most crucial in Jesus’ life, namely, the man who had tried and executed
him: the Roman governor, Pontius Pilate. In the epistles, he appeared only in a single
passing reference in 1 Timothy 6:13, at my date of 115. Elsewhere, in all the discussions
about Christ’s death and crucifixion, he was nowhere to be found. I could not even locate a
reference in Paul or any other epistle writer to the fact that Jesus had undergone a trial!
Little did Pilate realize when he washed his hands, that he was washing himself out of the
wider Christian record for about 80 years!
Ignatius seemed to have been the first letter writer to bring Pilate back into the spotlight.
This martyred bishop was also the first to mention Jesus’ mother by name, Mary. Nobody
mentioned Joseph. In chapter 9 of his letter to the Trallians (he wrote all his letters as a
prisoner on his way to Rome in 107) Ignatius said: ‘Close your ears then, if anyone preaches
to you without speaking of Jesus Christ. Christ was of David’s line. He was the son of

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Mary; he was really born, ate and drank, was really persecuted under Pontius Pilate, was
really crucified. He was also truly raised from the dead.’
To me, this passage had a peculiar character. As I read it, it seemed to be declaring these
events as true, as though someone were denying them or refusing to accept them. Why
would any of Ignatius’ fellow Christians be listening to preachers who were not speaking of
Jesus Christ? And just who would be denying or be ignorant of the fact that Jesus had been
the son of Mary or executed by Pilate?

By the next day the precipitation had turned to a steady drizzle of rain under leaden skies.
It suited my mood. Things were not getting off to a bright, energetic start. The documents
were beginning to look as dense as the weather, clouded over, yielding not the bright nuggets
of information I looked for, but an oddly unilluminating murk. I had begun to realize that
even basic topics like Jesus’ death were being discussed in the epistles in ways that seemed
to bear no relationship to the Gospel picture.
In my search for Pilate, I had read a verse in Colossians, 2:15: ‘On the cross he discarded
the cosmic powers and authorities like a garment; he made a public spectacle of them and
led them as captives in his triumphal procession.’
Somehow, I couldn’t see this idea fitting into any scene on the hill of Calvary outside
Jerusalem, a scene of which there seemed not a hint anywhere, not only in Colossians. The
‘powers and authorities’ were terms for demonic spirit forces, believed in this period to
inhabit the atmosphere and the layers of heaven just above the earth, harassing and crippling
mankind. Fisher had illuminated the injurious role they played in the thought of the time.
A cross-reference pointed to Ephesians 6:12 which said rather bleakly: ‘Our fight is not
against human foes, but against cosmic powers, against the authorities and potentates of this
dark world, against the superhuman forces of evil in the heavens.’
This, from a decade or so after Paul’s death, put into his mouth by someone probably in
one of the communities he had preached to. But Paul himself had things to say about these
demonic forces. In 1 Corinthians 2:8, he even seemed to assign them responsibility for
Jesus’ death, with nary a mention of Pilate’s role. I saw from the commentary that Paul’s
meaning here was a debated one, but that evil spirits were the ‘rulers’ being referred to was
the opinion of many. I made a note to investigate the whole question of spirits and the spirit
dimension in the thought of Paul’s time.
I settled into my chair and looked up at the Post-It creation strung along the wall. OK, so
no parents, no birthplace or home town, and no human executioner before Ignatius. No
place of execution, either, from the look of it. Searching for Calvary and the scene of the
crucifixion, I had found nothing outside the Gospels. But the sites of his ministry, the towns
where he worked his miracles, perhaps, or the places he taught: surely some of these had
been mentioned in passing by writers like Paul.
The various indexes yielded nothing. I keyed in everything I could locate in a scan of the
Gospel texts: places and names from the Gospel story. With one possible exception, the
darkness was impenetrable. Because it was difficult to believe that all the early writers
could have been so silent, I took the rest of the weekend to read through Paul and the other
epistles, checking various points in the Muratorian commentaries. I came away baffled. It
had never struck me in the past when reading (or hearing as a kid) passages from the New
Testament epistles, that they didn’t really say anything about Jesus’ life. In fact, one

24

wouldn’t even have known from the early writers that Jesus had just recently lived. They
didn’t seem to locate him at any particular point in the past. No Herod, no Romans.
Another missing character was John the Baptist. No one in all the documents I surveyed,
right into the second century, ever mentioned him. I noted Paul talked a lot about Christian
baptism, but he had nothing to say about Jesus’ own baptism, let alone John the Baptist.
Nor could I find any reference to the places of Jesus’ preaching. Galilee never got a
mention. No Temple. Not even a Jerusalem. Paul and the others never located Jesus
anywhere. Come to think of it, I couldn’t really remember any reference to Jesus actually
teaching, although a lot of things the epistles were advocating in the way of moral directives
and such sounded like his stuff. It was just that they never bothered attributing it to him,
which seemed odd. The only possible candidates were a couple of cases of what Paul called
‘words of the Lord’, about divorce and Jesus coming at the end of the world, though he
almost seemed to be implying that he got these directly, as private revelations.
One of them, the exception I had noted earlier, was in 1 Corinthians 11 and it did remind
me of a Gospel scene: Jesus speaking the words about his body and blood over the bread and
wine at the Last Supper. Actually, make that ‘the Lord’s Supper’, which was the term Paul
used. This passage would need a close look at. It was about the only link I could find in
Paul to an incident in Jesus’ life, though it was more tantalizing than definite. Elsewhere, I
couldn’t find any reference to the Last Supper at all.
Then there were the miracles. I couldn’t find any. Paul never mentioned any miracles.
This was particularly strange, since he often argued with his readers that resurrection of the
dead was possible. But he never used Jesus’ own raising of the dead as any kind of proof.
Naturally, I didn’t think that any reputable scholar today really believed Jesus raised anyone
from the dead, but the idea that he had done so must have developed pretty soon. The epistle
writers were always talking about God’s promises of resurrection, but no one ever pointed to
Jesus’ feats as support for those promises. Where the hell was Lazarus? Not even Ignatius
talked of Jesus’ miracles—and he was about to face the lions!

By Monday morning, bafflement was turning to frustration. If I were thrown back


entirely on the Gospels, I would have little I could depend on, and how to resolve the
contradictions found between them? If the most up-to-date research was paring away even
the essentials of the Gospel story, on what could any tale of Jesus be based? Had Fisher
already followed the only course open to a novelist: make of it what you want and present it
as some kind of morality tale, with no claim to history? But this went against my grain. If
my interest lay in the history of ideas, my tale of Jesus had to embody his ideas or the ideas
he gave rise to and how they shaped the future. Or was there some other alternative I would
have to come up with?
Perhaps I was going about it the wrong way. Instead of looking for Gospel features, I
should have been asking myself what writers like Paul were actually saying about Jesus. It
might be better not to measure them according to Gospel standards. Looking back over an
assortment of passages in Paul, I thought I could see that Jesus Christ (or more often “Christ
Jesus”) was a figure already ensconsed in an entirely spiritual setting and identity. Jesus’
transformation to divinity and the realm of heaven was already complete, and scarcely an
echo remained of his incarnation on earth in Paul’s own lifetime.

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For some reason, that aspect of him had receded out of sight, and Paul was either ignorant
of the Jesus on earth (which hardly seemed possible in view of his close contacts with the
Jerusalem apostles) or else he had no interest in him—which seemed astonishing in itself.
Dipping into the commentaries provided by the Muratorian Project, I found that it was a
longstanding criticism of Paul, one I had vaguely heard before, that he had all but perverted
the original Christian message by turning Jesus into a cosmic Christ and blocking access to
the human man. Looking for Jesus of Nazareth in Paul was apparently a hopeless task. It
may have crossed my mind even at this stage to wonder how such a bizarre transformation
could have been performed by Paul, or even whether it was likely, but for the moment my
prominent reaction was one of dismay.
And yet it was one thing, it seemed to me, to postulate that the life and ministry of Jesus
held no interest for Paul. The same thing could hardly be said of Jesus’ death and rising
from the grave. For Paul’s letters were full of proclamation and comment about these great
redeeming acts. Christ crucified was ever on his lips; faith that God had raised him from the
dead formed the centerpiece of his preaching. Yet even here, such events never appeared in
their historical context. All the features of the Gospel passion, details of the crucifixion
scene, the story of the empty tomb—all had been stripped away.
If we judged by the early writers alone, responsibility for the death of Jesus seemed to
have been placed entirely at the feet of the demon spirits. That is, except once. Or so I
thought until I saw the footnote. In 1 Thessalonians 2:15-16, Paul referred to the Jews ‘who
killed the Lord Jesus.’ Many commentators now judged this to be a later insertion
(“interpolation” was the official term for this sort of thing) into the letter, for these verses
contained a clear allusion to the destruction of Jerusalem, an event which happened after
Paul’s death. Most of them also thought that such sentiments could not be by Paul because
nowhere else did he express himself so viciously toward his fellow Jews. If this passage was
to be cut out, then nothing in the first century epistles told us that any human agency was
responsible for Jesus’ death, Jew or Roman.

*****************************

Chapter Four

The next day involved errands which had more to do with the mundane tasks of living,
but I managed to squeeze in a trip to the University library in search of a couple of books
mentioned in the Muratorian commentaries. That evening, Shauna joined me for one of my
patented “short-notice” meals. I was a fairly competent cook when I took the time for it and
Shauna often threatened to move in with me for that reason. But neither of us were really
ready to compromise our independence, and when I was intensely into a research phase I
could be jealous of my isolation. This time, however, my frustration at how things were
going gave me a need to talk.
Perhaps my preoccupation led me to overheat the cream for the beef stroganoff, but
Shauna graciously made no comment on the slightly sour taste. At least the broccoli was
perfectly al dente. Through the main course she talked about the cousin she had spent the

26

weekend with, and it was only when I brought out the cream Napoleons from our favorite
French pastry shop that she asked me how the work was going.
“Funny you should ask,” I said in mock sarcasm. Shauna knew very well that I had been
chafing at the bit all through the meal. “Actually, I’m considering a change of plan. Rather
than an historical novel, I’m thinking of writing a whodunit. The first mystery is Who
Killed Jesus? The usual suspects are nowhere to be found.”
“You’ll have to explain that.”
When I had done so, she volunteered: “Perhaps Paul didn’t really care who had pulled the
trigger, so to speak. Weren’t we all guilty? Isn’t that the idea behind the Christian view of
Jesus’ death?”
I thought about that for a moment. “Well, Paul certainly believed we were all sinful. But
I’d have to say he doesn’t really regard Jesus’ death as a crime. It’s more a case of God and
Jesus doing us a willing favor, working together to engineer this sacrifice for our benefit.
What you don’t get is any sense that someone is directly responsible for it; no one is ever
allotted blame for Jesus’ execution. And yet the Gospel story is one huge conspiracy: the
Jewish elders plotting his death, the High Priest interrogating and abusing him, various
witnesses giving false testimony. Even Pilate with his good intentions chickens out and
bows to the pressure. And what about the crowds screaming for his blood? Surely they
were seen by the early Christians as contributing to Pilate’s decision.”
Shauna murmured: “His blood be upon us and upon our children.” That particular verse
from Matthew, along with the epithet of “Christ-killers” it had spawned, had been burned
into every Jew’s consciousness for close to two millennia.
“Yes, but you won’t find any sentiment like that on Paul’s part. There simply is no sense
of Jesus being the innocent man who was betrayed and unjustly sentenced to death. And
Paul’s not the only one. In fact, this may surprise you, but there is no mention of Judas in
the entire first century outside the Gospels.”
“I’ve heard it said that Judas was an invention.” She looked pensive. “I’d like to think
so, but then we’d have to live with the fact that we’d been demonized for almost 2000 years
over an invention.”
“I know. Certain people have a lot to answer for. Matthew may have given us the cry of
the crowd, but he got Judas from Mark. I think the Jesus Seminar group have already
rejected both as inventions of the evangelists.”
Shauna always volunteered to wash up the dishes when I cooked, and I always refused to
let her. We usually retired to the TV room after a good meal, but tonight I took her into my
study to show her the battleground, the scene of my new struggle with the intransigence of
the early Christian record. The fluttering Post-Its along the wall might have been my flayed
skin. Shauna thought they looked rather comical.
I pulled up another chair for her beside the computer. “I want to show you something
else.” Although we could have looked at a printed page in greater comfort snuggling on a
couch, I wanted the vibrancy of the computer screen before us, plugged into cyberspace. It
presented a window onto the vast reaches of an unknown landscape, an image which early
Christianity was beginning to assume for me. I logged onto the Web.
“You say maybe Paul didn’t care enough about Pilate to bother mentioning him. But one
thing he does care about is his fellow Jews. If Jesus was killed in Jerusalem, and if the
Gospel picture is even one-tenth real, there had to be Jewish factions working against him

27

who had some kind of role in his death. There would surely have been some sense of Jewish
responsibility among early Christians.”
The Muratorian Web page was stunning. A subtle, intricate artwork in the background
changed periodically, revolving from right to left: a repeating series of color-drenched
illuminations from medieval manuscripts of the Bible. I shuddered to think of how much
computer space was tied up in all this fine, rich detail, but as a gateway to the sacred
scriptures it was highly evocative. One could probably watch it for hours.
Two title pages could be called up: one for the Old Testament, the other for the New.
On the latter, each of the 27 documents of the canon was listed, plus links to separate
introductions to the Commentaries and to the Indexes. I clicked on Romans, the first and
longest letter in the corpus of Paul’s epistles, considered by most to be the Apostle’s
masterpiece. The text scrolled upward, as usual, but one class of footnote marking could
bring in—onto the lower portion of the screen—brief clarifications on the text itself:
alternate readings and discussions of a linguistic nature, usually to do with the original Greek
text. Another class of notation supplied Gospel and other textual parallels with optional
screening of these texts to one side. Still another transferred the reader to the appropriate
point in the primary commentary provided on the work in question, by some leading scholar.
These commentaries could also be approached through the separate commentary link off the
title page, and supplementary excerpts from other scholarly works were often provided, all
of it variously linked. The organization of this wealth of material, with the inclusion of an
intricate Index whose detail and subtlety I had only begun to scratch at, spelled a
monumental undertaking on the part of some group or institution I as yet knew nothing
about.
“Romans 10,” I intoned, scrolling to that point in the text. I advanced line by line to
verse 13. With Shauna craning at the screen beside me, I said: “You see, here Paul is trying
to show that the Jews have no excuse for failing to believe in Christ and gaining salvation.
All they have to do, he says, is ‘call upon the name of the Lord and they will be saved.’ ” I
had already learned that this was a quote from Joel 2:32 in the Greek Septuagint (Paul was
using the Jewish bible which had been translated into Greek a couple of centuries earlier, not
its Hebrew original). For Shauna’s benefit I called up the footnote which identified and
quoted the Old Testament verse—in English and in Greek. There was also a link to the
primary commentary provided on Romans, by C.K. Barrett. Here, Barrett’s comment was
highlighted, in which he pointed out that while the original word “Lord” in Joel was a
reference to God himself, Paul chose to interpret the term as referring to Jesus Christ.
I went back to the text. The quote from Joel, that all will be saved who call upon the
name of the Lord, introduced Paul’s argument concerning the Jews’ response, a series of
poetically structured questions. I asked Shauna to read them aloud.

“ ‘But how are men to call upon him whom they have not believed in?

‘And how are they to believe in him whom they have never heard of?

‘And how are they to hear without a preacher?

‘And how can men preach unless they are sent?’

‘For it is written: How beautiful the feet of those who preach good news!’ ”

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I pointed out to her that those who “are sent” and “those who preach good news” referred
to apostles like Paul. We scanned a few verses further, to where Paul declared that faith
comes from what is heard, and what is heard comes through the word about Christ. The
voice of such preachers, Paul claimed, had gone out to the ends of the earth—which was a
bit of hyperbole on his part.
I looked at Shauna. “What do you think? Has Paul made a good case here in showing
the guilt of the Jews for not believing in Christ?”
She could tell I was probing. “This is a trick question, right?” She was staring at the
verses on the screen, extending from 10:13 through 10:21. “Paul is ticked off because the
Jews he preached to didn’t listen to him.”
I drew out my “Yes” in expectation of something more. I pointed to the later verses in
the passage. “Here he quotes from other books of the bible, passages he takes as prophecies
that show how, in contrast, the gentiles did believe when they heard.” One of these was
Isaiah 65:1: ‘I was found by those who were not looking for me; I was clearly shown to those
who never asked about me.’
“Paul turned to preaching to the gentiles when his own countrymen failed to respond,” I
explained, “and he enjoyed much greater success. He was ‘Apostle to the Gentiles’ by
default. Preaching to Jews undoubtedly occupied many of the years following his
conversion before he comes into the spotlight through his letters, which are written largely to
gentile communities.”
I brought her attention back to those questioning, poetic verses. “Now, remember he is
talking about Jews in general, as he is of the gentiles. There is a kind of collective guilt and
merit here.” I repeated my earlier question. “Do you think he has made the best possible
case?”
Shauna read again and suddenly gave a start. “Where is Jesus?” I smiled and nodded.
She turned to me. “Why doesn’t he blame the Jews for not listening to Jesus?”
“Right. Jesus had preached to Jews. Many of them heard his message. Yet collectively
they rejected him. Supposedly, they even had a hand in killing him. What possible reason
could Paul have had to leave this drastic rejection out of the equation? Look what he says in
verse 18: ‘Can it be that they did not hear it?’—meaning the message. ‘Indeed they did...’
But then all he does is go on to quote from Psalm 19 which supposedly talks about apostles
preaching to the ends of the earth. Why wouldn’t he mention the Jews’ spurning of the Son
of God in the flesh? What more would he need to prove the extent of their failure and their
guilt?”
Shauna was getting intrigued in spite of herself and made the next observation on her
own. “And why, when he is contrasting the guilt of the Jews with the merit of the gentiles,
doesn’t he point out the strongest point of contrast? He could have said that the Jews had
rejected the message even though delivered by Jesus himself, while the gentiles had accepted
it second-hand.”
Now it was my turn to give a start. “Very good point. I missed that.”
Shauna’s air of self-satisfaction gave way to a sudden deflation. “But here—” She
pointed at the screen to verse 12. “It says, ‘what is heard comes through the word of Christ.’
Isn’t that a reference to Christ preaching?”
“No. The ‘of Christ’ in the Greek is just a genitive noun. It can mean ‘the word about
Christ,’ or Christ speaking through the preachers, and that’s the way all the commentators

29

seem to take it. The whole structure of Paul’s argument revolves around the response, or
lack of it, to messengers of the gospel like himself. He’s made no room for Jesus here.”
Shauna looked at me in mild perplexity. “So—what does it mean? Why would Paul
leave this out?”
“I don’t know. It’s one thing not to mention somebody like Pilate if you have no interest
in him. It’s another to leave out Jesus himself where he clearly demands inclusion. I
thought about it last night, but I really can’t give you an answer.”
I turned back to the screen. “But that’s not all. Look at this.” I scrolled to the following
chapter, Romans 11. “He asks his readers if this failure to believe in Christ means that God
has abandoned the Jews, that they have no hope. He quotes Elijah in 1 Kings: ‘Lord, they
have killed thy prophets...’ To which God had replied that he made sure a remnant of Israel
stayed faithful. Paul uses this as a prophecy that the same will hold true this time, that Jews
will come around, perhaps eventually all of them. The point is, he can refer to Israel’s
history of killing the prophets—”
Shauna interrupted defensively: “I don’t think that’s true. I’ve never heard of anything
like that in our traditions.”
I clicked on a footnote marker. “Actually, you’re quite right. See—that idea was really
just a going myth of the time, used by some sectarian groups who suffered opposition from
the establishment and saw themselves as modern-day prophets being persecuted like the
prophets of old.” One line in the footnote read: ‘About the only prophets ever recorded as
having been murdered by the ruling class were those of Elijah’s time: during the reign of
Ahab and Jezebel many were executed for expressing opposition to the queen’s introduction
of her native Phoenician deities.’ Shauna’s head gave a little shake of vindication.
“But the point is, my dear, Paul refers to an alleged past history of Israel killing
messengers from God. Can you see what’s missing?”
Shauna was catching on to the game more quickly now. “Yes. Paul doesn’t say anything
about the Jews having murdered Jesus! Surely he would have said that, if that’s what they
did!”
“Yes, one would think that killing the Son of God would have been trumpeted as the
culminating atrocity. And look: in these verses—” I pointed to 11:7, 10 and 11. “He says
that God gave the Jews blind eyes and deaf ears, and that they do not see. Here he says that
they ‘stumbled’. One of the other epistles uses the same image. That’s pretty mild language
to encompass the sin of deicide.” I told her about the unique passage in 1 Thessalonians
which modern scholars rejected as a later interpolation.
Shauna let her breath out very slowly. “Does this mean the Gospel picture is totally
false?” The hint of anguish in her voice was like a ripple on the surface of a vast well whose
depths could only be guessed at. She looked at me plaintively. “Did we suffer all this time
for absolutely nothing?”
“I can’t answer that,” I said softly. “Not yet, anyway.”
She looked back at the screen, her mouth a little set. “Show me something else.”

I thought for a moment. I decided it would be best to move to a less emotional issue.
Perhaps I could start dipping into the widespread silence I had encountered about Jesus’
teachings. And I had another idea. I stood up.
“Here, why don’t you sit at the console? I’ll give you directions.”

30

Shauna seemed to like that. She took her new seat with hands poised over the keyboard
as though she were about to unlock a secret vault wherein lay some long-lost key to
salvation.
“Click on the corner arrow.” We were brought back to the title page, where a striking
reproduction from the 8th century Irish illuminated manuscript known as the Book of Kells
was momentarily stationary in the background, an intricate filigree of golds and browns
embroidering the Greek letters used in Christ’s name. We watched it in fascination for a few
moments and then entered the labyrinthine Index.
There were three major branches of the thing. One was a set of Concordances. First the
English text: all the principal words, listed alphabetically, of the translation used by the
Muratorian Project, which I gathered was their own ‘modernized’ King James text,
somewhat like the Revised Standard Version. It leaned toward literalness and simplicity.
Under each word, like a regular Concordance, were listed all the passages in which the word
occurred, but the context given for each occurrence was open-ended; one could range as far
as one liked on either side of the word’s appearance. At the same time, there were
comparisons provided on important passages in four different modern translations. The
other Concordances were those of the original languages: Hebrew for the Old Testament,
Greek for the New.
The second branch was a monumental Topics index, which in many respects operated as
a bible dictionary. When sampling this several days earlier, I had looked up “Spirit” and
found everything from Paul’s conception of the divine Spirit operating in the missionary
movement, to spirit forces inhabiting the celestial spheres, to an examination of the term
used in a variety of contemporary philosophies. These topics, in addition to their own ‘in
house’ discussions, were linked to various biblical texts and to the commentaries.
The third branch, which I had yet to investigate, was a Biographical and Geographical
Encyclopedia.
I directed Shauna to open the Concordance.
“What would you say is Jesus’ most famous saying?”
She thought for a moment. “I don’t know—‘Love your enemies’? ‘Turn the other
cheek’?”
“Let’s try ‘love’.”
We browsed, moving back and forth from the Concordance to the New Testament texts.
Many were the sayings attributed to Jesus in the Gospels which invoked the idea of love.
Matthew 22:34f presented the classic scene wherein Jesus was asked by the Pharisees what
was the greatest commandment. Jesus’ answer had been twofold: Love God and Love Your
Neighbor, the latter quoting the ancient commandment in Leviticus. Mark and Luke
contained similar scenes.
And yet when we encountered similar sentiments in the epistles, the voice of Jesus fell
strangely silent. Paul twice expressed himself exactly as Jesus had done in the Gospels: he
told his readers that the whole Law could be summed up in that double commandment of
love. Yet in these passages, Romans 13:9 and Galatians 5:14, there was not a hint that Paul
knew he was following Jesus’ own instructions. Working from the Concordance, Shauna
called up James 2:8, where the writer told his readers that they did well when they ‘fulfill the
sovereign law laid down in scripture: You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ And yet
‘James’ had not a word to say about Jesus’ championing of this very commandment.

31

“I don’t understand,” she said. “Wouldn’t James want to appeal to Jesus’ teachings to
support what he says? If I were trying to persuade someone to follow my advice, and the
Son of God had said the very same thing, I’d be crazy not to point that out.”
“It’s certainly curious,” I agreed. But that was before we turned to 1 Thessalonians 4:9.
If James had been curious, Paul was downright dumbfounding.
“ ‘For you yourselves have been taught by God to love one another’,” Shauna read.
“How could he say such a thing? You always hear that this is a summary of what Jesus
taught. Didn’t Paul know that?”
I said somewhat sardonically, “At this point, I don’t know what Paul knew.” I elected to
keep going until we had exhausted all the references on love. Surely someone somewhere in
the epistles had attributed such a teaching to Jesus.
The letters 1 and 2 John were full of the love commandment. In most cases, the source
seemed clearly to be God, though occasionally the thought was ambiguous and could have
been referring to Jesus. Scholars frequently argued the point. Yet 2 John 4-6 surely settled
the matter: the command to ‘love one another’ was said to have been received at the
beginning ‘from the Father.’
1 Corinthians 13 was a paean to love, though some thought that this chapter was a later
insertion and not by Paul. But even here there was no mention of Jesus as a teacher on the
subject. A Jewish form of moral instruction called “The Two Ways” formed part of the
Didache and the Epistle of Barnabas, and both spoke sentiments on love similar to the
Gospel teachings, yet neither of the Christian writers who had adapted this material and
included it in their works had chosen to put in any reference to Jesus. We read through the
entire Two Ways passages in both epistles, and while each one was a litany of Christian
ethics, Jesus as a teacher of any of it was nowhere to be found.
Further investigation turned up other no less startling anomalies. 1 Peter 3:9 urged: ‘Do
not return evil for evil, or abuse with abuse; but on the contrary retaliate with blessing...’
“There’s your ‘turn the other cheek’ idea,” I said to Shauna. “So why doesn’t he appeal
to Jesus’ own words?”
“Maybe he doesn’t know about them,” she suggested. “Although that doesn’t seem
likely, does it? Peter surely heard Jesus saying them with his own ears.”
I laughed at her naivete, though it was based on understandable ignorance. “Oh, there
isn’t a chance that the apostle Peter wrote this letter. Or the other one attributed to him,
either. All these epistles with names like John or Jude or James are pseudonymous. They
were written later under the names of famous apostolic figures, or else they had the names
attached to them some time after they were written. Scholars can tell by the writing styles
and various features of their content that they can’t be attributed to their traditional authors.
I don’t think a single one of them is judged these days to be authentic. And where Paul is
concerned, they’ve pretty well settled that Colossians, Ephesians, 2 Thessalonians and the
Pastorals are all later. Of course, Christians weren’t the only ones doing that sort of thing. It
was a common enough practice in the ancient world to write in some famous figure’s name.
Whether such things should be called forgeries is debated. I’m not sure they were really
meant to deceive anybody.”
“Except us,” Shauna said wryly.

32

I laughed. “Well, that certainly was the effect, intended or not. And it was almost
immediate. By the later second century, these ascriptions, including the ones for the
Gospels, were accepted by almost all the church Fathers.”
Investigating various words and ideas led us to many moral maxims and admonitions
voiced in the epistles which had a familiar ring to them. ‘Let us no more judge one another,’
Paul had said in Romans 14. Pseudo-Paul in Ephesians 4:26 urged: ‘If you are angry do not
let anger lead you into sin.’ James 4:10 advised, ‘Humble yourselves before God and he will
exalt you.’ Surely these were echoes of Jesus’ teachings. And yet no one had elected to
identify them as such. It was the writer of James, too, who said to his readers: ‘Listen, my
friends, has not God chosen those who are poor in the eyes of the world to be rich in faith
and to inherit the Kingdom?’ Perplexingly, there was not a glance in the direction of Jesus’
own memorable first Beatitude: ‘Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of
heaven.’
At a line in 1 John which assured believers that ‘We can approach God and obtain from
him whatever we ask,’ Shauna remarked in a perplexed tone: “Even I know that Jesus said
‘Ask and you shall receive.’ It doesn’t make sense that all these writers would never point to
Jesus as the one who gave them these teachings.”
“Maybe everyone already knew he had said them.” It was the best I could come up with,
though I was scarcely convinced of my own suggestion.
“Even so. How much energy does it take to say ‘as Jesus said’? We Jews often quote a
famous rabbi’s saying, but we usually include his name too, even if everyone knows where it
came from. We like to do that; it honors him. Maybe sometimes you don’t bother, but I
can’t believe not a single Christian writer in all these cases ever wanted to honor Jesus as the
source. Besides, it would make the writer’s argument stronger. He’d do it by instinct.”
I had to agree. Presently Shauna expressed curiosity about the subject of the Jewish Law
and Jewish dietary restrictions. How had Jesus felt about these things? From my reading of
Paul thus far, I knew that both were burning issues of his day. Did male gentile converts to
Christianity have to be circumcised? Did all the dietary laws, which said that many foods
were unclean and had to be avoided, still apply to Christian believers? According to the
Gospels, Jesus had definite pronouncements to make on both these key questions. Had Paul
appealed to the Lord’s own views in the debates he engaged in through his letters?
In a long discussion in Romans 14 dealing with quarrels in Christian communities over
what foods could be eaten, Paul had written: ‘I know and am convinced, as a man in Christ,
that nothing is impure in itself.’ Nothing was said about Jesus’ own view. And yet the
scene in Mark 7 clearly had Jesus declaring ‘all foods clean.’ He had accused the Pharisees
of hypocrisy and told the people: ‘Nothing that goes into a man from outside can defile him.’
Shauna observed that it would have been impossible for Paul to have known of such a
tradition and left it unsaid. We soon found that similar discussions about dietary restrictions
in 1 Timothy and the Epistle of Barnabas, both as late as the early second century, also failed
to draw on Jesus’ pronouncements.
Jesus’ Gospel view about the Law as a whole created a similarly perplexing picture. In
Matthew’s Sermon on the Mount, Jesus was adamant that the Law had to be upheld:

‘Think not that I have come to abolish the Law and the prophets; I have come not to
abolish them but to fulfill them. For truly I say to you, till heaven and earth pass away,

33

not an iota, not a dot, will pass from the Law until all is accomplished.’

And yet Paul had challenged the Law right and left. He believed it had been superceded.
Observance of it was no longer required for salvation—only faith, faith in Christ Jesus,
available to Jew and gentile alike. In Galatians 2 he lambasted Peter for refusing to eat with
gentiles in common table fellowship. He rejected the necessity of circumcision for converts
to Christ. For him, as he said in Galatians 3:23, mankind had been a pupil or even a prisoner
in the custody of the Law until faith in Christ came, and now the Law had been abolished.
Shauna protested. “How could he possibly have preached such a thing in view of Jesus’
own words that not a dot of the Law could be abandoned? Didn’t anyone tell him?”
“Actually, you have a very good point. It seems impossible to believe that the other
apostles would have neglected to let Paul know about this little detail, especially since it was
a point of contention between them. But even more impossible is that his enemies among
the apostles out in the missionary field wouldn’t have thrown it in his face.”
“Paul had enemies among the apostles?”
“Yes, although they don’t seem to have been from Peter’s group. Some of these other
apostles wanted to stick to the letter of the Law. You can be sure if Jesus had said such a
thing, they would have known it, and they would have used such words to condemn Paul for
his disparagement of the Law. Yet Paul never seems to deal with any such challenge.”
“Does that mean Matthew made up Jesus’ words? Maybe it’s what he wanted to believe.
Maybe he believed in maintaining the sanctity of the Law and invented a saying for Jesus
which agreed with him.”
“That’s certainly possible. But if Matthew could simply invent words by Jesus on an
issue as important as this, it’s going to be difficult to trust him on anything he puts into
Jesus’ mouth—or any of the other evangelists.”
Shauna considered for a moment. “But surely some of their words have to be accurate.
They have to be right that Jesus taught something.”
“Do they? Have we found a single reference in the New Testament epistles to the fact
that Jesus taught such-and-such? For that matter, have we found anything saying that Jesus
taught at all? Remember Romans 10, where Paul couldn’t even tell us that the Jews had
rejected Jesus’ own preaching.”
Shauna still looked skeptical. “There must be something somewhere.”
As if to answer her challenge, a few minutes later these words of Paul in 1 Corinthians
7:10-11 appeared on the screen:

‘To the married I give this ruling, not I but the Lord, that the wife should not separate
from her husband...and that the husband should not divorce his wife.’

A footnote compared this to a similar saying in Mark 10:11-12, though the Gospel
wording was quite different and introduced the idea of adultery, which Paul had not. But the
really informative comment attached to this passage was something else. The footnote read:
‘In addition to the many ‘echoes’ of Jesus’ sayings which scholars have detected in Paul,
there are four occasions when Paul declares he has received instructions or information from
the Lord himself. New Testament commentators call these citations ‘words of the Lord’.’

34

Of the other three, one was a declaration a few chapters later that ‘the Lord commanded
that those who proclaim the gospel should get their living by the gospel.’ Another was a
prophecy in 1 Thessalonians 4 about what would happen on the day the Lord arrived from
heaven, while the last concerned the ‘Lord’s Supper’ in 1 Corinthians 11:23f when Jesus
spoke the words over the bread and wine, a scene I had already earmarked for closer study.
The footnote went on to say that, while there was some debate on the matter, scholars had
generally concluded that in all but the Supper scene, Paul was not quoting sayings of Jesus
from his ministry. Rather, he was engaged in a practice common throughout early Christian
preaching. Paul and his fellow charismatic missionaries of the Christ were relaying
directives and revelations which they believed they had received directly from heaven,
through inspiration, through visions and interpreting glossalalia (speaking in tongues), or
simply through a study of scripture. A quote from the late American scholar Norman Perrin
went so far as to admit that many of the sayings in the Gospels were originally of this nature,
only later to be placed in Jesus’ mouth by the evangelists, and that few of the Gospel sayings
could be relied on to be historical. Others admitted that Paul had no sense of Jesus as an
ethical teacher, but saw himself as the mouthpiece for a Christ in heaven who operated on
earth in the present time of faith, through God’s Spirit.
The footnote pointed to a couple of passages by way of illustration. One of these was 1
Corinthians 14:36-38:

‘Did the word of God originate with you? Are you the only ones it has reached? If
anyone thinks that he is a prophet, or spiritual, he should acknowledge that what I am
writing is also done by the Lord’s word.”

There was certainly little sense here of a missionary movement impelled by traditions
about the teachings of Jesus. Paul’s world seemed to be one of inspiration and revelation
directly from God—and a competitive one at that. Once again, the atmosphere created by
the early documents, by the voices of those who had been the heart and soul of the apostolic
generation, was curiously out of sync with the picture crafted by the later evangelists. And
how much later was yet to be determined.

It was getting on toward midnight and we logged off the Web. I could see that the
research for this book was going to cost me a bundle in Internet time charges. Shauna and I
left the study and took up our usual semi-reclining position on the living room couch, a well-
worn but comfortable item which served as the centerpiece of a not too coordinated decor.
Shauna always said that since I lived so much in the past, my tastes for the present were
somewhat undiscriminating.
It was late. But after our session before the cold, unforgiving computer screen with its
impenetrable secrets, we both needed a more satisfying physical contact. The frustrations of
that session, however, precluded any activity but talk. If anything, Shauna felt even more
bewildered than I did.
“I don’t think you can understand what it’s like to live in the shadow of this great
looming monolith that Christianity has been for 2000 years, especially when we’ve suffered

35

so much at its hands. I know that’s mostly behind us today, but it wasn’t really so long ago.
My father had a few stories to tell of his experiences even in this country.”
“And you’ve got long memories,” I said gently.
“We had to. It’s often the only thing that kept us going. Although I personally don’t
choose to dwell on those things. I’m quite happy with who I am today. But the thing about
Christianity is that it’s always been so secure and self-righteous in its certitude—this great
power it possessed. Always the figure of Jesus towering over everything, like a personal
blessing on everything Christians ever did. With Jesus standing over their shoulder,
Christianity was a force we just couldn’t escape. Now all of it seems so...mercurial.
Everybody seems to be questioning everything, denying things Christians used to be so
certain of. You’ve been looking closely at the record, and nothing seems to gel. It’s like the
traditional figure of Jesus is evaporating into the mist and nobody can see what’s really
there.”
“That reminds me of a passage from one of Fisher’s novels, but I won’t look it up
tonight.”
Shauna said thoughtfully, “You know, the only time I visited Israel I was rather young,
and it was around Passover. I never practiced religion much, as you know, but with Jews it’s
also a feeling of community, of taking part in things that go back so far and give you a clear
sense of belonging and identity. But in Jerusalem at that time it seemed we were being
inundated by Christian visitors for Easter. It was right after the ‘67 war, when all of the city
had become ours. Even in our own capital, in a new country which had given us so much
pride and strength, we couldn’t get away from Christian presumptions. Even the sites in our
own ancient city were being claimed as the foundations of Christian truth.”
“And yet Jesus was a Jew,” I reminded her. “Christianity grew out of Judaism.”
“Yes, I know that’s what they always say. But, you know, even though I don’t know
much about these things, I can instinctively grasp that that’s not really right. I’m prepared to
admit that Jesus himself wasn’t the one responsible, but things got out of hand and what
came out of it was definitely not Jewish.”
“Well, I told you not so long ago that Greek ideas and precedents had as much to do with
what Christianity became as anything Jewish. I think I’m going to have to start investigating
in that direction very soon. My novel may be taking on dimensions I hadn’t anticipated.”
My old clock over the fireplace—the latter left cold now that winter was almost over—
struck twelve. I thought of pumpkins and overstayed welcomes, of obsolete ideas that
needed putting to rest.
As yet, Shauna showed no sign of wanting to leave. We snuggled closer and I said: “You
were talking about Christian pilgrimages to Jerusalem. That’s another thing which is
curiously absent from the New Testament epistles. Nobody ever goes there to visit the place
where Jesus died. They never talk about Calvary, or even about the tomb where he was
supposed to have risen from the dead. I couldn’t find a single reference to any spot in
Galilee or Jerusalem which anyone associated with Jesus. There don’t seem to be any holy
places at all.”
“That’s certainly odd. Jesus had to have died somewhere. You’d think such a place
would have been turned into a shrine.”
“You’d think so. Paul is always talking about Jesus’ death. In Philippians he says
something like, ‘All I care about is knowing Christ, and sharing in his sufferings and

36

absorbing the power of his death and resurrection.’ When I read that, I had this image of
Paul running to Calvary and embracing the ground where Christ had died, soaking up the
power of his blood and sacrifice. Paul was a very mystical man, and emotional too. And yet
in Galatians he says that after his conversion he didn’t go near Jerusalem for three years, and
then he says that all he did there was get to know Peter. He stayed for only two weeks and
didn’t see any of the other apostles except James. Then he went off and didn’t return there
for another 14 years! So when did he visit Calvary—the very site of the world’s salvation?
Are we supposed to think he had no interest in the place? He doesn’t bring it up once.”
“Maybe he did go, but didn’t mention it.”
“That’s extremely difficult to believe. Paul is always sharing personal emotions and
experiences with his readers. It’s impossible to think that he went to Calvary and just never
bothered to say so. That would have been an experience he would carry for the rest of his
life. It should have come up at least some of the times he talked about the cross.”
“But if he talks about the cross, he must have the place in mind where that cross stood.”
“So why doesn’t he ever put it into words? Why would he never want to go there? And
what about the tomb? Paul is always talking about Jesus’ resurrection. He looks forward to
his own. He keeps assuring his readers that they will enjoy one, too. There’s a line in
Romans that says we shall all share in Christ’s resurrection. Do you mean to tell me he
never wanted to visit the tomb itself and see where this marvellous event happened? To
strengthen his conviction that resurrection was indeed the Christian promise? Wouldn’t he
talk about such an experience in his letters, his preaching?”
Shauna had no comment.
“And it’s not only Paul. None of them do. No epistle writer ever expresses the slightest
desire to visit such places. Not Bethlehem where Jesus was born, or Nazareth where he
grew up, or the places where he preached and worked miracles in Galilee. Paul seems to
make an allusion to the Passover Supper, but he never goes there; he never visits the upper
room where Jesus celebrated this sacrifical meal before he died. Nor does he ever go to
Gethsemane, or even talk about it. That should have been a spot dear to Paul’s heart: Jesus
racked by fears and doubts, facing death and seeking strength from God. That was a carbon
copy of how Paul himself felt. He should have been drawn to the place like a magnet!
“When you think about it, all these places should have been irresistible to every early
Christian. There isn’t a word anywhere about people coming from other centers to visit the
scenes of Jesus’ life. No one wants to walk the ground he walked on, or handle the things he
touched. Where are his clothes, his household utensils? He had to live somewhere, he had
to eat and do the things we all do. There should have been a thousand relics circulating.
Surely someone somewhere would have mentioned them.”
“What about pieces of the cross, or the shroud? I’ve heard of them.”
“Forgeries, more than likely. But the point is, they’re all later. No one mentions those
kinds of things for at least a couple of hundred years. Where were they in the earlier
period?”
From the touch of frustration in Shauna’s voice one would think I had been loosening the
ground under a believer’s feet. “But the Gospels had to be based on something. Paul’s Jesus
died somewhere, didn’t he? Have all those early Christians drifted off into some mystical
world and taken Jesus with them?”

37

“You might not be too far from the truth.” I remembered Paul’s comment that it was the
demon spirits who had crucified Jesus. But it was too late in the night to get into that.
“I’m beginning to hate this,” Shauna said with sudden, surprising vehemence. “So much
for your precious history. If it’s so shaky, how can we learn anything from it? How can we
know anything about it? We Jews are fixated on our own history. Is it just as shaky, too? I
don’t want to embody so much of my identity in things that happened centuries or millennia
ago. I don’t really care if we came out of Egypt, or who won some ancient battle. I want my
identity to be based on what I am as a person now, in this body and this time. Why does
everyone make such a big deal out of the past? Don’t they like living in the present? Don’t
they like to make their judgments on what we can discover and do right now? I’m tired of
being buried in old books. I’m tired of being read words somebody wrote ages and ages ago,
somebody who never lived in my own time and couldn’t have had any idea of what it would
be like. I’m tired of being told we have to do or be such-and-such because some hoary old
words by some ancient mind are written down somewhere. I’ve got a mind of my own and
I’m quite capable of using it, thank you very much.”
She sat up and gestured angrily, apparently in the direction of the past. “And now we
look back into history and find out it’s nothing but a phantom. Everyone’s invested so much
in it and it all collapses like a house of cards. Jesus never rose from the dead. Maybe we
don’t even know where or how he died. Maybe Jews never celebrated a first Passover in
Egypt. Maybe it’s all just a bunch of stories. When are we going to grow up and let it all
go?”
She softened and looked apologetic. “I’m sorry. I know you’re so fascinated with the
past and you’ve built your life’s work around it. But we can’t go there. It doesn’t exist any
more. And maybe it’s doing us more harm than good to think that we can keep it alive.”
I looked at her, startled and a little humbled.
“It’s true that the human instinct has always been to tie ourselves to the past,” I said.
“Myth is all about feeling that our very lifeline is tied to some sacred time and event. Not
just in terms of identity, but as a kind of mystical force that literally keeps us alive—a tie to
some symbolic womb. But we’ve been losing that, and losing it is a part of the process of
growing up. Maybe we’re reaching adulthood and finally cutting the umbilical cord.
Modern Christian research just wouldn’t have been possible twenty-five years ago. We
wouldn’t have had the courage to cut the lifeline. And now we’re going through a struggle
with those who still can’t summon the courage. But the thing is being cut, and we can’t
reattach it.
“I guess I do have a fascination with the past, but the main reason is so that I can
understand the world and where it’s coming from. I’m not afraid of what I might find out,
and if it means I have to reevaluate everything and even revise my own identity, so be it.
But I want to know the reality of the thing, not its mythical embodiment. I think I’ll be
much richer and wiser for it.”
“Those are very worthy sentiments,” Shauna said in mollification. “I just wish there were
some way to cut the lifeline without having most people drown before they get to the ‘richer
and wiser’ part. But I don’t want you to think I’m not interested in your project. I’m really
quite fascinated. Especially since I’m beginning to wonder how you’re going to handle it.”
“You’re not the only one.”

38

She snuggled back against me. “I’ll even come over any time you like and help you push
some more buttons.”

*****************************

Chapter Five

It had not been my intention to contact David any time soon, but the next morning he
called from his office at the University and extended an invitation I couldn’t refuse. Things
were coming together faster than he had anticipated, he said. Their fledgling campaign to
promote rationality and secularism was to be given a modest birthing ceremony that
Saturday evening at the country house of a newly-committed supporter, a wealthy gentleman
I had only vaguely heard of. David referred to him wryly as a “philanthropist who dabbled
in offbeat causes.” My expression must have gone out over the phone line, for he hastened
to modify his flippant introduction to Burton Patterson.
“Actually, he made a fair name for himself in his younger days as a trial lawyer,
specializing in civil rights cases. Then he got into the money business and switched to
supporting such issues from outside the courtroom. Somebody put him on to me only last
week and I had my first meeting with him the day after I saw you. It’s been a flurry ever
since. The group has actually decided on a focus issue—or two—and even a rough plan of
action. We’re going to make a formal announcement on Saturday.”
“You mean to the media?” I asked, a little surprised.
“Oh, no—although we’ve invited a columnist from the Times we hope may give us some
favorable coverage down the road. No, this is really an ‘in house’ thing. A bit of self-
indulgence on our part to get things formally under way. And it’s something to get Patterson
officially on board. There’ll be about four dozen of us there, mostly from this area of the
country, though there’s a couple coming in from the west coast.”
I had misgivings on one score. “If you don’t mind me asking, why are you inviting me to
be a part of this select company?”
I may only have imagined the hesitation. “Well, part of it is sentimental. I still remember
us jawing away far into the night in our younger days about issues like religion and
rationality and where the world was going. I still think you’ve got a creative mind and you
don’t deal with academics every day, so you might bring a broader view to things. Let’s just
say that studying history and writing novels is a promising combination.”
After a promo like that, I wouldn’t have been likely to refuse, but I pretended to accept on
one condition. “If you’ll give me a few minutes of your time to discuss some questions on
ancient philosophy. I can use some help in my Jesus research.”
David said he would go one better and forewarn a female colleague who would be at the
Saturday gathering, a specialist in the philosophy and civilization of the ancient world,
something that was not really his own forte. That clinched it for me and I promised to
attend—that and the fact that I was invited to bring along a companion. I had been feeling
guilty of late at my lack of imagination in outings with Shauna. My creativity seemed to
extend only to my work.

39

The coming event gave the next three days of my research a carefully selective focus. I
needed to give myself a crash course in certain aspects of ancient world religious thinking.
One of the things which had struck me in my reading thus far was the sense of puzzlement
many felt concerning a central feature in the early development of Christianity. There were
few scholars anywhere who had not addressed the question of the amazing transformation
which Jesus underwent so soon after his death. It is one thing for followers to see divinity in
a respected master, or to lionize him in such a direction after his passing. It’s another to
deify him on the scale to which Jesus was ensconsed in heaven at the very right hand of the
Father, especially after his mission on earth had ended in such apparently ignominious
failure.
One book I consulted, Paul and Jesus, put it this way:
‘No one who examines the Gospels...and then reads the epistles of Paul can escape the
impression that he is moving in two entirely different spheres....When Paul writes of Jesus as
the Christ, historical and human traits appear to be obscure, and Christ appears to have
significance only as a transcendent divine being.’ On the next page the author, Herman
Ridderbos, went on to ask: ‘Jesus was not dead the length of a human lifetime before his
stature was not only infinitely increased, but also entirely changed. How did this come
about?’
This infinite increase in stature was usually referred to as the “mythologizing” of Jesus,
the practice of investing him with features which belonged exclusively to deities in the
spiritual realm. Several asked the question why Jesus of Nazareth, an historical person,
would have been portrayed entirely in mythological terms.
One feature, for example, was the idea that Jesus had been pre-existent. That is, he had
been with God in heaven before his life on earth; in fact, he had been with God from the
very beginning, sharing in part of God’s nature, before the world had been created. The
passage beginning in Colossians 1:15 called Jesus ‘the image of the invisible God, born
before all creation, (in whom) the complete being of the Godhead dwelled.’ Many were the
scholars who had expressed astonishment that any Jew, let alone a whole movement of
them, could have raised a fellow Jew to such a lofty position beside their ancestral God, that
they could have called him the ‘Son of God’ in a literal sense.
Jesus had also been given a role in creation. The same passage in Colossians declared
that in Jesus ‘everything in heaven and on earth was created, and all things are held together
in him.’ In Hebrews, the Son was said to sustain the universe ‘by his word of power’. One
had to wonder at the capability of the mind of the first century to turn a humble Jewish
preacher into the principle of cosmic coherence!
Paul, in 1 Corinthians 8:6, had styled Jesus a figure ‘through whom all things came to be
and we through him.’ Certain liturgical hymns quoted by Paul and others had cast Jesus as a
divinity descending from the realm of God through the layers of heaven, communing with
angels and subjugating the demon spirits who inhabited the lower celestial spheres.
But what scholars focused on most, and with the greatest perplexity, was the fact that all
the divine titles for God were applied virtually immediately to someone who had been, in the
public perception, a crucified criminal. Even the most ancient and sacred title for God,
‘Lord’, had been applied to Jesus by Paul and others without the slightest discomfort. How
could such an elevation have been effected so soon, and within a milieu that would have

40

made it virtually unthinkable? I thought of Shauna’s comment—her instinct, really—that


there was something very un-Jewish about Christianity. And yet, most of the early
Christians were Jews. Christianity, to judge by the record, had originated in the very heart of
Israel, out of the experiences of ordinary Jews in Jerusalem. How could such Jews have
created something which would have astonished—indeed, horrified—their monotheistic
brethren everywhere; something which ran so counter to the longstanding obsession of the
Jewish mind to keep separate all things divine from all things human? The Jewish God
could not be represented by even the suggestion of a human image. A whole society had
literally bared its neck before Pilate’s swords to protest against Roman standards, which bore
human images, being mounted upon the fortress wall overlooking the Temple. Perhaps an
even greater dimension to the mystery: how did the first Jewish Christians achieve such
explosive success in spreading this unorthodox creation to virtually all corners of the empire
within a handful of years?
Such an elevation of a human man was, to my knowledge, unprecedented anywhere, at
any time. There had to be some explanation for the phenomenon on this occasion, and I
refused to believe that it lay in an actual resurrection in flesh as the Gospels portrayed it. I
was in good company, for the progressive Christian scholars who postulated this deification
didn’t believe in such an event either. Their reasoning, however, that after the execution of
Jesus, the disciples ran to the scriptures and ransacked them for passages which could
illuminate the ‘meaning’ of what they had witnessed in the ministry and death of their
master, reading into such things his cosmic deification, did not have the ring of reality to it.
In any case, they would have had to consult a far wider range of sources, for much of what
was made of Jesus smacked of broader ancient world mythology and philosophy. Who
would have done all this, and why?
And what of the accompanying “loss of interest” (the usual scholarly rationalization) in
the life and human features of the very man they had just elevated, as witnessed by the total
silence about that human life in all the early epistles? The two aspects of this puzzle did not
appear logically compatible. If one elevated a man to Godhead, why would one lose all
interest in his human life? Surely that life would undergo the closest examination, to
illustrate and celebrate that divinity. The presence of the very Son of God on earth, living
and teaching and performing miracles among men and women, many of whom still lived
during Paul’s time and would have possessed vivid, compelling memories of him: this
would surely have resulted in the prizing and revering of that divine life in humanity’s midst,
not its relegation to some forgotten closet for close to a century.
No explanation for this bizarre development seemed possible. Besides, turning a man
into God would have been so unprecedented, so blasphemous to the Jewish mind, that
Christians would have found themselves engaged in a continual defence of the doctrine,
requiring constant focus on the human man. No, some element had to be missing from this
baffling picture.

I spoke to Shauna that evening and relayed David’s invitation. She seemed genuinely
excited at the prospect though, as always, brought her own irrepressible wit to the moment.
“I hope you told him that I probably don’t meet his rationality requirements. After all, I
know very little about philosophy prior to John Lennon, and I have occasionally been known
to avoid walking under ladders. I’m likely to blurt out something completely inappropriate.”

41

“In that case, I’d better bring my muzzle. I don’t want you to embarrass me in front of
that distinguished company.” Actually, Shauna usually shone on such occasions. She could
be quite voluble in social settings, and her pragmatic opinions were often delivered with
subtle acuity. One of the ties that bound me to her was that she could be endlessly
fascinating in an understated way.
But two more days of steady reading were to intervene before the occasion itself. I had
occasionally tackled the subject of ancient religion when researching previous novels, but
never in such depth and not for the time of Jesus. By the first century CE, Greek philosophy
had left behind the literal acceptance of the Olympian mythology of gods and goddesses and
was now focusing on a deeper religious quest: understanding the nature of the ultimate high
God and how humans related to this Deity and the divine realm he inhabited. Formulating a
system of ethics was also of primary concern.
These were the developments of the Hellenistic age, after Alexander had turned the
eastern Mediterranean world upside down and established an uneasy mix of Greek and older
conquered cultures. The times had been destabilized. War was frequent among the several
kingdoms which emerged from the breakup of Alexander’s short-lived empire, until Rome
rolled over most of them in the first century BCE and imposed its own brand of absolute
rule. There was much pessimism in many circles and the destruction of old ways of faith
and collective state religion. Instead, ‘salvation’ of the individual became the new
preoccupation, the new buzzword. And it was a salvation from the world. The flight of the
mystic became the religious yearning of the age: ‘To leave this earth, to fly to heaven, to be
like unto the Gods and partake of their bliss.’
The Olympian myths were now regarded as only primitive reflections of the true reality.
The ultimate God was an absolute being, the highest form of spiritual existence, pure mind.
In ways which varied from philosophic school to school, he had caused the universe to be
created. To some, he was a principle operating within the world, virtually abstract; to others
he lay entirely outside it, completely transcendent.
But a transcendent God didn’t do the world much good if he couldn’t have contact with
it. If he became so lofty and perfect—as the philosophers had increasingly made him—
unable to approach the inferior world of matter, he needed a subordinate, a deputy, an
ambassador to fill that role. But in a monotheistic setting, this intermediary figure had to be
a part of the ultimate God himself, an emanation from him. He became part of the
“workings” of Deity, part of the construction of the spiritual world. In some parlance, he
became a Son.
For this role of intermediary, the Greeks created the “Logos”, an abstract divine force
operating on and in the world. The Logos was a widespread concept among the Greek
philosophies, variously interpreted. It would seem that part of the interpretation of Jesus had
been along the lines of the Greek Logos, an intermediary force between God and humanity.
The Gospel of John, in its stirring Prologue, cast Jesus as the Logos made flesh, and some
scholars said that Paul’s Jesus was the Logos without the name—and more personalised.
The Jewish philosopher Philo of Alexandria preceded Paul and had a Logos as an integral
part of his hybrid mix of Jewish and Greek philosophy. In him, there seemed to be echoes of
Christ before Christ.
Yet I had to ask myself why disciples of Jesus would ever get the idea that their master
was the embodiment of the Logos, an abstract force and an essentially foreign concept. And

42

why would anyone have responded to such a bizarre message? The question of who had
actually come up with this interpretation also loomed large, for the simple fishermen
apostles of the Gospels hardly seemed likely candidates. Was it Paul’s doing? He would
surely have come into conflict with the simpler views of Jesus among the Jerusalem group,
yet there wasn’t a hint of any clash with them over the fundamental nature of Jesus.
If the question of casting Jesus in the mold of the Greek Logos was an unlikely and
puzzling development, perhaps another way of interpreting him lay closer to home. Scholars
had long pointed out that Jesus was viewed by some early Christians as the embodiment of
Judaism’s own version of the Logos, a figure known as personified Wisdom. Wisdom was a
she (since the word in Hebrew was feminine), and was first developed as a poetic
personification of the divine word, the voice of God communicating with the world through
scripture and the prophets. This knowledge of God was “wisdom” to the Jews, and it became
an aspect of the Deity.
Among Jewish scribes in the centuries after the return from Babylon, Wisdom took on the
nature of a distinct entity, a separate divine being who was seen as an emanation of God.
The Jewish wisdom teachers portrayed her in Old Testament books like Proverbs and
Ecclesiasticus as coming to earth—though not in any physical incarnation—calling men and
women and inviting them to knowledge of God. She became a frequent figure in Jewish
writings outside the bible as well. For certain Jews to conceive that Jesus was Wisdom
come to earth in the flesh was perhaps not inconceivable, though the sex change seemed
problematic. On the other hand, no Jewish sect of the time could ever have made a woman
into God.
Perhaps on some of these questions I could sound out the specialist David had spoken of
who would be attending the Saturday launch of—what? I realized I had forgotten to ask him
what the group had decided to call itself. It had surely settled on a name if it was ready to
emerge from the womb. No doubt the baptismal ceremony would be a part of the
proceedings.

Shauna and I arrived at the country estate of Burton Patterson about four in the afternoon
of the first Saturday in April. The place lay some 15 miles outside the city, and off the
beaten highway. The setting was impressive amid low, newly-greening hills, but something
about the placement of the main house said that its designer was in love with light. Tall
pines on one side of the structure gave an area of shade to one of the terraces, but the
towering trees seemed principally to serve as an architectural device, creating a skyline from
the vantage point of the long driveway which pulled the viewer up into the stratosphere and
drowned him in a sun-drenched blue. Elsewhere, the structure gleamed and sparkled, even
in this late afternoon, and all its surfaces seemed designed to catch the light of any hour and
season.
A valet whisked my car off to some hidden parking area and we approached the front
entrance. The doors stood open. An attendant flanked one side, checking names against a
guest list. Inside the doorway, skylights which were not evident from the driveway allowed
streams of light to illuminate a foyer of subtle colors and adornments. Light obviously had
some special significance for Burton Patterson.

43

We were directed to a large reception room, already crowded, on one side of the house—
or manor, as Shauna later chose to call it. Nothing I was to see that day could be labelled
overtly ostentatious, but this was obviously a man of considerable wealth and taste to match.
As we were handed cocktails I hastened to remind Shauna that Burton Patterson was said to
contribute a significant amount of his wealth to worthy causes.
“And he made all this from civil rights litigation?”
“Oh, no.” I had neglected to recount everything David had told me. “That was before he
got into making money—at what, I have no idea.”
There were perhaps three dozen people in the room. Glass doors on the far side led into
some inner court, again with light gaining access from above, though at this time of day and
in early spring the effect was subdued. Strains of Vivaldi drifted in from somewhere,
possibly the courtyard itself. I felt the composer of choice was no accident. Vivaldi had
always impressed me as full of light.
Shauna and I were shamelessly eyeing the surroundings, and so we didn’t notice David
until he stood at my elbow.
“Don’t let this place throw you,” he said in an almost apologetic tone. “I haven’t sold my
soul. Burton actually sought us out. We found we had a lot in common—except this, of
course.” He gestured wryly around the premises.
“You mean you couldn’t afford this on a philosophy professor’s salary?”
“No, but philosophy has its own rewards, my dear boy.”
“Yes, I understand mountain tops are going pretty cheap, these days.” David and I used
to have a habit of indulging in chains of repartee, not all of it clever, but at this point I
realized I was a whisker away from a gaucherie I might not have lived down for the duration
of the evening. My haste was just perceptible as I turned to Shauna and made introductions.
David seemed quite prepared to find Shauna engaging, and he hovered a little closer to
her than to me as we were led about the room and introduced to some of the other guests.
Most were in couples. All of them had an academic look. I did not yet fully comprehend
what ambitions he had for his little enterprise, but if he had any hope of creating a popular
movement, or of appealing to popular tastes (could one create a popular taste for rationality?
I wondered), he was going to have to broaden his image. However, one had to start
somewhere, and this was his milieu.
Shauna and I had a little game we played in situations like this. Perhaps I should have
said that the game was really hers: she had all the moves. Whenever we were introduced in
strange gatherings and I was identified as the novelist Kevin Quinter, if anyone claimed that
they had read one of my books, I was given a surreptitious nudge; if the actual title was
produced it became a real poke. If the other guest gave no sign of ever having heard of me,
Shauna very gently cleared her throat or gave a just audible sigh. She always informed me
of the tally at the end of the evening in case I had lost count.
It was two sighs to nothing by the time David introduced us to one of his colleagues at the
University, a science professor of some sort. The man struck me as one who would certainly
not put up with irrational theories in any of his classes. On being told my name and
occupation, he narrowed his eyes and ruminated, “Quinter...Quinter... Didn’t you write The
Pharoah’s Chronicler? I seem to recall it was a good novel. I like a lot of that ancient stuff.
Good escapism, but very evocative and thought-provoking at the same time.”

44

As I thanked him I was aware that Shauna was standing almost on the other side of David
and would have had to reach across him to deliver her poke. My mind knew she wasn’t
likely to do it, but my body gave a little sideways twitch just out of habit. I hoped that would
satisfy her.
It was perhaps 15 minutes and a few mini-conversations before we reached the host. He
was standing in a knot of five or six people, including two striking women, and I had been
occasionally glancing about to see if I could spot a likely candidate for the role of
philanthropist and owner of these fair premises. When I was finally brought before him I
was taken aback, for he was considerably younger than I had envisioned him, probably
around my own age. He was a tall man, just over six feet, somewhat lean of limb, with a
head of light brown hair that was almost unruly. His face was full, sporting a square jaw that
could not have made it other than handsome, but his nose, though it dropped solid and
straight from top to tip, was angled a little to one side. This gave him a noticeably different
countenance depending on one’s angle of view.
For some reason David, in introducing Shauna and myself to Burton Patterson, referred to
me only as a “writer” rather than his usual term of “novelist”. This might have led to a
question seeking elucidation, but instead Patterson said somewhat expansively, “Ah, our
chronicler of great events.” It registered on me that this was an intriguing piece of
ambiguity. It could be a capsule description of my actual profession, for historical novelists
usually did just that in their own way. On the other hand, he could well have had something
else in mind, a more immediate role for someone with writing talents. Perhaps his wasn’t
the only mind present with the same thought.
But I had no time to work out deeper meanings, and in my haste to fill the gap in a
growing silence, I blurted out: “Your house is quite striking. You seem to have a thing
about light.”
Patterson turned fully toward Shauna and me, or perhaps it was the dramatic nose that
faced Shauna while I had a more plebeian view.
“Yes, I relish the light. We need to seek it out wherever we can, and nurture it. There are
too many who would block the sun and deliver us all to darkness.” Somehow, off
Patterson’s lips the pronouncement was not at all pompous, and I reminded myself that he
had been a trial lawyer, championing, of course, only the worthiest of causes. Besides,
everyone listening would have accepted the sentiment as a pithy comment on the purpose of
the gathering. I almost congratulated myself on having set it up for him.
But I had no time to do so, for Shauna unexpectedly interjected: “Wasn’t it Diogenes the
Cynic who asked Alexander the Great to step aside, since he was blocking the light?”
Patterson turned the full force of a powerful smile on her. “Yes, it was. Alexander had
offered to give the testy old philosopher anything he desired when he encountered him
sitting by the side of the road. Diogenes chose not to have his light cut off.”
Shauna gave the briefest of glances about her and remarked ingenuously, “Of course, that
was all he wanted.”
Inwardly I gave a groan. I knew Shauna well enough to realize she was just being her
usual gadfly self, someone who couldn’t stand to see anyone take themselves too seriously.
She could never resist a clever dig when the opportunity presented itself. But I wondered
how others would interpret her not so subtle allusion.

45

I didn’t dare look at David, but Patterson himself showed no sign of taking offense, and
he didn’t miss a beat. With a laugh that acknowledged the ‘touché’, he said: “The problem
is, dear Lady, no one these days would listen much to a grubby old Cynic who lived in an
earthenware tub and scowled at everyone who passed by. We expect our wise men and
women to achieve a certain degree of success. And modesty is only a sign of insecurity.”
He was giving Shauna a look I recognized, for I’d seen it more than once. Shauna with
her sharp wit and engaging spirit could be intensely attractive to some men. When one
added the sparkle in two slightly but intriguingly mismatched eyes, I was convinced that
Burton Patterson was on the verge of taking a tumble.
Before I could do or say anything foolish, David diverted the attention of the room by
announcing: “All right, ladies and gentlemen, I think it’s time we got these proceedings
under way.”

There was an unobtrusive dais emerging from one corner of the room. It might have been
used for a small band on occasions when dancing was on the menu, but here a microphone
had been set up. David took his stand behind it and looked out over almost fifty faces.
These were of various ages, more male than female, but they all seemed subtly compatible.
The atmosphere was easy and animated.
“Most of you know why we’re here today. What I’ve been proposing and what many of
us have been working on over the last few months may seem ambitious or even
presumptuous. Some might call it foolhardy. But I don’t think any of us in our profession
have not been dismayed at some time or other by the many manifestations of irrationality in
the world around us. Our society prides itself on its science, its technology. Everyone reaps
the benefits of applied rationality—indeed, we couldn’t live without it. But somehow our
personal beliefs have not always kept pace. Today we live in a strange melange of scientific
and pre-scientific mindsets, of reasonable and unreasonable tenets. The same mentality that
can perform mathematical calculations and understand how computers and cameras and
space shuttles work may also believe in angels and alien abductions, or that the earth is only
6000 years old. The problem is that irrationality can be like a virus; it infects the healthier
tissue and may even jeopardize its survival. We’ve all seen that in the classroom, and we
see it in the technological workforce which is regularly compromised by certain forms of
scientific illiteracy and superstition.
“The other problem is that so many of these irrational expressions are tied up with
religion, and religion as you know is not just dogmatic, it is backed by forces which are often
systematically attempting to impose their dogmatism on society as a whole. And the further
we move toward secularism and scientific rationality—and we are doing just that, make no
mistake about it—the harder these forces fight to buck the trend.
“Where are we headed? I honestly don’t know. We all like to think that progress moves
linearly, that despite temporary setbacks or delays, the development of reason and science
and humanistic philosophies moves forward, that there is no going back. But of that we
have no guarantees, as history has shown us time and again, and I guess what I’ve been
proposing is that we try to do something to ensure that the progress will continue. We need
to start today to work for and reach an ‘Age of Reason’.”

46

David had slowed down on his last sentence and now I realized that he was letting those
final three words hang in the air. I knew before he told us that this was to be the name of the
new enterprise.
“Age of Reason. In many respects, of course, we have already reached it. In many
respects we’ve been there for some time. But my own experience in the classroom, and it’s
supported by many I’ve spoken to, leads me to think we may be slipping. And so our focus
group has decided that we should direct our energies, to begin with, on two key areas.
“One, not unnaturally, is the field of education. We need to ensure that the younger
generation will indeed reach an Age of Reason in their own lives and their own thinking.
Conservative forces have been gaining too much influence in education, especially at the
High School level. Censorship is rampant and science is being castrated by opposition to
certain subjects, especially the teaching of evolution. Since the theory of evolution is one of
the cornerstones of modern science and affects so many disciplines, we are in danger of
creating an epidemic of scientific illiteracy through the suppression of evolution in our
schools and textbooks. Teachers are increasingly reluctant even to bring up the subject for
fear of conservative backlash. The push to have so-called Creation Science added to the
curriculum is on the rise once more and must be resisted. Unfortunately, these forces are
like the many-headed Hydra—no matter how many times you cut off their efforts, they keep
coming back. Opposition to Creation Science and the promotion of evolution is going to be
a high profile feature of our campaign to bring an Age of Reason to the classroom.
“To that end—as well as to many others—I’m pleased to announce that we’ve had
someone come on board who will bring a lot of personal commitment and expertise to this
subject. Those of you familiar with Mr. Burton Patterson’s background will know that he
has had considerable experience in civil rights litigation and even anti-fundamentalist cases.
He’ll be invaluable to us in mounting opposition to the suppression of established scientific
knowledge in the field of education.”
There was more than polite applause throughout the room, which our host graciously
acknowledged. Some of the applause may also have been motivated by the fact that
Patterson’s contribution was to be a financial one as well. Still, the impact of such a figure
on the group’s profile would be invaluable, and David had scored a real coup in bringing
him in, even if Patterson himself had initiated the contact. It crossed my mind to wonder if
he might have his own unspoken agenda.
David resumed after the applause died down. “I’ll be giving you all a fuller report on the
details of our plans, of course, but let me go on to mention the other focus we’ve decided
upon. As you all know, there’s a little division in time coming up on the horizon, as
arbitrary as these things may be. We’re already seeing manifestations of irrationality in
connection with it, and you can be sure there’s more to come. But on the positive side, a
new millennium could be a golden opportunity. We know the spotlight the media are
already starting to give this event. There’s no reason why we shouldn’t be able to grab some
of it, promoting the new era as an Age of Reason. We’re already pushing ahead with the
organization of our Symposium on Rationality for the early part of the year 2000, and we’ve
got a few other ideas up our sleeves.”
As David went on, I couldn’t help feeling impressed at the scope of the proposal being
put forward. But I found it hard to believe that a handful of academics could really create a
movement that would have a significant influence. Could they rescue the educational

47

system from the clutches of the fundamentalists? Would any voice of rationality be heard
amid the circus that the turn of the millennium was already promising to be? When I
glanced at Shauna, she gave me a little smile which might have meant anything.
There were questions from the floor, some of which David answered directly, while
others were deferred to the inaugural publication which the Age of Reason Foundation—for
that was to be the official name of the organization—was preparing for circulation. A few
voices urged that other items be put on the agenda. I realized that there would be no
shortage of issues to gain the Foundation’s attention, nor minds to tackle them. Perhaps,
after all, one could believe that a great thirst for rational thinking did exist out there, and
that it could be harnessed to achieve something new and productive as the great divide of the
next millennium was reached in only a few years’ time. Perhaps the transition from
medieval to modern times, whose first stirrings I had experienced as a boy, was finally to
reach maturity.

The formalities over, the gathering was invited to move from the reception room into the
inner courtyard. The place reminded me a little of a Roman atrium, but lacking any ancient
statuary or colonnades. Instead, a variety of simple, clean-lined structures which might have
been viewed as sculptures or simply as architectural features broke up the area. Some of
them served as benches. The space was almost equal to the reception room itself but
possessed a greater sense of intimacy, and it stood open to the sky. On all but one side the
walls rose through two storeys and slanted roofs; on the fourth, the upper reaches of the
pines could be seen over a lower segment of the house, reaching into the blue. Even though
I was sure the occasion itself and the sentiments expressed were influencing my thoughts, I
felt that the tenor of everything I had seen of the surroundings Burton Patterson had created
for himself spoke of a sophisticated, questing mind, open to a world that held endless
fascination and no terrors.
Within the court the company broke up into loose groups. Four stringed musicians were
ensconsed in one corner, and their music drifted unobtrusively over the next hour or two
through Vivaldi, Corelli and other masters of the Italian Baroque. Our less artistic appetites
were fed from trays of finger food along with the serving of further drinks. I reflected that
the cocktail party had to be one of the great inventions of modern society—and one of its
most rational, of course.
Whether by accident or design, our host remained with a little knot of people which
included Shauna and me. Burton Patterson occasionally took in Shauna with his smile as he
made a point to the group, but he showed no overt effort to engage her in personal
conversation. In fact, somewhat to my surprise, he eventually worked his way into a one-on
one with me. Shauna, I noticed, eventually drifted out of the circle to another area of the
courtyard.
“When I was a boy I read historical novels voraciously,” Patterson confided, showing that
he knew of my literary specialty, probably from David. “It was my ambition to be an
archeologist and dig up ancient cities. I like investigating roots. I like to imagine someone
like me living at some previous time and how he would cope and make a life for himself. It
makes one appreciate what we’ve been through to get to our present stage of progress—and
how determined we should be not to lose it.”

48

My estimation of Burton Patterson had quite naturally soared at this. Had David been
aware of what we had in common?
“And what happened to those boyhood ambitions?” I asked. “Or did you spend time in
the sands of some ancient tell before you went into law?”
“Nothing so romantic, I’m afraid. I think I heard the lure too soon of fame and fortune. I
saw that such things were not likely to be had by spending my days on my knees, digging in
the earth. But I still haven’t lost my fascination for the past. I admire people like you who
can bring it to life for the rest of us.”
“And who have you read?” It was the most subtle way I could think of to find out if he
was familiar with any of my own novels.
“Oh, I haven’t read too much since my younger years. None of yours, I’m afraid. Those
days people like Mary Renault were the rage—all her novels about ancient Greece and
Alexander, which I’m sure you know. And Zoe Oldenbourg on the medieval Crusades was a
favorite. Her stories about the beginnings of the Inquisition in France had quite an
emotional impact on me. I would even say they stirred my first passion to champion free
speech and free thought. Those who would literally burn you in the name of correct belief
have been an ever present danger and they are still with us, unfortunately. She brought that
home to me very vividly.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “Oldenbourg could communicate a sense of indignation and profound
tragedy at the folly of fanaticism. Her Cities of the Flesh was one of the pivotal books of my
life.”
Patterson nodded enthusiastically. It was always amazing to me how a simple subject in
common could grease the wheels of human communication.
“You knew she was an historian as well?” I asked. “On the Crusades to the Holy Land as
well as the one against the Albigensian heresy in France.”
“I believe I did, although I haven’t read her histories. But I would imagine the demands
for research on any good historical novelist are quite immense.”
I nodded in agreement, but before I could act on my impulse to find out what he might
think of my current project, Patterson stopped me short with his next remark.
“But there was one novelist whom I admired very greatly. The range of his research must
have been more extensive than just about anyone else in the field. Are you by chance
familiar with Vardis Fisher?”
I almost dropped my drink. “Do you know,” I blurted, “that you are the first non-writer
I’ve encountered these days who knows Fisher? He had a promising career in the 1930s as a
contemporary novelist before he got some kind of bug and decided to write the historical
novel series to end them all. The difficulties and opposition he faced were tremendous.
How much of the Testament of Man have you read?”
“I think all but the one on the matriarchal phase, which I had difficulty finding. But I still
remember the day I discovered him. I read the first book in the series in the space of about
six hours: Darkness and the Deep. I’d never encountered any novel that tried to recreate the
dawn of intelligence in the human mind two million years ago. Absolutely fascinating.”
“Yes, and he did it without a stick of dialogue, since this was before language. It was
before fire and tools and hunting. The most primitive concepts and emotions were just
beginning to emerge. Life was stark and violent. And yet somehow Fisher managed to
create a sense of exhilaration in the reader.”

49

Patterson made a wry expression over the lip of his glass. “Well, it would depend on
your philosophy, of course. The Creationists would have hated it. All those processes of
nature and life and instinct groping and evolving automatically, as though some cosmic
switch had been thrown and the whole thing left unattended. That’s the gut feeling I was left
with. It’s all been a blind search for intelligence and understanding. We’re still emerging
from our own ignorance, trying to understand our own nature. That may be a scary picture
for some people, but personally I find it inspiring—and exhilarating, as you say.”
“Did you know that Fisher’s original publisher abandoned him when he reached the
biblical era? Fisher drew on the most progressive scholars of his day for his research, and
when he wrote his novel on Solomon around 1950 he didn’t pull any punches in shattering
the myth of early Jewish monotheism and the integrity of the biblical record. Reviewers
denounced him right and left, and the regular publishers wouldn’t touch him. Fisher pressed
on and finally found a brave soul in Alan Swallow of Denver.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“I’ve taken one of my own mottos from Fisher, that dogma must not rule history—or
historical fiction. He showed that many of the Genesis legends were derived from
Mesopotamia, and many Hebrew ideas and laws were based on Egyptian antecedents. No
writer working in the medium of popular fiction had ever done that sort of thing before, and
he suffered for it. His books never reached the audience he hoped for, and he died in
obscurity.”
“When was that, do you know?”
“I believe it was in 1969.”
“Well, we owe a lot to a few brave souls throughout history. The great bulk of mankind
has been quite content to perpetuate what they’ve been taught and not to question. But I
have a feeling the organism’s gene for questioning has been coming to the fore lately. We
may be on the verge of an age of reason after all.”
I had begun to notice in speaking with Burton Patterson that he displayed a habit of
angling himself before a listener a little to the right, and that he would look at the person
before him at an equal angle toward the left. This meant that their view of his nose was
straight on. I reflected that the organism’s gene for vanity was certainly alive and well in
even the most enlightened of us, and had probably been so for even Fisher’s time span.
Proving my point, I once more tried to steer the subject toward my own current project.
“And what did you feel about the novel on Jesus in the Testament? As always, Fisher could
be unorthodox.”
Patterson hesitated and knit his brows in the faintest of scowls. “As I recall, that one I
may have been a little disappointed with. I always envisioned Jesus as a dynamic fellow
who knew exactly what he was doing. When you’re trying to shake up society’s basic
outlooks, you can’t pussyfoot around.”
It suddenly struck me that the man was doing just what everyone else for 2000 years had
done to the hapless Jewish rabbi: cast him in their own image or the image that most suited
their purposes. It had begun, if the scholars were to be believed, with the very first response
to him when his corpse was scarcely cold. Jesus was the classic chameleon who changed his
spots with each new situation, not at his own will, but at the will of those who had claimed
him for their own. What could the original man have been to produce such an astonishing
reaction and yet one which created so much confusion and uncertainty?

50

To Patterson I simply said, “It’s not quite so easy to determine just exactly what Jesus
was like or what he was trying to do. I’m finding it difficult to get a handle on him myself.”
“This would be the novel you’re working on?” David had given him a thorough report
on me, from the look of it.
“Yes. The record is maddeningly frustrating. Nothing outside the Gospels tells us
anything about the man.”
“Why not use the Gospels, then?”
“Because they’re so tendentious. The evangelists have created the Jesus they want to
believe in. John and the Synoptics are incompatible, they display an entirely different Jesus:
different teachings, different miracles, a completely different philosophy of salvation. Who
are we to trust? Can we trust anyone?”
“There must be some sort of kernel one can rely on.”
“If there is, it’s proving extraordinarily difficult to identify it.”
I was struck by the similarity of response between Patterson and Shauna. Even without a
vested personal interest in the founder of the Western world’s 2000-year-old faith, the
normal reaction was one of incredulity that even the basic knowledge about Jesus stood on
such shaky ground. “He lived at the time of Herod, he died at someone’s hand, and
somebody soon after his death made him into a god. That’s about it.” I decided not to go
into the fact that even this basic information was impossible to pin down from the non-
Gospel record.
“Are you leading Mr. Patterson back into your dim, forgotten past?” Shauna had come
up beside me and laid her hand on my arm. “Everyone here’s looking toward the future.
And a fascinating future it promises to be.”
“Do I detect a note of skepticism?” Patterson asked, subtly turning his head to present the
optimum angle to Shauna.
“I don’t know. I generally tend to feel that people do things when they’re ready to, not
when others attempt to persuade or shame them into it.” Again, I knew that Shauna was not
in any way antagonistic to what had been announced today. She simply had a bit of the
devil’s advocate in her and besides, she liked to tease.
“But perhaps they are ready,” Patterson rejoined. “I would like to think that we are
simply giving a voice to the spirit of the times. Many people believe as we do but don’t
realize that such beliefs are widespread, that so many of their neighbors think as they do. I
can’t believe that teaching our children that this great and intricate universe was built
practically yesterday by a deity who also flooded the earth shortly afterward to wipe out too
much fornication, or turned women into salt for being curious, or stopped the sun in its
tracks to enable his followers to slaughter more of the natives they were stealing the land
from—I can’t believe that’s what the majority of the people of this country who are eagerly
awaiting the third millennium really want. I believe they’re ready to move on and leave such
childish notions behind. They just need someone to speak out for them and put their
aspirations into words.”
After a pause that hung in the air, Shauna nodded and said in a tone close to earnestness:
“Well, perhaps yours will be the effective voice they need.” I could tell she wished to allay
any misgivings that she was not in sympathy with the sentiments that had been expressed on
this beautiful spring day in these invigorating surroundings. Burton Patterson, with his
mellifluous tone and his charismatic demeanor, had carried everyone within earshot into

51

visions of an idyllic era of reason, so that there was not a soul of us standing about who did
not eagerly await the arrival of the new dawn.
“Oh—Kevin.” Shauna turned to me suddenly and broke the spell. “There’s a woman
over there who seems quite anxious to speak with you. She says David mentioned you were
interested in discussing some matters of ancient philosophy. I offered to relay them to you,
but she must have felt I was too mired in the 20th century.” Shauna had slipped once more
into her teasing manner and gave me a good-natured poke. I assumed it was the one she had
missed out on earlier, but she confided in a half-whisper, “Miss Lawrence her name is. She
told me she had actually read one of your books, title and all.”
Patterson spoke up and offered to free me from my attachment to his entourage if Shauna
would take my place. Shauna agreed and I was dismissed to the edges of the courtyard and
the company of Miss Lawrence to discuss ancient philosophy.

It turned out to be one of the most stimulating conversations I’d had in a long time.
Sylvia Lawrence was the direct opposite of Shauna, tall and seemingly ill at ease in a
somewhat oversized body, pale and almost prim, yet with a quiet energy that pulled one in to
her. She seemed to have so much going on in her mind at once that one could get a little
dizzy witnessing its workings.
Most conversations on Greek philosophy seemed to take as their starting-point the great
rivalry between Plato and Aristotle, and ours proved no exception. After a mutual
introduction and opening gambit, Sylvia Lawrence had this to say about rationality in the
ancient world:
“Aristotle was the first real man of science, in that he based so much of his philosophy on
actual observation. He didn’t quite have a theory of ‘experimentation’—nobody in the
ancient world did, to speak of—but at least he tried to let an empirical study of the world
around him govern his conclusions. Which is not to say that he didn’t get a lot of things
skewed because of prejudice and established beliefs—such as his view of women.”
I hastened to agree that modern enlightenment on the equality of the sexes had been a
long time coming.
“But he had the sense to see that Plato’s view was probably wrong. You know the classic
Platonic philosophy, of course, which says that all things in the material world of the senses
we live in are really imperfect copies of eternally existing ‘Ideas’ or spiritual forms in the
upper world of God. Aristotle pooh-poohed this and suggested the opposite: that our
experience of individual versions of a thing in matter—like a horse, for example—led us to
develop a mental ‘ideal’ form that all these versions fitted, but that the representative ‘Idea’
of a horse had no real independent existence in the upper world. He failed to carry the day,
however, and the whole of the ancient world, and even the medieval one, followed Plato in
one way or another.”
As my mind downloaded all this and compared it with what I already knew, a twilight
was descending over the courtyard which softened the lines of architecture and guests alike.
The hour was past six and there was a touch of coolness to the air. I became aware that a
diffuse lighting was emanating from subtle sources I could not immediately identify. The
pines overhead were like sentinels, guarding us from the encroaching forces of darkness.
They also produced the odd sensation that if one were to turn upside-down one could fall
into the sky.

52

I held myself right side up and turned my attention back to Sylvia Lawrence. “Perhaps
you could help me to clarify some things. This whole subject is pretty esoteric. How did the
Logos fit into Plato’s system of forms and origins?”
“Well, first you must realize that the term Logos was really a catch-all in the ancient
world. Strictly it means “word”, but the meaning is far more loaded than that. Different
philosophies could use it quite differently, and it evolved over time. The Stoics saw it as the
principle of reason in the universe—sort of the mind of God—and this reason was also
present in the human mind, meaning that humans were an integral part of the cosmic world,
in continuity with God.” Sylvia had fallen into a kind of lecturing mode, no doubt from the
habit of the classroom, although the half-filled cocktail glass would have created an
incongruous feature in that setting.
“The Platonists, on the other hand, had a dualistic outlook: that the universe was not a
unity but in two parts, basically heaven and earth, the spiritual and material worlds, the Ideas
and the copies, and there could be no direct interaction or communication between the two,
certainly not between us lowly humans and the ultimate transcendent God. He was too
absolute, too much a pure mind to be able to have contact with the world of matter.”
“So the Logos served as a kind of interface between the two realms?”
“Yes, that’s a good term. Platonism—in the centuries after Plato—used the concept of
the Logos to refer to all the processes going on in heaven which proceeded from the mind of
God. That mind produced Ideas, as well as the energy which generated the material world
out of these Ideas. Since the Logos was the image of God, sort of a radiation from him, like
light or electricity if you will, he was the revealer of God’s nature, a way of getting in touch
with him.”
Sylvia had a habit of attaching on extra ideas as they came to her, like additional cars on a
train. I realized that some of these cars were getting close to the earliest Christian views of
Jesus. I asked, “Would you say that this Logos could be called a ‘Son’ of God?”
“In a poetic sense, perhaps. None of the Greek versions of the Logos was envisioned as a
separate personal being. It was more an abstract force, a way of describing the power or
thought of God working on the world. The Jewish philosopher Philo of Alexandria—that’s
in Egypt, but I’m sure you know—he may have moved a step further. Philo called the
Logos ‘the Son’ or ‘the first-begotten of God.’ He said that the Logos could enter special
people and inspire them with a knowledge of God and the ability to communicate him to
others. That’s what he believed about Moses. Moses was his hero, really.”
It occurred to me that perhaps the early Christians had envisioned God’s Logos as having
entered Jesus. “Did Philo see Moses as divine, then?”
“Oh, no. Philo would never have been guilty of that kind of blasphemy. He went further
than other Jewish thinker of his day in embracing Platonic philosophy, but he was still a Jew
at heart, and the integrity of a monotheistic God was too dear to him. His Moses remained
human; he was just God’s privileged receptacle, you might say.”
So near yet so far. It seemed that a direct connection from Philo to the early
interpretation of Jesus was not to be had. “Could Philo have influenced Christian views of
Jesus, do you think?”
Sylvia smiled, a touch knowingly, as if to tell me that she understood my interest in the
matter. Either David had given her an account of my new project or it had come out in
conversation with Shauna.

53

“Well,” she ventured, “it’s true later Christian thinkers realized that Philo seemed to be
presaging ideas about Jesus—he did, after all, live most of his life before Christianity began.
On the other hand, Paul shows no conclusive sign of having been familiar with Philo’s
writings.”
“Perhaps the ideas were broader than Philo, more widely spread. Everyone working on
the same concepts during that whole period: about some kind of intermediary figure or force
that gave access to the ultimate transcendent God. Doing his work for him.”
Sylvia’s eyes widened. They could be quite expressive, even if they sometimes reminded
me of a nervous bird. There was a deep intelligence behind them, though her manner could
suggest that it was not thoroughly harnessed. Or perhaps it shared space with other, less
intellectual currents.
“That’s a very perceptive analysis. History is full of things, not just philosophy, which
show widespread expression—things being ‘in the air’, so to speak, taking various forms.
We sometimes get too hung up on identifying what specific case influenced or produced
another specific case, when it’s more subtle and indefinable than that.”
“So Philo as a Jew in Alexandria preferred to see God’s Logos as residing spiritually in a
human man. But someone like Paul somewhere else moves more toward the idea that this
Logos came to earth himself—or itself—and lived a full life of his own. Does the second
idea proceed from the first?”
“An interesting question. As always in such cases, it isn’t one single idea that produces
another, but a complex set of them from various sources coming together and generating
something new in the mind of an innovative person or group.”
I realized this was a nice capsule summary of how the history of ideas proceeded.
“By the way, did Philo have anything to say about Jesus in his later years? How long did
he outlive him?”
“It would have been about a decade and a half, though the exact date of Philo’s death
isn’t known. But to answer your first question, no. Philo says nothing about Jesus or
Christianity.”
Yet another curious silence, I reflected. “Don’t you think he would have been interested
in a movement which envisioned the divine Logos come to earth?”
“He certainly would have. But then, perhaps all the philosophical writings of Philo we
happen to have come from the pre-Christian part of his life.”
I acknowledged the possibility. We paused to sample a delicate little crepe from a
passing serving cart. After Sylvia licked the traces of syrup from two fingers, she
volunteered: “But you know, the Jews shouldn’t really be judged by Philo. He represented
more Hellenistic currents outside Palestine. In Jerusalem, they had their own concept of a
divine intermediary going back to a time even before the Greek Logos.”
“You’re referring to personified Wisdom.”
Now Miss Lawrence was impressed. “Well—you’ve gone pretty deeply into things,
haven’t you? I suppose you know, then, that this was more of a Near Eastern tendency, to
strip off certain aspects of a deity and turn them into separate divine figures. The higher
gods were not necessarily transcendent, they simply delegated their authority too efficiently
and lost parts of themselves in the process.”
“And I believe that process was called...hypo—...hyper—...” I had overreached myself. I
couldn’t remember the term.

54

Sylvia smiled, this time with more animation. “It’s called ‘hypostatisation’. The
separated divinities were ‘hypostases’.”
“Yes, of course. Wisdom originally began as the wise knowledge about God and life one
received from God, and then evolved into a distinct figure herself. She developed her own
voice speaking on God’s behalf, summoning people to her.” The passage from Proverbs 8
and 9 had stayed with me in its vivid image of Lady Wisdom standing by the gate of the
town and calling.
“That’s right. But Wisdom took on other roles as well. She was God’s throne-partner in
heaven from the beginning, and she was his agent of creation.”
“Now that’s significant, I’m sure. Because those are two of the features given to Jesus in
the earliest layers of Christian thinking. It must indicate a very close link made between
Wisdom and Jesus. But why would that happen? Who would think of making a crucified
preacher into the incarnation of an hypostasis of God who had helped create the world? A
female one, at that. And I don’t think the Old Testament gives any inkling that Wisdom is
supposed to suffer, die and be resurrected. Why would Jesus’ followers after his death make
such a connection?”
“Well, I’m not an expert on Christian theology, but perhaps it was because Jesus had
taught knowledge and love of God, just as Wisdom did.”
Something about the way Sylvia said this made a certain mental antenna quiver, but it
was buried a little too deeply to be given more than a moment’s notice, and it passed.
Actually, she had made a good point and I said so. A few seconds later, however, I realized
that it foundered on one perplexing anomaly. If that was the reason for the association, this
should have brought Jesus’ teachings to the fore in the post-Easter picture of him. And yet,
to judge by the non-Gospel record, Jesus as a teacher of wisdom and knowledge had simply
dropped out of sight; none of the epistle writers showed any interest in that aspect of his
life—or any other aspect, for that matter. But something told me not to wade into this
particular swampland with Sylvia Lawrence.
Instead, I voiced a different connection. “But still, you say Wisdom preceded the Logos,
and yet both these concepts have a lot in common. Like this business of creation and giving
access to God. Did one influence the other, or are we still looking at things ‘in the air’?”
“Well, don’t forget that ideas are always evolving, and different expressions of them act
on one another. You should read the Wisdom of Solomon in the Old Testament Apocrypha.
It was written in Alexandria sometime during Philo’s lifetime, though not by him. This
Jewish writer merges Wisdom and the Logos like love and marriage.”
“I guess it was handy that one was female and the other male,” I joked. “Jew and Greek
together in the same bed.”
Sylvia’s eyes softened just noticeably at this, and she said in a voice that held a subtle
change of quality: “Actually, one source of the figure of Wisdom in the first place was
probably the Phoenician goddess Ishtar. She stood in front of the gate to her temple and also
called to men—although she was calling them to something a little more provocative.” I
would not have thought to style Sylvia Lawrence sexy, but those eyes seemed to hold a
subtle call of their own that I hadn’t noticed before. Had I displayed more charm than I
usually gave myself credit for? I told myself it was more likely that even ancient philosophy
could be an aphrodisiac to the right mind. At the same time, I had to admit that this odd
woman was beginning to exert a pull on me.

55

As the sky overhead deepened into darkness, and the artificial lighting of the courtyard
gave everything and everyone in it a mellow cast, it struck me that all this had not yet led to
any great insights into my quest to understand the early Christian phenomenon. Somehow
Jesus had been a sponge, soaking up the prevailing philosophical concepts of the age. But a
firm grasp as to why a human man, a humble preacher, would have produced this effect still
eluded me.
I was also struck by the contrast such a picture presented to the whole atmosphere of the
Gospels—and Acts. None of these documents seemed even to suggest such a process.
Indeed, they were full of their own associations to Jesus: as son of David, Messiah, the
enigmatic Son of Man. Acts especially, in its picture of the early growth of the Christian
movement, seemed utterly devoid of any transformation of Jesus into the earthly
embodiment of some pre-existent mediator and creator entity in heaven. What could
possibly be the key that would make it all fit together?
Since the university where David and Sylvia taught promised to be one of my regular
haunts for the duration of this project, Sylvia invited me to drop in at any time, and if she
were not in class we could chat further. It was at this point that David appeared.
“I trust you two have got Kevin’s book all worked out by now.”
“Just the sex scenes,” Sylvia quipped. I caught the note of surprise in David’s expression
before he turned to me with a subtle ‘what’s-been-going-on-here’ expression. I feigned
innocence.

We drove back into the city a few hours later under a bright moonlit sky. The moon was
just past full. Shauna reminded me that we were in the midst of Passover week, and as it
happened, tomorrow was Easter Sunday. Both celebrations, the heart of Jewish and
Christian observances, commemorated events that went back thousands of years, yet we
lived in a time that had only just begun to question the historical foundations of these two
cornerstones of Western tradition. How many lives would be forever changed if both were
finally held to be nothing more than puffs of mythical smoke? More to the point, what
would replace them?
The conversation drifted to more mundane matters and we ended up sounding out each
other’s reaction to the gathering. I couldn’t really see how I would fit into David’s grand
scheme, although he had asked if he could get in touch with me in a couple of weeks after
certain things were in place—without giving me any elucidation as to what he had in mind.
I chose not to ask for it. I was anxious to get back to my work, since I had decided to
approach the whole thing from a different direction.
By the time we reached the city, I was probing Shauna for her reaction to Burton
Patterson, and she me for mine to Sylvia Lawrence, both of us with protestations that, of
course, no thought of jealousy was involved. I did neglect to mention to her that I would
probably have the occasion to consult Sylvia further about questions of ancient religion and
philosophy. I felt guilty about this when she informed me that Patterson had extended an
open invitation to her to “get together some time.” My nonchalance was transparent as I
inquired what her response had been, and hers equally so when she answered that she had
simply said that she would let him know.
“I’m sure he knew what I meant. Besides, I didn’t want to alienate your new business
partner—or the Western world’s new savior.”

56

“I’m sure he’s neither,” I clucked. And yet I had been taken with the man, and despite
her offhanded attitude, I knew Shauna had been as well.
We were both tired by the time we reached her front door, and under that almost full
moon we said good night. As usual, we didn’t set a day for our next meeting.

*****************************

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57

Chapter Six

I had decided that I needed a more systematic record of what was to be found—and not
found—in the documents of early Christianity which lay outside the Gospels and Acts. My
research thus far, including that memorable evening spent with Shauna before the computer,
had uncovered a wide range of missing material in the epistles—in my own mind I had
begun to call them “silences”. Over the next several days I drew up a series of headings and
sub-headings to classify such silences, and aided by the Muratorian indexes and my own
devices, began to fill in each category.
The extent of the void on the Gospel story to be found in the earliest record was nothing
short of astonishing. Virtually every place, figure and detail associated with Jesus’ ministry
and death was missing, even though many passages in the epistles offered natural, even
compelling, occasions to mention them. By far the largest category, which came as no
surprise, encompassed the sayings and teachings which the Gospels had attributed to Jesus.
So many of even the most famous sayings had been ignored by writer after writer, in ways
which suggested that they could not possibly have known of them. Or else, they used moral
maxims very similar to those of Jesus, yet without giving him credit as their source.
I was especially struck by one missing saying, the famous ‘Render unto Caesar the things
that are Caesar’s, and to God the things that are God’s.’ Modern historical novelists writing
about Jesus often used it to portray the man of Nazareth as a politically correct manoeuverer
who could think on his feet. Yet the writer of 1 Peter could say: ‘Submit yourselves to every
institution,’ without drawing on it. Nor did Paul in Romans 13:1, when he urged submission
to the authorities, or when he went on to advise: ‘Pay tax and toll, reverence and respect, to
those to whom they are due.’ One had to assume that they could not have been familiar with
any such pronouncement by Jesus.
A notable class of absent sayings was the whole area of apocalyptic prediction. Early
Christianity was a sectarian movement which passionately believed that the end of the world
was imminent—or at least its transformation. The Son of God was to arrive from heaven
amid much woe and upheaval, to direct the establishment of God’s Kingdom. This was an
event which had been long awaited in Jewish expectation, though in popular thought it was
to be accomplished through the agency of a human Messiah. Paul told his readers in 1
Corinthians 7:29 that ‘the time we live in will not last long.’ In 1 Thessalonians 4 he spoke
of how the trumpet would sound as the Lord descended, how the Christian dead would rise
from the earth and those still alive would be caught up to meet Christ in the air. Many other
writers spoke of the imminence and convulsive nature of this End-time. And yet not a single
one of Jesus’ apocalyptic predictions as recorded in the Gospels was ever quoted by an
epistle writer.
Nor was Jesus’ favorite self-designation as the Son of Man to be found anywhere in the
epistolary record. Most of Jesus’ predictions about the End-time, even before the High
Priest himself on the night of his arrest, focused on his role as Son of Man. This was an
apocalyptic figure imagined by various sectarian circles in the first century, Christian and
Jewish, and derived from the great visionary scene in the 7th chapter of Daniel. How could
someone like Paul have been ignorant of Jesus’ association of himself with this figure?

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Was the entire picture of Jesus as an apocalyptic preacher, one of the foundations of the
Gospel story, to be dismissed as invention? It was impossible to believe that apostles and
teachers of the early Christian period, so concerned with the expected arrival of Christ to
usher in the new age, would be totally unaware that prophecy of this very event and his own
role in it had been a prominent feature of Jesus’ ministry—if it had in fact been so. That
they had known of such a thing and chose to ignore it I dismissed as a logical impossibility.
It struck me that all this could hardly be squared with the theory of oral transmission.
The sayings of Jesus, so the going wisdom went, had been kept alive by word of mouth, in
preaching and in correspondence, until the time the evangelists assembled and recorded
them in their Gospels, several decades after Jesus’ death. But if no one in the interim ever
attributed anything to Jesus, how was such an identification kept alive? How were they to
be differentiated from the general stock of ethical material being bandied about by all and
sundry? This had been an intense period of sectarian proselytising, when apostles of all
persuasions, Jewish, Christian and pagan, were tramping the byways of the empire bringing
messages of salvation and correct living to anyone who would listen. Why in the face of all
this competition, reflected at every turn in the epistles, would no one ever point to Jesus
himself as the source of Christian ethics and the foremost prophetic voice of the salvation to
come? It made no sense.
Such a picture certainly suggested that much of Jesus’ teaching as recorded in the
Gospels was derived from outside sources, from the general ethics and promise of the age,
and placed in his mouth. But I was not prepared at this stage to jettison as invention the
entire concept of Jesus the teacher. This would have been too drastic an excision to the
Gospel picture, and anyway, if Jesus had taught absolutely nothing, what in fact had his
career revolved around?
I knew, of course, that modern critical scholars were saying that Jesus’ ‘genuine’
teachings were to be found in Q, that mysterious lost document excavated from the Gospels
of Matthew and Luke. An investigation of it was on my list. But it occurred to me to
wonder what groups had faithfully preserved the genuine Jesus when the entire corpus of
canonical epistles, and seemingly everything else in the extant early record, had failed even
to allude to a teaching ministry at all.

Considering the mood of discouragement I was rapidly settling into, Stan picked the
wrong time to call and ask how I was getting along with the new project. Since my agent
was one who rarely asked for progress reports, I realized that he must have had high hopes
for the prospects of a Jesus novel at the turn of the millennium. I didn’t have the heart to tell
him that not a word of it had yet been set down on paper.
“Well, I’m trying to capture the spirit of the times, Stan. Lots of color, good insights into
how we’ve all been shaped by first century developments. I’m playing with a lot of action
ideas, too.” I hoped it didn’t sound like I was improvising on my feet—which I was. “I’m
thinking of having Jesus himself as a kind of mysterious figure, almost in the background. If
I try to portray him too sharply, I leave myself open to criticism. This way, the reader has
more scope for reading whatever they like into him.”
Stan didn’t hide the note of misgiving. “Is that really going to work, Kev? You usually
like strong characters. You’re not turning politically correct on me, are you?” Shauna had
asked the same question early on.

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“Anything but, I assure you. In fact, I’m experimenting with a new twist. You may end
up with something more controversial than you thought. Just leave it with me. I’ll keep you
posted.”
“OK, but I’m still only giving you six months—five, now. An historical novelist doesn’t
get an opportunity like this, well, more than once a millennium. Don’t blow it.”
“I can hear the clock ticking.”
“I’d rather you heard the cash register.”
Poor Stan. I hoped he wasn’t betting his mortgage on my current powers of invention.
As for the “new twist” I had snatched out of nowhere, the only one I consciously sensed at
this stage was the one being produced on my mental state by the distortions of the Christian
documentary record. That record was not cooperating with the Stan’s “opportunity of a
millennium”. As it turned out, the real opportunity had come with scholarship’s current
investigation of that record and the unprecedented times we lived in. That this coincided
with the onset of a new thousand-year mark was likely only a fortuitous plot development in
the universe’s own inscrutable scheme of things.

The question of early Christian apostleship was another can of worms which I almost
regretted opening. One of the great issues Paul was forced to deal with in his letters had
been: who was a proper apostle of the Christ? Many were questioning Paul’s credentials,
criticising his performance and his doctrines. And yet to judge by his silence on the matter,
no one ever challenged him on the basis that he had not been an apostle of Jesus during his
earthly ministry, as Peter and others had.
Paul’s own declaration stated that he was as qualified as any other apostle. His
measuring rod, as he said in 1 Corinthians 9:1, was the fact that he had ‘seen’ the Lord just
like everyone else had. This struck me as an obvious reference to visions, one of the
standard modes of religious revelation in this period. Even in 1 Corinthians 15 he listed his
own vision of the risen Christ along with the others, implying that they were all of the same
nature, and no one regarded Paul’s ‘seeing’ of Jesus as anything other than a vision of his
spiritual self. In his disputes with the Jerusalem apostles, the issue of who had known Jesus
while he was on earth and the authority this should have given them was simply never
raised. Paul never defended himself over such an issue.
No one ever referred to the fact that Jesus had appointed apostles. This, to me, was a
striking silence. In 1 Corinthians 12:28, Paul said that in the church, ‘God’ had appointed
apostles, prophets and teachers. Where was the idea that Jesus himself had appointed
anyone? The choosing of disciples and sending apostles out to preach was a prominent
feature of the Gospels, even in post-resurrection scenes. If any act of Jesus had been kept
alive in Christian consciousness it would surely have been this. After all, the early Christian
movement, as evidenced by the epistles, was anything but harmonious. Arguments
abounded as to who had authority, who was preaching the correct doctrine, who should be
listened to. The logical, indeed the inevitable, appeal would have been to those whom Jesus
had appointed, and in turn to those who had received their appointment and teaching from
such authorised apostles. A chain of authority could not fail to have been created, especially
as time passed, a chain going back to Jesus himself.
And yet Paul could argue against those who, as he put it, ‘proclaimed another Jesus’ and
appeal only to the spirit received from God as the standard—with the one he himself had

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received being, of course, the proper one. Several decades after Jesus’ death, the writer of 1
John condemned a rival group’s doctrines about the Christ, but he too spoke only of true and
false spirits, the former received from God, the latter from Satan. Not surprisingly, his own
was among the former.
The ‘church manual’ known as the Didache, usually dated toward the end of the first
century, offered in its 11th chapter a set of standards by which congregations could judge the
itinerant preacher’s qualifications and orthodoxy. Yet this included no consideration as to
whether that authority went back through proper channels to appointed apostles and Jesus
himself, whether such preachers’ teachings corresponded to early, sacred criteria. It was a
mystery to me how the entire Christian movement up to the time of Ignatius, if we were to
judge by the surviving correspondence, could show not the slightest sign of developing a
system of authority and orthodoxy based on the idea of apostolic tradition, ultimately
founded on Jesus’ own appointment of apostles.
Many scholars, I noted, were mystified by the overall picture of early Christian
apostleship. The designation of ‘apostle’ was, in the earliest record, applied to anyone
carrying the preaching message about the Christ; it had no narrow application to individuals
chosen by Jesus. The concept of an inner circle of ‘the Twelve’, deriving a special authority
from Jesus and conducting the spread of the faith, was missing. The term itself cropped up
once in Paul, in 1 Corinthians 15 where he listed those who had received visions of the
Christ, but since this ‘Twelve’ was mentioned separately from Peter and from another group
referred to as ‘all the apostles’, it was far from clear just what this body constituted. Some
prominent scholars were quoted in the commentaries as having rejected the historicity of the
Twelve as a chosen circle of followers accompanying Jesus in his ministry. Only in the
second century did the Gospel figures around Jesus emerge as witnesses to an historical
ministry, and as guarantors for the truth of the church’s teaching. Every Christian group,
orthodox or heretical, eventually had its own link to Jesus, a founder from among the
presumed original Apostles and a guarantee of its own ‘correctness’.
Did the idea of the Twelve crystallize only later out of memories of a more amorphous
group around Jesus? Would we have to abandon the concept of special appointment by
him? Perhaps Jesus gave no direction to anyone to go out and preach in his name. But even
if this were so, it was difficult to believe that once the missionary movement got started,
claims of authority based on some form of link back to Jesus would not have developed—
and quickly. Yet this was precisely what was lacking in Paul and the other epistles.

The universe had reached Wednesday. There was a little park down the block from my
modest suburban home, and on this mild spring day in mid-April the trees were greening and
buds were opening in the tended flower beds. Life in the late 20th century had its own evils,
but it was undoubtedly better than humans on this planet had ever known it. What had life
truly been like almost 20 centuries ago, I asked myself, when men like Paul took to the
dusty, dangerous roads or ventured out across precarious seas in primitive ships, all to carry
some message about a crucified god and the prospect of eternal life? Sitting on a park bench
newly scrubbed of the grime of winter, looking out over an oasis of green where various life
forms, including human, were newly emerging from their cold-month cocoons,

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I had to marvel at the vigor and tenacity of that ancient eruption of men like Paul and the
ideas they carried. I had to wonder why it had generated such a dramatic effect, a world
wide energy which was only now winding down, losing its momentum, eddying into the
swirl of new currents that would carry those of us on board this little ship of human society
out into different waters and new destinations. What these would be, none of us could say.
The park bench was firmly anchored to the ground, but I felt very much a part of that
swirling eddy, and I decided that the dizziness was intoxicating.
But my task was to uncover the picture of that earlier swirl, whose currents were to set
the flow of the next 2000 years. I had brought only my old dog-eared copy of the New
Testament to the park bench, and as my body soaked up the morning sunshine and my ears
the sounds of the awakening streets I tried to let my mind recreate the atmosphere of Paul’s
time from Paul’s own words, from the raw display of personal conviction, enthusiasm and
struggle on the part of a man who had a compulsion to preach, else he would, by his own
admission, go mad.
But Paul was not alone. Several times since beginning my research I had lighted on a
vivid passage in 2 Corinthians which spoke of the trials he faced as a Christian missionary.
Chapters 10 to 12 presented a tantalising picture of a broad, obsessive movement in which
countless men—and maybe a few women as well—felt the spirit of God upon them and
went out to win the world over to a new faith.
And yet somehow the picture was odd, for this was a world of intense competition. Here
was no unified Christian movement, as Acts would later present it. Paul’s greatest obstacle
was not unbelief, or the antagonism of the authorities. Rather, it was the presence of rival
apostles who preached different messages, who preached ‘another Jesus’. In 10:7 he spoke
of these others who, he said, were convinced they belonged to Christ, who claimed authority
as legitimate apostles. In the Christian community at Corinth which Paul claimed as his own
these rivals had disparaged him, rejected his qualifications. To this Paul retorted that he
belonged to Christ as much as they did. In the most vituperative language to be found
anywhere in his letters, he condemned such men as ‘sham apostles, deceitful, masquerading
as apostles of Christ.’ He called them agents of Satan.
Most scholars I had looked at realized that Paul could not be directing this vilification
toward the Jerusalem group. With Peter and James he maintained at least courteous
relations, and he worked on their behalf to collect contributions of money. Besides, it would
have been impossible for him to describe in such terms men who had personally known
Jesus or had been appointed by him. But just who were all these rival apostles who had no
obvious connection to Jerusalem, who were going about trying to undo Paul’s work,
preaching their own brand of the faith? It was one of the great problems in early Christian
research.
In fact, it struck me as the picture of a level playing field, a wider amorphous world of
apostleship, with no one seeming to claim any link to Jesus himself, or defending the lack of
it. No one, including Paul, seemed to claim a link even with the group in Jerusalem who
were privileged to have had such a connection with Jesus, something Paul could easily have
done. Instead, as Paul said in 11:4, these different gospels being preached, the different
Jesus others were proclaiming, came from ‘the spirit’, meaning the inspiration each claimed
to receive from God. Paul simply declared that his spirit was more authentic. Here was an
array of preachers and prophets ranging the empire, proclaiming their competing versions of

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Christ, none of whom showed the slightest interest in pointing to any aspect of the recent life
lived on earth which had presumably set the whole thing in motion. In 10:13 Paul spoke of
each apostle’s missionary territory as a sphere whose ‘limit God laid down for us.’ He even
referred to his message as the ‘gospel of God’. Why was he incapable of presenting
anything as having proceeded from Jesus? Why did no epistle writer of the entire first
century ever speak of carrying on the work and ministry of the Lord himself?
Something had driven men like Paul to devote a lifetime to preaching, enduring perils
and hardships and persecution in the service of their faith. If that something had been Jesus
himself, or the report of him through others, it was baffling how the man and his life could
have gone into such a total eclipse in all their minds.
I sat in the warm sun through midday, the sounds of distant traffic like the static of the
ages through which I was trying to hear, down the long centuries, some clear signal from the
spirit of the first century and the men who had shaped it. I recalled a vivid phrase from a
book I had recently consulted on the philosophy of the period, John Dillon’s Middle
Platonism. It spoke of the era as one filled by ‘a seething mass of sects and salvation cults.’
Here before me were the direct words of a man who had been a part of that seething mass,
one who had been caught up in its struggles. Paul had struggled against the missionaries of
other faiths, the wandering philosophers—a kind of popular clergy—who preached pagan
systems of beliefs and ethics, as well as the proselytising Jewish rabbis who had long been
successful at winning gentiles to the ancient religion of Abraham. He had struggled against
the pull of the Graeco-Roman gods and savior cults which he occasionally alluded to, and
which later church Fathers waged war upon. And he had struggled against the competing,
teeming life forms of his own movement. It occurred to me that Jesus’ prediction that there
would be false teachers and imposters in the believers’ midst had been placed in his mouth
simply to lend divine clarification to the situation that every early community had to face: an
intense struggle over rival doctrines and views of the figure they worshipped.
The passage in 2 Corinthians revealed such a situation in one center in Greece. But a
Christian community in the heart of Asia Minor faced a similar set of troubles. The next
letter in the corpus was to the Galatians, and here Paul began by chastising his recent
converts for listening to other missionaries and now following ‘a different gospel.’ Anyone
who preached a gospel at variance with his own, he declared, ‘should be cursed!’
And then Paul went on to make a truly astonishing claim.

‘The gospel you heard me preach is not the product of men. I did not receive it from any
man, nor was I taught it, but I received it through a revelation of Jesus Christ.

Here was the premier Apostle of the period passionately defining the highest measure of
reliability and authenticity for a Christian preacher’s gospel: not that it had its roots in the
things Jesus had taught and done on earth, not in Jesus’ own delegation of authority during
his ministry, not through any apostolic channel which went back to a genesis in the Lord’s
own life, but through a divine revelation, the spirit of God bestowed individually on chosen
Christian prophets!
I knew that the Greek behind ‘a revelation of Jesus Christ’ would be an objective
genitive: Jesus as the object of the revelation. Amazingly, then, Paul was acknowledging no
gospel of Jesus going back to Jesus. He was allowing for no primacy of any gospel held by

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those who had seen, heard and followed the Lord while he was on earth, no superiority of
any apostle who had been appointed by Jesus himself. Either Paul was guilty of the most
supreme arrogance, or else such concepts simply did not exist for him. It was as though
Jesus had become a divine Son in heaven immediately after his death and perceived
resurrection, taking on a whole new mythological significance. From there, everything had
started afresh, generated by revelation from God and a study of scripture. The incarnated life
so recently lived on earth was left to wither like some amputated appendage, all connection
to it severed, its features discarded and forgotten.
At the moment I could not see why or how such a bizarre development could possibly
have taken place.

On Friday I caught Shauna at work before the lab closed for the weekend. The research
of the intervening two days since my sojourn in the park had been spent in putting together a
picture which was so perplexing, and even somehow disturbing, that I needed to lay it out
before another mind and get a reaction. Shauna was the natural candidate.
That picture had resulted from striking out in my own uncharted directions. I had come
to perceive that the silence in the epistles concerning the Gospel Jesus was only one half of
the picture—the negative half. Within that silence, Paul and the other writers were
presenting their own positive features of the Christian missionary movement and its beliefs
about the heavenly Son. Those features, while almost never touching base with the Gospel
account, presented a consistent, identifiable pattern of their own.
I was neither prepared nor inclined to cook a meal, but Shauna said that she would cancel
her weekend in Paris and come over anyway.
“Paul and pizza,” she sighed as she came in my door. “Now there’s a combination to
seduce an unsuspecting girl—especially a Jewish one.”
I gave her a kiss. “How about if we save the seduction till later? The pizza’s warm and
so is the computer. If you promise not to get cheese on the keyboard, we can access them
both at the same time.”
She pouted and gave me a teasing caress. “And here I thought you were looking for a
different kind of access. But you’d better be careful. All this Christian propaganda you’re
feeding me, I might just get converted. Then I’d have to become celibate.”
I returned the favor. “Well, I guess I’d have to call in a de-programmer.”
“Hmm.” She pretended to look thoughtful. “I wonder if Burton Patterson has had any
experience in that field?”
I harrumphed. “If not, I’m sure he’d love to learn the ropes on you. Have you responded
to his invitation yet?”
She looked down her nose. “My responses are not bestowed so freely, sir.”
I pulled her into the kitchen where the pizza, freshly delivered, was sitting on its box on
the warming tray. I almost relented on my earlier resolve, and Shauna wasn’t helping any by
her words and antics as we got out plates and began dividing up the slices. Bacon, tomato
and mushroom—double cheese. When I first learned that my own favorite combination was
hers as well, I knew that this lapsed Christian and this non-observant Jew were undoubtedly
headed for an intertwined destiny.

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This time I took the seat in front of the keyboard. I had created a few text chains, in
which a general category was linked with consecutive passages throughout the epistles, so
that I could string together and read as a group various verses illustrating a given topic.
“Now I know you sometimes make connections that I’ve missed, but mainly I just want
to see what impressions you get when I show you certain groups of passages. Most of them
are from Paul, or those writing in his name, but there are a few from other epistles as well.”
“Tell me again how long after Jesus Paul came along.”
“Actually, Paul is thought to have been born around the same time Jesus was. As near as
they can calculate, he was converted to Christianity within 3 to 5 years of Jesus’ death, but
we know virtually nothing about his early missionary career. He only surfaces with the letter
1 Thessalonians around the year 50—let’s say two decades after the crucifixion. In
Galatians, he barely hints of the things he did before that time. There’s no reason to think he
changed his theology about Jesus very substantially over those years—he gives us no hint of
that. But it’s natural to think that things did evolve with him, probably his missionary
strategy at least. And he spent time in Antioch, where lots of ideas were percolating on the
Hellenistic religious scene. Remember that he only went to Jerusalem once in all those
years, for a two-week visit. So where and when he got his information about Jesus—”
“I thought he didn’t have any,” Shauna interjected.
“Well, he certainly shows little sign of having any. But somewhere he developed his
cosmic theology about Jesus, and one has to wonder what he based it on. If he knew nothing
at all about Jesus the man, what would ever lead him to turn that man into such a cosmic
deity, or accept such an elevation of him from others?”
“Maybe he was inspired.”
I laughed. “Well, yes, that’s the orthodox view, of course. He got it all on the road to
Damascus. The funny thing is, Paul never talks about any event on the road to Damascus.
That’s Luke’s view of things in Acts, which was probably a legend that grew up later about
Paul’s conversion. Paul scarcely talks about any vision of Jesus—just once briefly in 1
Corinthians. Most times he simply says he was called by God to preach the Gospel—and
not with any sense of a dramatic conversion experience. When he talks about his doctrines
of the Christ he never refers to such an event as their source. More often than not, he seems
to imply he got his knowledge through reading scripture.”
“So Saul gets converted, changes his name, and goes off to search for Jesus in the Jewish
scriptures instead of going to the people who knew him while he was on earth. That almost
seems pathological. As though he didn’t want to know anything about the human Jesus.”
“You’d be surprised how many scholars actually postulate reasons like that to explain
Paul’s complete lack of interest in the man he had just deified.”
I polished off the last bite of my pizza slice, brushed my hands against the sides of my
shirt and hit the keyboard. The Web stood ready. The Muratorian home page with its
luxurious illustrations shone out into my humble study.
“OK, I call this first chain “The Beginning of the Missionary Movement”, but maybe I
should think of it as ‘Learning About Jesus’. Here’s the first passage. I placed them in my
own order of importance—purely subjective.” Galatians 1:16 flashed onto the screen.

‘God chose to reveal his Son in me in order that I might preach him among the Gentiles.’

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“It’s right after this that Paul says he immediately went to Arabia and then Damascus, and
only three years later did he go to Jerusalem for a short visit to get to know Peter. So Paul
seems to be saying that he knows of the Son entirely through God’s revelation.”
“And it’s God who tells him about Jesus, not the spirit of Jesus himself.”
“Right. And there’s something funny about that preposition ‘in’. It’s as though Paul is
saying that the Son gets revealed through people like himself who have been inspired by
God, rather than through reports about Jesus from those who knew and followed him—let
alone through Jesus’ presentation of himself during his own career.”
“That’s a bit presumptuous, isn’t it?”
“Well, no one ever complains about it. And all the writers talk the same way, about
revelation by God. It’s ‘the gospel of God,’ and ‘God’s act of redemption,’ and God calling
the believer, not Jesus. I’ll show you that list in a moment.”
I brought up my next quote, from Romans 16:25-27.

‘Glory be to God who has strengthened you, through my gospel and proclamation of
Jesus Christ, through his revelation of the mystery which was kept secret for long
ages, now disclosed and made known through the prophetic writings at the command of
the eternal God that all nations might obey through faith—to the only wise God, through
Jesus Christ. Amen.’

“Whew,” Shauna said after staring at the screen for almost a minute. “Did Paul always
write like that?”
“Well, in Greek you can write long sentences with a string of ideas because it’s an
inflected language, unlike English, so you don’t lose track of which phrase is modifying
which word. It can be quite sonorous, actually. But I confess I rearranged the translation a
little to try and make things clearer.”
Shauna gave me a look which suggested I had not been too successful. “So he’s saying
what? What’s this ‘mystery’ kept secret for long ages?”
“It has to be Jesus Christ. There’s nothing else he could be referring to.”
“But that doesn’t make sense. If God is revealing Jesus for the first time in long ages,
what was Jesus himself doing? Didn’t Paul count that as a revelation of Jesus?”
I shrugged. “It doesn’t look like it, does it? And that ‘proclamation of Jesus Christ’ is an
objective genitive, so it’s Christ being proclaimed, not doing the proclaiming.” I pointed to
the screen. “Anyway, it says here that the disclosing was through scripture, not through
Jesus himself.”
“How can Paul just ignore Jesus’ whole career like that?”
“I don’t know.”
Shauna turned to me in mock condescension. “Maybe the translation isn’t right, if the
sentence is so complicated.”
I gave her a poke. “Nice try. But there are a few other places where you get the same
idea. They can’t all be mistranslated.” I called up the next link in the chain: two passages
from Colossians. “These are by someone a little later than Paul writing in his name.”

‘I became a minister...to preach the word of God, the mystery hidden from ages and
generations but now disclosed to the saints. God chose to make known among the

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Gentiles the richness of the glory of this mystery, which is Christ in you, the hope of
(your) glory.’ (1:25-27)
And, ‘I strive...that you may have all the richness of understanding, the full knowledge
of God’s mystery, which is Christ, in whom lie all God’s treasures of wisdom and
knowledge.’ (2:2-3)

“So he’s saying that Christ is a mystery revealed by God.”


“Yes, after long ages of being a secret.”
She considered a moment. “Maybe Paul and the others believed that Jesus didn’t reveal
anything important about himself when he was alive. They had to rely on God’s revelation
about Jesus after his death.”
“But if Jesus didn’t claim anything for himself, what inspired men like Paul to heap so
much divinity on him? Anyway, Christians couldn’t fail to assume that Jesus had revealed
himself for what he was, at least to his chosen followers. Traditions like that would have
formed very quickly, if only to support the claims that the early church was making about
him.”
Shauna looked perplexed. “So why don’t they give Jesus any credit for revealing God’s
secret? Maybe Paul wanted to claim that his way was the only way—through direct
inspiration.”
“Now that would be presumptuous. What would that make Paul look like?”
“Maybe he wanted to upstage Jesus.”
“Maybe they all did. Look at this next one.” I brought up Ephesians 3:3-6 onto the
screen. “This one is even later, and also written in Paul’s name.”

‘It was by a revelation that God’s mystery was made known to me. From what I wrote
to you before, you recognize my insight into the mystery of Christ, which in former
generations was not made known to men, but has now been revealed by the Spirit to
God’s holy apostles and prophets: that through the gospel the Gentiles have become
fellow heirs, members of the same body and partakers of the promise in Jesus Christ.’

“You see, all these prophets and apostles have had things revealed to them by God’s
Spirit. There isn’t a word about any of them receiving knowledge or inspiration from Jesus
himself. And always the mystery of Christ, unknown to all the ages before this divine
revelation of him. How could they express themselves like this so universally with the
memory of Jesus’ recent ministry so fresh—no matter what he might have claimed or not
claimed about himself?”
Shauna peered more closely at the screen. “But doesn’t it say here that the mystery is
something specific—about the gentiles being fellow heirs? Maybe Jesus hadn’t made a
special point about that, and now it’s being revealed, so to speak. And wasn’t there
something similar in the one before?”
I called up the excerpts from Colossians again. Shauna pointed to the first passage.
“See—the mystery is ‘Christ in you.’ Maybe Jesus didn’t say that either, and Paul thinks
he’s gotten a revelation about it—or the guy who wrote this pretending to be Paul.”
I took out my Greek text and reviewed both passages. “Well, first of all, the Greek isn’t
that precise. These things could be referring to the ‘richness of the mystery’, or the ‘insight

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into the mystery’ which ‘Paul’ says he’s gotten, not the mystery itself. Besides, the other
quote from Colossians and the one from Romans point specifically to Christ himself as the
content of the secret. But surely the amazing thing is that all these writers could talk about
Christ and things having to do with Christ and salvation and never once point to Jesus’ own
ministry as having had anything to do with revealing them. Why would they so thoroughly
cut him out of the picture like that?”
Shauna made her own gesture of bafflement.
I flipped through the other passages in my chain. “Look at this. Here—2 Corinthians
5:18—Paul says he’s been given the ministry of reconciling man to God. Didn’t Jesus do
that in his ministry? Back in chapter 3—here—Paul says that God has qualified him to be
the dispenser of his new covenant, but he doesn’t have a word to say about Jesus dispensing
that covenant. And then he goes on to talk about the splendor of God’s work in sending the
Spirit to inspire missionaries like himself. But where is the splendor of Jesus’ life and
ministry? Wasn’t his work at least as important as Paul’s? Does Paul think God placed
greater importance on his work than on Jesus’ work?”
“I thought Paul was always talking about how humble he was.”
I pointed to my next passage: 2 Corinthians 6:2. “Well, how’s this for humility? Paul
quotes Isaiah: ‘In the time of my favor I heard you, in the day of salvation I helped you.’
This is supposed to be God promising salvation. But when does this promise come to
fulfillment? Was it in Jesus’ life and death? No. Paul points to his own ministry and says,
‘I tell you, now is the time of God’s favor, now is the day of salvation.’!”
Shauna patted me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Kevin, I’m sure you’ll work it out.
Maybe all we need is another slice of pizza.” She popped out of her chair and headed for the
kitchen. After casting one last scowl at the screen, I followed her.
Shauna occasionally complained about my kitchen—or at least the organization of it.
When I told her that the business of eating was not one of my priorities, she countered that it
was precisely one’s non-priorities that should be the most efficiently organized. That way,
one didn’t have to spend time thinking about them—time best spent on the more important
things. On the other hand, she didn’t own a warming tray, a feature I always played up as a
prominent part of a truly efficient kitchen, especially when one was serving pizza in it. I
noticed she expressed no qualms about such things on this occasion.
But then, significantly more momentous issues were on our plate that evening: unraveling
the unexpected mysteries of a 2000-year-old faith. And everyone loved a mystery.

Back at the keyboard, I said to Shauna: “Paul is consistent in what he tells us about his
inspiration. And not only his own. The engine that drives the entire missionary movement
seems to have nothing to do with any memory of Jesus, or directions he left behind. It is
God’s Spirit, sent directly from heaven.”
I called up the first passage in my next chain, 2 Corinthians 1:21-22.

‘It is God who has bound us firmly with you in Christ and anointed us, God who has
set his seal upon us by giving the Spirit to dwell in our hearts, as a pledge of what is to
come.’

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“This is so representative of what Paul says—and everyone else. They all point to God as
the one who got everything started. And he did it by sending the Spirit.”
Shauna started to point to the screen. “But—”
“Yes,” I interrupted. I knew by now she was quick to spot things. “That ‘in Christ’ pops
up all over the place. It’s almost like a mantra. Sometimes it’s ‘through Christ’. I
remember a parish priest when I was a boy sticking it into every second sentence of his
sermons, and it became quite annoying. But the way he was using it is the way I’m certain
Paul was using it. For the priest and for Paul, it was a reference to the mystical presence of
Jesus. I’ve looked at many occurrences of the phrase in the letters, and Paul and the others
never seem to be referring to Jesus in the past, to his life on earth. It’s Jesus in the present
they’re concerned with: God working now through Christ, like some kind of spiritual
channel.”
At one point in my survey, it had struck me that this was a concept virtually equivalent to
the Greek Logos, or personified Jewish Wisdom: Christ as the intermediary force between
God and the world. However, I left this unsaid with Shauna, as I was reluctant to get into a
long discussion about the religious philosophy of the times.
“Here Christ serves as a kind of mystical bond God has used to link Paul and the others
together. In fact, Paul even says that believers are ‘in Christ’ as part of Christ’s body. In a
spiritual sense, of course.”
Shauna screwed up her nose. “It all sounds faintly blasphemous to me. Not to mention
distasteful. It doesn’t seem like the sort of thing a normal Jew would come up with about a
crucified rabbi. No wonder they were persecuting them in the synagogues.”
I had moved on to my next link in the chain. “Here’s another example of drawing a blank
on Jesus.” I read her parts of 1 Corinthians 2:11-16.

“ ‘Only the Spirit of God knows what the nature of God is. We have received not the
spirit of the world, but the Spirit which is from God, that we might understand the gifts
bestowed on us from God. And we speak of these gifts in words not taught by human
wisdom, but by the Spirit...’

“What do you think of that?” I asked her.


“Well, I know Christians say that the whole meaning of Jesus’ teaching was to reveal
God and what he wanted. Didn’t Paul think that, too?”
“Apparently not. Apparently Paul considered that only the Spirit knew and taught about
God, and that we understand God’s gifts only through the Spirit. There’s another spot—
here, Romans 1:19—where he says, ‘All that may be known of God by men...God himself
has disclosed it to them.’ I mean, didn’t Jesus disclose God? Wasn’t the idea that God’s
attributes had been visible in Jesus? And how could any apostle preaching Jesus talk of
God’s gifts and never speak a word about Jesus’ gifts? It’s one thing to feel that you’re not
interested in the things the man did, but Paul should not have been capable of making
statements which openly dismiss those things as though they never existed.”
“And you don’t think that it was just some kind of axe Paul had to grind? Maybe it really
was something pathological with him.” At my expression, she hastened to add, “Of course, I
realize that’s grasping at straws.”

69

“It certainly is, though it’s been done. But that sort of explanation doesn’t hold, if only
because Paul isn’t the only one talking like that. Look at this. Here’s the writer of 1 Peter
saying that the prophets foretold grace and salvation, as well as the sufferings and glory
destined for believers, and that it all referred to the epistle writer’s own time. And now
those things ‘have been announced to you by preachers who brought you the gospel through
the Holy Spirit sent from heaven.’ It’s like the case of the ‘secret hidden for long ages’:
between the old prophecies and the preaching of Christian apostles there’s not a word about
Jesus revealing such things. Everything is through the Spirit.”
“Bizarre,” Shauna murmured.
“There’s one passage—here it is, Titus 3:6—where you almost think he’s about to make a
reference to Jesus’ life and then you realize it’s one of those spiritual medium things.” I read
from the screen, starting at verse 4:

“ ‘But when the kindness and love of God our Savior appeared, he saved us, not because
of our righteous deeds but because of his mercy, by the water of rebirth and renewal in
the Holy Spirit, which he poured out on us richly through Jesus Christ our Savior...’

“This is very typical of the slant all the early writers take, that it’s God who has acted in
the present, rather than Jesus. It’s God’s kindness—or his ‘grace’ in other places—that has
appeared. They’re always saying that it’s God who has saved us, rather than Jesus.”
“He even calls God ‘our Savior’,” Shauna noted.
“Yes, although he goes on to give the same title to Jesus. But if you look carefully at this
passage, you see that God saves in the present time through some kind of baptism and the
power of the Holy Spirit. Not, as one would expect—”
“Through the death and resurrection of Jesus,” Shauna completed my thought.
“Exactly. Jesus is introduced only as the agency for the sending of the Spirit.”
“Like a conduit—”
“A spiritual channel—” Another Logos type image.
“An electrical cord running between heaven and earth.”
I smiled at her. “Yes, a good metaphor. Jesus can be introduced as an intermediary force
helping God work through the Spirit, but nobody can bring him in as a living, preaching—
and dying—force in his own right, who did the work of salvation within living memory.
That same writer earlier in this letter is absolutely mind-boggling. Listen to this: ‘...in hope
of eternal life which God promised long ages ago and has now at the proper time revealed in
his word through the proclamation entrusted to me by the command of God our Savior...’ ”
I threw up my hands. “Now, if anyone can find a chink in this picture where Jesus can
squeeze himself in I’d like to see it. God makes promises ages ago and now he’s acted on
those promises by revealing his word to apostles like Paul. Is this writer as pathological as
Paul? Excuse my metaphor, but it’s like they’ve all taken a scalpel and cut out the heart of
the whole Christian organism.”
Shauna winced. “Or worse.”
“For a movement which is supposed to have begun as a reaction to a human being, to the
man they thought was God’s Son, they’ve all swung their focus away from him and fixed it
entirely on God.”

70

I flipped erratically through one of my other chains. “ ‘The Gospel is the saving power of
God.’...‘God who has saved us and called us.’ Didn’t Jesus do these things? ‘God is
appealing to you through us.’...‘Fix our minds trustfully on God.’...‘God began the good
work in you.’ Wasn’t the good work started by Jesus? ‘You are by God’s own act an heir.’
What about Jesus’ act? ‘We need to teach you God’s oracles all over again.’ Here’s Paul
again, in 1 Thessalonians, saying, ‘God called us to holiness, not impurity.’ I don’t care if
you don’t know a single actual saying Jesus spoke, how could Christians not have regarded
Jesus as calling people to holiness? It’s unfathomable! Then he says that anyone rejecting
these rules is rejecting God. I guess he couldn’t have heard of Jesus’ saying that ‘Anyone
who rejects me rejects the one who sent me.’ ”
Shauna let her breath out and said, “OK, Kevin, this is all well and good—but!” I knew
that my custodian of common sense was about to stand up and attempt to save the day, as
she always did. “I have no idea why they all expressed themselves like this, but Paul and the
others must have talked about Jesus’ death and resurrection, didn’t they? They had to have
him in mind some of the time.”
“Well, yes, they did, of course.” I was allowing more exasperation to creep into my voice
than I should have. “But it all has a kind of disembodied quality. You never get a sense of
context. It’s like that business of who was responsible for the crucifixion. Nobody is ever
accused of it except maybe the demon spirits. Paul talks about the benefits of Christ’s death
which God—and himself, of course—are making available through the preaching of the
gospel. All you have to do is believe and you get eternal life. But it’s like the bare fact of
Jesus’ death is something he’s pulled out of a box God mailed to him—”
“With the Holy Spirit as the postman,” Shauna quipped.
I laughed in spite of myself. She could always bring me back to an even keel with her
refreshing wit. Not to mention a sparkle in the eyes that I was a complete sucker for.
“Yes. And Jesus as the mail van that brings the postman, I suppose.” Now we were
being silly. Then a thought occurred to me. “It’s almost as if the fact of Jesus’ death were a
part of the mystery being revealed by God. The secret kept silent for long ages. They’re all
learning about Jesus and his redeeming work through the Spirit.”
“Maybe it was the significance of his death that was the secret. After all, Jesus couldn’t
teach about his death before it took place.”
I considered this idea for a moment. “Well, that might be a solution. Except that it
shouldn’t preclude everyone from at least referring to his death—his whole career, in fact—
as something that had recently happened, something located between God’s promises and
mysteries, and the revelation of them by people like Paul. Besides, the Gospels do have
Jesus giving prophecies about his death and hints about its meaning during his ministry.”
“Then I have no solution.”
We both stared intently at the screen as though willing it to supply the elusive
explanation, the reason why Paul and the other early writers could so ruthlessly detach the
Christian proselytising mission from that recent incarnation of the divine figure they all
preached and worshipped. By rights, the movement should have reeked of the spirit of Jesus
of Nazareth, it should have exuded his human personality, resounded with his every thought,
word and deed. Prophets should have echoed his apocalyptic predictions, preachers
trumpeted his teachings; and all should have gloried in the wonder and promise of his
reputed miracles. Images of the figures who had been part of his life, the places he had trod,

71

slept on, preached in, died on, should have hung in the very air Christians breathed, burned
into their memory and consciousness. The Son of God come to earth. The face of God
incarnated for all to look upon.
Instead, they had turned him into something remote. Instead of his birth in Bethlehem
and a youth in Nazareth, they spoke of his pre-existence in heaven with God. Instead of his
miracles on the shores of Galilee’s sea, they told of his work in creating all things. Rather
than proclaim the teachings he gave from hillside and marketplace, attended by the rapt faces
of ordinary men and women thirsting for a new ethic of charity and love, they sought out his
voice in scripture and cast him in the mystical role of channel for God’s Spirit from heaven,
instilled into the minds of prophets and seers. As for the vivid events at the climax of his
life, his trials and sufferings and terrible execution on a hill outside Jerusalem, these
immediately evaporated one and all before the great cosmic reflection of them in the
spiritual realms, in the struggle and ultimate triumph over the demon forces who were
unwittingly doing the work of God in their own destruction. Then he had risen, but none
said where, and no one spoke of a wondrous return in flesh. When Jesus of Nazareth died,
his own movement buried him and it was left to such as Ignatius 80 years later to unearth the
bones and to plead for the simple recognition that Jesus had indeed been born of Mary, had
really been persecuted and crucified by Pontius Pilate.
Why is it that the great issues of life are usually the ones we manufacture for ourselves,
out of things we cannot touch, ideas we cannot prove, emotions that roam landscapes we can
never set eyes upon. When respite is needed from such human obsessions, it is probably the
refuge of lovemaking that we most often indulge in, where all can be touched and seen, and
the passions raised require little philosophizing.
Shauna was, in her easygoing way, the most uninhibited lover I had ever known, and
there were times when she could even mix sex with humor. When in one of her moods, she
could be witty to the point of distraction, and she once took pad and pen to bed and sketched
everything we were doing. But mostly she was capable of losing herself in the activity at
hand as though it were the most natural, rewarding thing on earth—which it was, she said. I
often compared her to the women I had known as a young man, in that period when the
Middle Ages had waned but before the sexual revolution had really settled in to form the
new government. My lone Jewish girlfriend during that time had also struck me as
completely at home in the arms of a lover, whereas my Christian—or even ex-Christian—
partners, so it seemed, always had an ear cocked. The voice they listened for echoed down
the centuries, in the rabid misogyny of the early Church Fathers, the obsessive anti-sexuality
of the medieval church, the fixations of a more modern clergy who were still adamant
against all expressions of pleasure in the human body.
I had often told Shauna I was convinced that the center in the brain which stimulated
religious belief lay right beside whatever neuronal cluster was responsible for the fear of sex,
for the stimulation of one inevitably triggered the response of the other. The obsession of
today’s fundamentalists to create eunuchs of their children and banish human eroticism to
the far side of the moon was merely the latest chapter in a long tradition of soul-destroying
suffocation which much of Western society had visited upon itself for almost two millennia.
Modern sexual liberation and libertinism, which the conservatives so deplored, was simply
the heady response to a renewed flow of breath and the lifting of centuries of self-imposed
guilt and shame.

72

The foundations of my ancestral culture were in the process of crumbling, as an ancient


god collapsed into the dust of time, but Shauna’s body beneath me was a foundation I could
cling to, ever vital and passionate, even if on this occasion there was no humor in the mix.
That we were in love was something accepted between us. Whether we would one day
marry was an issue yet to be decided. For her, cultural considerations still operated, even if
she did not attend the synagogue, and an earlier marriage had not been fulfilling. For myself,
one who had been forever single, marriage continued to connote old associations, part of a
world-view firmly discarded, and I had always been reluctant to renew any connections with
it. Perhaps I envisioned that one day the union fated for me would simply happen, generated
spontaneously by some new force we would all find ourselves a part of. When the world
reached adulthood, when the medieval era was finally washed away to mingle its last traces
with the waters of history, my life partner and I would find ourselves standing together on
the shore, ready to undertake the journey to lands unknown. Such, in any case, had been the
naive fantasies of my youth, when first I stripped off the personal detritus of centuries.
Tonight Shauna was marvelously responsive, though with a little more solemn cast than
usual. Ever reluctant to consider myself an exceptional lover, I decided that Paul and pizza
had after all been a potent combination. Somehow I felt that Shauna was not just a
disinterested observer to my research or to the broader upheavals of the Christian scholarly
world. Even if one’s own house is left standing, the collapse of the neighborhood around it
can have a sobering influence. The rumble of the earthquake of change may well have been
echoing in Shauna’s ears as well.

*****************************

Chapter Seven

I spent most of the following week in New York City with my publisher. Two of my
older novels were about to be reprinted, and I was being consulted on design features and
covers. I let drop the hint that my next project would be unusual and decidedly
controversial. Winston was intrigued, but knew enough not to press me when I told him that
for now it was to remain a closely guarded secret.
It crossed my mind to wonder if even in these prestigious offices, in this forward-looking
time as the 21st century approached, a publisher might get cold feet on a book which was
certain to raise the hackles on a broad range of roosters. Was it possible I would suffer the
same fate as Vardis Fisher, relegated to the valiant fringes of the publishing world, on the
outskirts of oblivion? Then I reflected that even this was a presumptuous comparison, since
at that moment I had scarcely a clue as to how I was going to proceed with this ‘ground
breaking’ novel. As yet, it existed entirely in the mystical dimensions of theoretical reality.
When I returned home, I discovered that David had been trying to contact me, and at the
beginning of the following week I arranged to meet him at his University office. May had
just arrived, spring was getting down to business, and exams at the U were winding up.
Many of the students were heading out to get the jump on summer jobs, parties or the
endless cycle of study. I congratulated myself that all this was long behind me, until I

73

realized that I was essentially in the same ratrace—with decidedly fewer parties. At least I
got to pick my own subjects for whatever degree I chose.
David’s office door stood open. The late morning sun which streamed through the high,
academic-style windows fell on a frazzled figure sitting behind a desk more perilously
cluttered than when I had first seen it over a month ago.
“Come in, Kevin. If I haven’t buried that chair under a mountain of papers, take a seat.”
He pointed toward something in front of the desk which currently supported three large
boxes of envelopes. I set these on the last square foot of space on the vinyl sofa against the
wall and sat.
“How is the lovely Shauna?” He winked. “Burton asked about her just yesterday.”
“Did he now? And just how acquisitive is this man when his eye lights on something he
likes?”
“Burton Patterson is a man of impeccable propriety,” David intoned, which was followed
by the raising of one eyebrow the barest of notches. “And subtlety. But then, I’m sure you
were already planning on buying Shauna a dozen roses every Friday, just to show her how
much you care.”
I gave that an ambiguous laugh and let the topic drop, though part of my brain started to
calculate the monthly cost of a dozen roses every Friday.
David leaned expansively back in his chair. “Well, where should I start? Since we’ve
gotten onto the subject of Burton Patterson let me give you this piece of news. No—first of
all, I’d better bring you up to date on the nitty-gritty. The Foundation is getting incorporated
and applying for non-profit status. Last Thursday I oversaw the setting up of a Web site: six
of us working on that for a solid week, let me tell you. My own student days are starting to
look like the Dark Ages.”
He fished a card out of his desk drawer and flipped it toward me. “There’s the URL. Are
you on the Net? Yes, of course you are. Give us a visit and see what you think.”
I glanced down at the card. These days, business cards scarcely bothered with something
as old-fashioned as a street mailing address. Visits and communications went by cyberspace
now. The Age of Reason Foundation, fittingly I supposed, inhabited not a concrete building
on some asphalt block, but a neuronal site in an electronic mind that circled the world. Soon
we would all be disembodied synapses firing in one planet-wide brain. I wondered if that
brain would eventually become homogeneous. Could one part of it remain anchored in the
Middle Ages while the rest moved on into the Third Millennium? Then I reflected that one
of the capacities of the human brain was the potential for disassociation—not to mention
schizophrenia.
David was continuing, “We’ve put out feelers on the Net for more members. Not just to
academic institutions. We’ve posted on various newsgroups. We’re already starting to get
interested inquiries. Of course, that’s not all we’ve gotten. Take a look at this.”
He picked up a sheet lying to one side and handed it to me. It was the print-out of an e-
mail to the new Web site. “It came in a couple of days ago. They managed to delete a return
address. I’m having someone look into finding out just where this group is located. They
call themselves the Ascended Masters. Probably a bunch of crazies just letting off steam,
but you never know.”
I read:
‘Wake up and acknowledge the ASCENDED MASTER Jesus Christ. His message is

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all the Reason we need. Your presumptions label you for what you are: the prophecied
Antichrist whose seductive message signals the beginnings of the woes heralding the
arrival of the Lamb, the Son of Man who shall reap the over-ripe harvest of the earth’s
crops. So does Revelation 14:15 foretell. The powers of darkness will be defeated and
you shall be thrown along with your false worshippers of the wisdom of the world into
the lake of fire with its sulphurous flames. You will find that 6,000 years is the true tally,
despite your evil intentions and hotshot lawyers.’
I handed it back. “Well, whoever they are, they’ve managed to garble allusions to several
New Testament documents, including Paul. There’s no Antichrist by name in Revelation,
but they’re probably thinking of the ‘beast’, which is really a reference to Nero when he
comes back from the dead.”
“Christians believed that Nero returned from the dead?”
“That he was going to,” I corrected. “It was one of the great myths of the time,
apparently. The Antichrist idea began with the Jews—or some of them—who thought that
some agent of Satan, a ‘man of lawlessness’, was going to impede the work of the Messiah
and lead to a great confrontation before the Kingdom could be established. Some Christians
took over the idea and focused it on Nero returning in the form of a beast. It’s the letters of
his name which add up to 666.”
“Fascinating.”
“Do you think this group poses some danger?”
“Well, we have to allow for the possibility.”
“By the way, I’m not aware of any ‘hotshot lawyers’ in the New Testament. What are
they referring to there, do you know?” Somehow I had a feeling what the answer was going
to be.
“Actually, that’s the strange part of it—and why we’re not just dismissing the whole
thing as a crank response. The rest could be taken off what we’ve said about ourselves on
the Web page. But that allusion to Burton Patterson is something that shows some inside
information.”
My eyebrows went up.
“Yes, there’s no doubt the ‘hotshot lawyers’ is a reference to Burton. It concerns one of
the things I was planning on telling you today. I don’t know whether you’re aware that the
ACLU has a fresh challenge coming up against a couple of state legislatures who are passing
bills in favor of teaching creationism in the schools. This sort of thing is picking up steam
again, it seems. Earlier this year in Tennessee, they were considering a law that would let
school boards dismiss teachers who present evolution as fact rather than a ‘theory’. And
Alabama is insisting that disclaimers be placed in biology textbooks pointing out that
evolution is a ‘controversial theory’ held by ‘some scientists’. Give a listen to this piece of
scientific reasoning.” He fished another piece of paper out of the surrounding clutter.
“ ‘No one was present when life first appeared on earth. Therefore, any statement about
life’s origins should be considered as theory, not fact.’ That’s what the state Senate wants
Alabama students to read in their textbooks.” He tossed it back on the heap. “No wonder
we’re losing the capacity for rational thinking.”
“No one was present when God created the world, either. But creationists seem to have
infallible sources about that little event.”

75

David snorted. “It’s getting so that teachers simply won’t teach evolution at all. The
fundamentalists are becoming so assertive that schools are afraid of confrontation with
parents and church groups and so they simply skip the whole subject. In some states,
teachers find themselves facing school boards where half the members are creation
fundamentalists. I don’t have it right here, but some recent poll in biology classes showed
that as few as 10% of the students had studied evolution at all.” David’s hands went up.
“And this is where our future scientists are going to come from?”
“What does all this have to do with Burton Patterson?”
David relaxed back into his chair. “Sorry. I get so worked up over this thing. As I said,
the ACLU has been planning a court challenge against feelers by Georgia and Pennsylvania
to sneak creationism onto school curriculums.” He paused for effect. “The Age of Reason
Foundation is going to handle the one in Pennsylvania.”
I gave a jerk of surprise. “How did you manage that? You’re barely out of the starting
gate. I’m surprised the ACLU has even heard of you.”
David leaned forward over the desk and adopted a conspiratorial expression. “Well—this
is between you and me, but it was through Burton.” I waited. David decided it was best to
look a touch sheepish. “I know what you’re going to think. But Burton has heavy
connections with the ACLU going back decades. With us handling the court hearing, it’ll
bring us into the limelight overnight. We couldn’t have bought that kind of publicity.”
“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “Let me guess. The great man himself is going to
personally conduct the courtroom proceedings.”
David gave a wry smile. “Something like that.”
“I guess you’re not the only ones itching to get into the limelight—or return to it. And
just when is this hearing to be held?”
“End of June. In Philadelphia.” Another pause. “We’re hoping you can be there.”
Now I was really taken aback. “Me? Why me?”
David looked as though he had been carefully preparing for this moment for some time.
“Kevin, I think you’ll agree with me that the period we live in is so complex, even chaotic,
with things happening and changing so fast, that the media simply can’t keep up with it.
They really can’t be expected to get things right all the time or put the proper slant on things.
When you want to get your ideas across and create the right picture, you’ve got to do it
yourself. With the Internet offering a whole new medium of communication, it needs its
own ‘reporters’, so to speak, some new brand of writer to present things to the online public
and the traditional media...don’t you think?”
I was staring at him nonplussed. He said, “I thought maybe you’d like the post of
resident publicist for the Age of Reason Foundation.”
I finally found my voice. “David, I’m a novelist!”
“Yes, but you’re one of the best writers I know of. You had a flair even when we were at
the U, without the academic pretensions. We need color, style. Someone who can pitch to
the ordinary man and woman, say things people will want to read, things they can
understand. We need to generate some excitement. After all, we’ve got a subject here
which is bound to be a bit cold and dry.” The next line was delivered like some rousing old
school motto: “You can make ‘Rationality’ into the next buzzword—it’ll be hanging on
everyone’s lips!”

76

Needless to say, I looked skeptical. “That I doubt. But why not a professional PR
person?”
“Bah! We couldn’t work with someone like that. We need a writer with a personal
investment, a familiarity with what we’re trying to do. He has to have some conviction in it.
We don’t want the traditional slick, shallow approaches to everything. The other thing is,
we’ve got to be able to handle sensitive issues with tact, not come across too preachy, or too
elitist.”
“That’s a tall order.”
“I know you can handle it, Kevin. Naturally, there’d be a stipend. A fairly decent one.
Burton’s making available a sizeable fund for the Foundation. And he was quite impressed
with you at his place. He thinks you can do the job, too.”
I remembered the greeting Patterson had given me at the gathering, as ‘our chronicler of
great events.’ This implied that he and David had discussed the possibility before he had
met me.
“And the hearing?” Since this was to be Patterson’s show, I wondered if I was being
taken on as his personal biographer.
“You’ll be our Net reporter, if you like. We may even be able to persuade some of the
news services in the regular media to carry you. You’ll be putting things in their broader
context, plugging the Foundation. Not too blatantly, of course. But we need to make sure
that what’s being written about us creates the best impression, and the more that voice is our
own, the better. We’re up against some pretty stiff counter views—and not all of them come
across quite as loony as that one.” He gestured to the message from the Ascended Masters.
“And how do you think these guys found out about Philadelphia?”
“Oh, there’s any number of ways. Through ACLU contacts probably. Although it’s
surprising that they found out so soon.”
In the back of my mind where I was turning over David’s proposal, the idea did have
some appeal. Sales of my novels had achieved bestseller levels only once, so a regular
stipend would be a useful addition to my income. Branching out into non-fiction forms of
writing was also an idea that had long held some fascination for me. Besides, it would be a
forum not only for the Foundation, but undoubtedly for my own views and experiences as
well, as long as they didn’t clash with those of my employers. But that raised a sticky point,
and I voiced it to David.
“No, Kevin, I would rather you thought of yourself as a colleague, not an employee.
Naturally, some kind of PR committee would have some...input, or approval role, in what
you wrote and sent out, but we would want to encourage your own creativity. Anyway, my
friend, at this stage we’re still doing everything by the seat of our pants.”
Well, why not? It was worth a whirl. For all I knew, the whole enterprise could sink like
a stone—even with Burton Patterson on the bridge. I said cheerily, “OK. Put me down for
Philadelphia at the end of June.” David looked immensely pleased with himself.
But I couldn’t let it get me too distracted from my top-priority project. “On one
condition—that you leave me alone in the meantime. Make that my first assignment and I
won’t go on payroll, so to speak, until then. If I can’t nail down my research for a Jesus
novel over the next six weeks, I may just chuck it. But I’ve got to give it my best shot.”

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David countered, “How about a compromise? Between now and the hearing we’ll have
one—at the most two—meetings to clarify your position and establish some ground rules.
Then we can take it from there in Philadelphia.”
“Fair enough. Now, it’s my turn. Since I got back from New York I’ve waded into a new
area of research and I’m floundering. There are a few old works on this subject and an
assortment of articles, but I haven’t been able to locate a comprehensive, up-to-date study.
Scholars seem to be all over the place on it, and no one agrees on how it should be integrated
into the picture of early Christianity.”
“What is it?”
“The Graeco-Roman mystery religions. Or cults, if you will. The commentaries have the
occasional reference or allusion to them, but nothing substantial. Over the years I’ve picked
up a smattering of impressions, but I need to talk to someone who can answer some specific
questions. I don’t suppose that would be you?”
“Yikes, no. That’s far too esoteric for me. However—” and here David gave me a
curious smile—”you’ve already been in contact with the person who could help you, I’m
sure.”
“You mean Sylvia?”
“Yes, of course. I’m sure she’d be delighted to see you again. In fact, she told me the
other day that if you came to see me, to be sure and suggest that you drop by her office.” He
glanced at his watch. “Actually, you might catch her there in a few minutes. She’ll be
getting out from monitoring an exam.”
“Yes, I never thought of that,” I mumbled, not too convincingly. David and I exchanged
a few more words and arranged that he would give me a call later in the week.
“Burton will be delighted,” David called as I went out the door.
Not with everything, I hope, I said to myself. I had decided I couldn’t afford the roses.

Of course, I had thought of Sylvia Lawrence even before coming that day, but for some
reason I had gone through the motions with David. Was it guilt or anticipation I felt as I
made my way down the corridor to Sylvia’s office, not far from David’s own? The woman
had made an impression on me at the Patterson house, in the elegant courtyard under a cool
evening sky, but what it was I had not yet allowed myself to analyze.
There was no answer as I knocked on the frosted glass-panelled door. After a moment’s
hesitation I was about to invoke discretion over valor and make a quick departure when
footsteps approached from around a nearby corner. Sylvia Lawrence came into view
carrying a hefty armful of papers. When she saw me, her face brightened and she almost
trotted the few steps between us, as though fearing I might run away.
“Mr. Quinter! How nice to see you.”
“How are you, Sylvia?” I hoped that this would prompt her to switch to my first name. I
also hoped it wasn’t deference she was showing me. After all, I couldn’t have been more
than eight or ten years older than her. And showing less, I told myself.
“Here, let me take those from you.” The action of reaching for the papers not only
brought my hands in contact with her arms, it placed my face quite close to hers, closer than

78

we had stood at the Patterson gathering. In that moment it struck me that the angular
features which might have seemed offputting at a distance were actually quite strong, and the
momentary expression they adopted gave me an unexpected rush. I dropped my eyes as I
pulled back with my arms full.
I blurted, “Exam papers?”
She was fishing for her office key in a small pocket of her jacket. “Yes. You should
have come earlier and tried it. I’m sure you would have done well. Philosophy of History
204. I made sure there was a question on the ancient Greek historians.”
“Herodotus and Thucydides.”
She gave me a smile as she produced the key. “Well, I regard Herodotus as little more
than a chronicler—or worse, since he can be rather naive and prejudiced in his analyses.
Thucydides on the other hand—”
“A master. I couldn’t have done without him when I wrote my novel on the Athenian
expedition to Sicily.”
“None of us could do without Thucydides. Our whole interpretation and much of our
knowledge of the period of the Peloponnesian War is dependent on him.” She gestured to
the papers in my arms. “I’m willing to bet that several students in there have talked about
how Thucydides ‘created’ the history of the time for later ages. He may have lived it and
wrote some of it as it was going on, but he brought his own judgement to the interpretation
of events, and we’re fortunate that he was a man of such intellectual integrity and perception.
We are entirely in the hands of those who have ‘created’ history for us, Mr. Quinter, and if
lesser minds are all we have to go on, we have to be extremely careful of what we make of
their product.”
Sylvia had made no move to unlock the door, as though this spot and this moment in the
well-worn hallway of an ageing university was something to be savored. Then she glanced
down at the pile of papers I had taken from her and apparently decided that the moment was
over. “I’d better let you set those down.”
As she inserted the key in the lock I said, “It’s unfortunate Thucydides didn’t complete
his work. I once considered writing a novel about the War, with the focus on Thucydides
himself. I even envisioned a scene where he was interrupted in mid-sentence, the point
where his history breaks off suddenly.”
She smiled at me over her shoulder as she pushed open the door. “I’m sure that would
have been very interesting.”
The contrast with David’s office could not have been greater. To say that Sylvia
Lawrence was neat would perhaps have been an understatement, but it was the neatness of
an artist who makes dramatic use of a large canvas without once losing control of any
element within it. There were several tall bookcases, the type with horizontal glass doors on
the upper shelves, filled to the brim with volumes of all shapes and sizes. In addition to an
impressive desk, there were three lamps, a small sofa, two chairs and a stool. The year-end
collection of exam papers, reports and who knew what else was breathtaking, but I had little
doubt that their proprietor knew exactly where every sheet rested. On the wall to the right of
the desk hung a piece of modern art. Its colors were varied and subtle, but following bold,
well-defined lines, and it was too large for the room. It conveyed the same impression
which her body had had on me at the gathering: a touch too tall and ungainly, yet somehow
engrossing and inviting closer examination.

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Sylvia took the papers from me and set them down on the corner of the desk. Rather than
move around to her chair and place the piece of furniture between us, she leaned back
against it and asked conversationally: “How is your novel coming?”
The chair in front of the desk, unlike David’s, was clear, but as she did not invite me to
sit, I also remained standing, feeling that odd magnetism at being near her which I had
sensed at the party. Her clothing today was not as elegant, but it was well tailored and
somehow complemented the quirky personality it enclosed.
I almost confided in her. “Actually, it could be going better. Sometimes I feel I’m in the
house of mirrors at the amusement park. What’s image and what’s reality? And why does
everything look so distorted?”
The comment seemed to pique her curiosity. I asked, “Tell me, what’s your feeling about
Jesus?”
She gave me the fleeting impression that I had struck a nerve. Then she took a breath as
though opening a box and deciding what item to pick from it. If some of those items were
more personal than others, she chose a neutral one.
“I guess I would say that Jesus came along at just the right time. He gave expression to a
lot of things that were developing in his day. The Jews thought the Kingdom was coming,
and a Messiah to rescue them. The Greeks wanted a way to communicate with the
transcendent God.”
“You mean the Logos idea?”
“Well, the general idea that we needed an intermediary between God and the world. A
savior, if you like. Personal salvation was the preoccupation of the era, and various gods
were developed to provide it.”
“Like the savior gods of the Greek mystery cults?”
“They were a part of the picture.”
“Only Jesus was a man.”
“That’s right.”
“What I mean is, if everyone else was developing savior gods who were mythical, why
did the Christians choose to pin it all on a man? It must have seemed odd at the time.”
“I suppose Jesus must have impressed them.”
Her eyes, perhaps two feet away, were on a level with mine. I said, “So much so that they
completely abandoned the man—after they turned him into a god.”
“What does that mean?” Only the voice was expressing curiosity.
I dropped my eyes. “Oh, just a little oddity I’ve encountered in my research.”
I turned to the bookcase beside me. “Do you have any books here on the mystery cults?”
“Yes, I do. Would you like to see them?” She moved to a farther case and raised one of
the horizontal doors. “Angus...Burkert...Wagner—”
“Are any of them recent?”
“The Burkert is. He views the cults as primarily votive religions, requesting the gods for
favors and protection against the vicissitudes of life. Like Christians do of the saints.”
“Is that valid? Didn’t they provide a kind of eternal salvation?”
She took out a volume and idly thumbed through it. “The trend among modern scholars
seems to be to downplay that. But you have to understand that we really know very little
about the mysteries. Many thousands of people over the centuries became initiates in the
various cults, but they were sworn to secrecy about what went on during the rites and what

80

they were supposed to signify. Not one of them ever broke the silence—or at least so that it
ended up in some record that survived. We have a tantalizing account of the initiations to
Isis by Apuleius in his novel The Golden Ass, but he is deliberately allusive and says he’s not
allowed to tell more. All the frescoes and inscriptions tend to be enigmatic and open to
interpretation.”
“So the secrets of the mysteries perished when Christianity eradicated them?”
“Unless we unearth something new about them.” She came back toward me and sat once
more against the edge of the desk with the book tucked against her. “Were you hoping to
include some orgiastic rite of Dionysos in your novel? In very ancient times the women who
conducted the rites were supposed to have indulged in some quite shocking behavior.”
The little flush in her eyes made me laugh self-consciously. “Well—a certain amount of
eroticism never hurts any book, I suppose. But I guess I was really looking to clarify the
question of whether the mystery cults influenced Christianity at all. Some scholars seem to
imply that they did, and then others try to shoot them down.”
“That’s been the pattern over this century, certainly. There were some extravagant claims
by the History of Religions school in the early 1900s that Christianity was little more than
another ‘mystery religion’, with Jesus as its savior god. Like Osiris, Attis and Mithras.
You’re familiar with them?”
“I’m getting there. I know they were the gods of various cults who suffered and died in
some way and came back from the dead and gave salvation to those who underwent
initiation into their worship. That seems a lot like Jesus and the Christians, doesn’t it?”
Sylvia smiled a touch condescendingly, as though I were a promising student who didn’t
know quite as much as he thought he did and could stand some additional education. So
close to that smile, with her body against the desk and the book pressed to her chest, I was
beginning to feel that I would surrender to any education she wanted to give me. She was
just a bit too near, and while propriety suggested that I should move away, my feet weren’t
listening.
“Well, first you need to correct a couple of misapprehensions there. There was a lot of
variety in the cults, and differences between the deities, so it’s difficult to make
generalizations. Mithras was probably the most important of the cultic gods, but he didn’t
die. Instead he slew a bull, which likely goes back to some agricultural rite or coming of age
ritual, as all the cult ceremonies probably do. This was the ‘saving act’, if you like. The
others did die in some fashion, except for Isis if you want to separate her cult from her
husband Osiris, but only Dionysos had a myth which clearly says he came back from the
dead. The old scholarly contention that the ancient world was packed with dying and rising
gods and that Jesus fitted into the pattern like another pea in the pod is a misconception.”
“In what way?”
“Because it’s far from clear whether these gods were thought of as having been
resurrected. The older scholars made too much of one reference in a Christian heresiologist
from the 4th century, Fermicus Maternus. He makes a remark that might refer to some kind
of resurrection, but it’s open to interpretation. And anyway, it’s quite late.”
I told her that Vardis Fisher had made much of the dying and rising savior gods idea in
his A Goat For Azazel, the novel in the Testament of Man which dealt with the spread of
Christianity. Sylvia wasn’t familiar with him. “But it’s not surprising, if he wrote in the
50s. He would still have been under the influence of the older scholarship.”

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“But surely,” I objected, “even if these gods didn’t actually rise from the dead, they still
conferred salvation, didn’t they? As I understand it, Christianity was engaged in a great
struggle with the cults before Constantine was converted. If they didn’t offer the promise of
some kind of afterlife, why would anyone have bothered with them? Why would they have
proved such strong competition?” I had gotten the impression that many of those who had
studied the mysteries were New Testament scholars who had an understandable interest in
downplaying the influence of the cults on the origins of their own faith.
“That’s certainly a valid point. There are suggestions that the cults did confer some state
of happiness in the afterlife. But the idea that resurrection was guaranteed for the believer
because the god himself had been resurrected is impossible to show. We really can’t find
that idea depicted in the myths or the frescoes, and of course we don’t have any writings
from the cults as we do in Christianity. We can’t even be sure that the cults envisioned the
initiate as merging with the god in some mystical way, as we see in Paul. We just have so
little to go on.”
“But—it strikes me that the Greeks and Romans wouldn’t need their gods to be
resurrected in flesh. The Jews were developing the idea that the righteous dead of past times
were going to come back to life to be rewarded and take part in the Kingdom, which was
going to be on earth, or at least on a transformed earth. So the Christians needed Jesus to
come back in the flesh, to provide the example, the precedent—”
“The paradigm,” Sylvia offered.
“Yes. But the Greeks: they didn’t really want to have the body survive death, did they? I
mean, didn’t they find that idea repugnant?”
“Yes, generally that’s the way Greek philosophy looked at it. Plato—and even Orphism
before him—regarded the soul as divine and trapped in the prison of matter, in the body.
The body was something to break free of, so that the soul could rejoin its divine source in
the heavenly world. Some Greek writers, like Celsus, scorned the Christians for wanting to
preserve the body forever, which they regarded as simply refuse.”
“So does that mean we have Plato to thank for alienating us from our bodies? Maybe the
early Christians were so anti-sexual because they carried the ‘evil of matter’ to extremes.”
She gave a little laugh. “Oh, I think there’s more to it than that. Most cultures seem to
have some anti-sexual streak in them, and I don’t think Plato bears the sole responsibility for
the idea that we don’t belong in our garments of flesh.” She was looking at me more intently
now. “Also, I would say that the Christians were influenced by an overdeveloped sense of
sin and self-examination among the Jews—not to mention their obsession over ritual purity.
And that extended to sexual relations as well.”
Sylvia’s voice had become quietly sensual, her words more measured. “Nothing could
make one unclean quicker than contact with a woman.”
The office was warm and close. It held the odor of books. Sunbeams through the
window gilded dust motes floating in the air. Beside them hung Sylvia’s words, soft and
golden as well. I thought I could smell her skin. She said, “But we’ve outgrown all that by
now, haven’t we?” It was poised between a statement and a question.
Never had I received such a compelling invitation to ritual uncleanness from a woman
before, and it was all I could do to keep myself from reaching out to her and embracing the
proferred garment of flesh—whether Plato liked it or not. I tried to keep my voice on an
even keel.

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“So—on top of that, then, you would say—that the mystery gods, even if they didn’t
come back to earth, had still triumphed over death and passed on that triumph to their
initiates. So that their souls could be saved and be happy in the afterlife....The Greeks did
have an idea of the afterlife, didn’t they?” Right at that moment, I couldn’t remember
anything.
She looked down at the book she was pressing against herself, though it was closed.
“Yes, it wasn’t uniform, but they had their Isles of the Blessed or Elysian fields, and even a
Hell, in Orphism. By the time of the Christian period, ideas about an afterlife had become
pretty mystical.” She looked up again, her expression a little more composed. “But I agree,
the initiates to the cults must have felt themselves linked to the god and his fate in some
positive way. They had received hidden truths about the world and the supernatural, and this
gave them a certain mastery over their fate in the present life as well as some kind of
guarantee of immortality.”
“Which is a lot like the Christian attitude toward Jesus, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps.” There was the faintest touch of defensiveness. “But Jesus was a human man
in history. The savior gods were mythological. That’s why you can’t talk about whether
Attis or Osiris came back to earth or not. They were never there in the first place—at least
not in identifiable history.”
Part of me felt like pacing, if only to release some of the tension I was feeling and to
relieve the effect of Sylvia’s proximity. But I thought that it would seem too self-conscious.
I compromised by edging sideways toward the nearest bookcase and leaning my hip against
the ledge which protruded below the upper shelves with their glass doors. Here one could
have set a fair-sized volume, but I rested my hand on it, letting my gaze sweep along the
rows of books in their neat proliferation.
“So they were thought of as having performed their deeds in the distant past, a kind of
primordial time, I take it?”
“Originally. That’s the way all myth was regarded in earlier times; even today, in
primitive societies. Some kind of golden age at the beginning of things. Eliade—the
anthropologist of religion, you know him?—he calls it the ‘sacred past’, when the gods first
performed actions which society now copies. You see, when a culture develops religious
rituals, or even ways of performing actions like farming or hunting, they see themselves as
reenacting things the gods did in the sacred past. That gives it a mystical significance, and
they can make a kind of connection back to the divine action and draw continuing benefits
from it. They ‘recreate’ it in the present, with all its sacred effects.”
“You mean like the Christian Eucharist? The priest stages Jesus’ blessing over the bread
and wine during the mass and this harks back to when Jesus himself did it.”
“Yes, that’s what a sacrament is, essentially. The original act is kept alive and brought
into the present, and its effects are made available to the devotees. The sacrament taps into
invisible forces operating between past and present, or between heaven and earth.”
“Is that the way the Jews look at Passover? Though that’s not a primordial past, is it?”
“Not in the mythical sense. It may originally have been, before the Jews decided to place
all their myths in archaic history and start counting years. Probably Passover related to an
agricultural rite in ancient Canaan, and later got reinterpreted as part of the Exodus story.
That sort of thing often happens: new myths get attached to old rituals whose original
purpose has been lost. But the Jews were still recreating a sacred past: something their

83

heroic ancestors did—with God’s participation. The same effects were supposedly still
available, such as the promise of future deliverance like the one that happened in Egypt.”
I thought of Shauna’s frustrated comments. “I wonder why it is that we can only find
meaning to ourselves in the present by investing everything with symbolism from the past.
Can we not be happy with ourselves as we are today?”
Sylvia’s eyes seemed to take on a darker cast which I found suddenly affecting. She said
in a subdued tone, “Perhaps we carry too much baggage from the past. We can’t escape it.
That’s where our Fall took place and that’s where our salvation has to come from.”
I echoed her own earlier line. “But haven’t we outgrown that by now?”
She shrugged. “We fell as humans. Something more than human has to save us.”
Something in me wanted to respond to this enigmatic comment, but I knew neither its
meaning nor what the appropriate response would have been. Instead, I said, “Well, that’s
certainly Paul’s view. He was overwhelmed by the power of sin. Yet isn’t it curious that all
the savior gods, Jesus especially, have to take on some semblance to humanity? It would
seem that only by getting down with us in the mud of matter can they lift us up.”
Sylvia once again chose to correct me. “Well, the cults at the time of Jesus didn’t see
their gods as coming all the way into matter. Even if they could speak of Dionysos, for
example, as being born to a woman in a cave. The gods still operated in a part of the
spiritual world. Myth isn’t the same as history. And by the time we get to Plutarch in the
first century, and others after him, the activity of the savior gods is no longer seen as
happening in a primordial past. Platonism had more or less taken over and placed myth in
the heavenly world of higher reality. These things the gods do, like Mithras slaying the bull
and Attis getting castrated and such, they go on in a mythological realm above the earth.
The stories of the myths were regarded as reflecting timeless spiritual processes going on in
heaven. At least that’s the way the philosophers looked at things. The average devotee of
the cults probably regarded the activity of their gods as more literal.”
“But not as literal as Jesus.” It was a question. “I mean, Mithras didn’t slay an actual
bull at some point in history.”
“No, of course not. Such things happened in some equivalent spiritual setting. But none
of this is really written out anywhere, you know. We can get an idea that this is the way they
thought from writings like Plutarch’s Isis and Osiris, or the 4th century Sallustius. But
we’re really speculating about how the cultic myths were viewed, especially by the average
person. We can’t even be sure when the various myths developed. The very early ones like
Dionysos and the cult of Demeter at Eleusis near Athens, they go back centuries before
Jesus. But the big cults as we know them now—of Isis and Mithras and the Great Mother
with her consort Attis—they really come into clear view only in the early second century.
But they had to have roots going back a considerable time.”
“So they could have influenced Christian ideas?”
“I suppose so. Paul’s view of baptism and the eucharist is really quite un-Jewish. Most
Jews would have been horrified at the idea of eating God’s flesh and drinking his blood.”
I jerked upright in some excitement. “Yes, I thought of that recently.” Or had it been
Shauna? “But if this was so terrible to Jews, how could Jesus have instituted a sacrament
like that? I mean, all his apostles were Jews. Wouldn’t they have balked at the idea?”

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She lowered the book to her lap, still leaning back against the desk. The gesture both
exposed her and protected her. “I don’t know. Maybe they would have followed him
anywhere...even into blasphemy.”
Her voice had trailed off, but I didn’t notice. I was busy asking myself if it were possible
that Paul had reinterpreted the historical Last Supper, recasting Jesus’ words in a more cultic
fashion. Or perhaps even inventing them altogether. I would have to consider 1 Corinthians
11:23 in that light. I could not recall that Paul had ever made a clear reference to the pagan
mysteries, unless it was in a cryptic phrase just before that passage, when he was discussing
the Corinthian Christians’ communal meal—something about ‘the table of demons’.
I asked, “Do any of the cultic sacraments definitely go back before Christianity?”
“Well, those ceremonies I mentioned in the cult of Dionysos, they were supposed to have
involved eating the flesh and drinking the blood of the god. Wine would have represented
the blood, and probably raw animal meat the flesh.”
“Or bread?”
“Possibly. But that was more likely the case with the later cultic meals. With Mithras,
for example. Mithraism had a sacred meal of bread and a cup of wine, or I think it may have
been water.”
“Really? When did the Mithras cult develop?”
“Well, the god goes back to ancient Persia and must have had mysteries of some sort
attached to him for a long time. The Hellenistic version of the cult was probably under way
by the first century. Recently someone suggested it arose out of an astronomical discovery
made around the reign of Mithradates of Pontus about a hundred years before Christ—in
Tarsus, as I recall. The king’s name shows he was a devotee of Mithras.”
“Do you think the Christians knew about it? Wouldn’t they have been bothered by the
fact that Jesus established a meal just like the ones in the mystery cults?”
Sylvia pushed herself away from the desk and went back to the shelf where she had
gotten the first book. This she slid into its place. “I’m not a specialist in the Church Fathers,
but you might check Tertullian, or perhaps it’s Justin Martyr. They must have thought that
the mysteries preceded Jesus because they defend themselves against the accusation that the
Christians had copied their eucharist meal from the Greek cults. Do you know what
explanation they came up with?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“They said that the demons had wanted to weaken the faith of Christian believers and so
they arranged for the pagans to establish counterfeit eucharists before Jesus.”
I snorted. “I can see what you meant. Not everyone we rely on for our view of the past
was at the intellectual level of Thucydides.”
Sylvia had taken out another book, a slim worn volume which looked as though it could
have been a century old. She walked back to me and opened it.
“This is not a recent publication, but the myths it describes haven’t changed—to my
knowledge. In the myths about Mithras it says...that after he slew the bull and its blood ran
out into the earth, which vitalized all life, the sun god Helios came down and the two of
them formed a pact, and they sealed it by celebrating a meal together. They drank water
mixed with wine and broke loaves of bread. One version of the myth has them eating the
flesh of the slaughtered bull. The devotees of the Mithraic cult observed a meal of bread and

85

wine in commemoration of this event. The myth was their explanation of the sacramental
meal.”
My mind was eagerly turning over this information, and my hands began to move in the
air in front of me, as if trying to mold some new concept.
“So it’s possible Paul is familiar with certain cultic practices like a commemorative
sacred meal, and he decides to reinterpret the Last Supper—only for some reason he calls it
the Lord’s Supper—which would have been essentially a Jewish Passover meal, let’s say
some kind of thanksgiving meal—” I did a mental right turn. “Like the eucharistic meal
described in the Christian document called the Didache! Now that I think of it, that meal
had no words of Jesus, or even a reference to the Last Supper. It’s not even linked to his
death. It has prayers of thanksgiving to God over the cup and the bread—”
“Eucharistia in Greek means thanksgiving,” Sylvia offered.
“Yes, that’s right. And there’s some reference to Jesus his Servant, I can’t recall exactly.
Now suppose, since Jesus was a Jew and the Apostles were Jews, there was no thought of
his declaring that the bread and wine of the Passover meal was really his body and blood,
then Paul comes along and wants to give the meal a sacramental significance like the Greeks
do in their savior cults, so he reinterprets things along those lines. Which means that the
evangelists must have gotten the idea from Paul, while the Didache reflects an earlier—”
Sylvia was looking at me rather wide-eyed, and I realized that my usual sedate self was
eroding quickly. But I wasn’t ready to rein myself in just yet.
“By any chance, Sylvia, have you got a New Testament here?”
“Greek or English?”
My mouth fell open a little. “You have a Greek New Testament?”
An unchecked smile made her face striking, I decided. “The Bible is one of the premier
pieces of literature in the ancient world, Mr.—Kevin, and I am a professor of ancient
philosophy and religion, as you may recall.”
“Yes, of course. I guess we’d better make it the English. I’m OK if I’ve got my Lexicon,
but—”
She brought up the book from a lower shelf. I opened it to 1 Corinthians 11:23.
“Here...‘For I received from the Lord what I also passed on to you, that the Lord Jesus on
the night when he was betrayed took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and
said, This is my body...’ etc.” I paused. “Damn. I wish I could remember what I read about
this passage in one of the commentaries. About this opening phrase, because it can have
either of two meanings. Let me think...”
“I’d better get out the Greek as well,” Sylvia volunteered. “Maybe that will help.”
“Wait, yes—‘I received from the Lord’: does that mean through a personal revelation or
from a tradition passed on through human channels, from those who had been at the Supper?
That would be a crucial question if we want to consider whether Paul invented these words
by Jesus. It would have to be the idea of personal revelation. He would have imagined that
Jesus had informed him of this through some kind of inspiration.”
Like his ‘words of the Lord’, I thought, which were considered by scholars to be referring
to communications Paul believed he was receiving from the heavenly Christ. Then I
remembered that 1 Corinthians 11:23 was in fact one of those sayings, only scholars had
made an exception for the source of this one, considering it to be a report Paul had gotten
from the other apostles.

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Sylvia had meanwhile moved away toward the window to retrieve another book. She laid
it on the protruding ledge of the bookshelf and leafed through the pages. “Here it is in the
Greek.” She read: “ ‘Ego gar parelabon apo tou kuriou, ho kai paredoka humin...’ “There’s
your ‘For I received from the Lord what I passed on to you...’ ” She looked up and beckoned
with her head. “Come see.”
As I took the three or four steps to where she stood, I said, “You have a beautiful accent.
I wish I could read Greek like that.”
“It’s just practice.”
I stood right beside her now, and we looked down at the book together. Like a pupil with
a crush on his teacher, I knew I wanted to impress her. I pointed. “ ‘Parelabon’. That’s
from paralamban∩, right?”
“Yes, it is.” Her voice, soft and musical, was almost in my ear. “I’m more familiar with
classical Greek than New Testament Greek, but that would mean to receive some tradition or
teaching from someone else.”
I made a little sound of exasperation.
“However—” Her voice held a certain amusement. We were playing more than one
game. “The verb was used in the mysteries to signify the reception of a revelation from the
god. So—”
“So—” I flashed her a smile that was almost coy. Our nearness was making us playful.
“Paul could be talking about a revelation he thinks he’s received from the Lord. And—” I
turned back to the book and leafed ahead to Galatians 1:11-12. Now my memory was
operating with astonishing clarity. I pointed to the Greek words. “Aha! ‘Parelabon.’ Same
verb. Paul uses it here in both senses.” I translated haltingly. “ ‘I did not receive it from
any man...I received it—understood—through a revelation of, or from, Jesus Christ.’ Both
ways. Case closed!”
My eye lit on an earlier word in the Greek. “Wait—‘para anthr∩pou’: from any man.
Yes, now I remember. The other dispute.” With my right hand in the Galatians passage, I
flipped back to 1 Corinthians. “There—‘apo tou kuriou’: from the Lord. The battle of the
prepositions!”
Sylvia looked at me quizzically. “Please enlighten me.” She seemed to find me
eminently entertaining, and her eyes were sparkling. At this proximity they looked strikingly
beautiful.
I flipped between the two openings in the book, my left and right hands marking the two
antagonists, and announced theatrically: “In this corner, the preposition ‘para’, meaning
‘from’, usually representing the immediate, closest source of something, some piece of
information. In this corner, his worthy opponent, the preposition ‘apo’, also meaning
‘from’. He represents, usually, the remote or ultimate source of something, the originator of
the idea. Now...if Paul uses ‘para’ in Galatians, from any man, that fits the usual meaning,
because he is talking about the immediate source of a gospel—though here he’s denying that
this is the case, that he got his gospel from any man. Now...in 1 Corinthians Paul uses ‘apo’:
from the Lord, which would usually mean Jesus was the ultimate source, the originator of
the words—” I hesitated. “Which is why most scholars claim that he doesn’t mean a direct
personal revelation here, but rather that he got these words of Jesus through others...” Was I
in the process of falling flat on my face? I was desperately trying to remember all the ins

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and outs of this little argument from only one reading of the Muratorian commentary about
it.
Sylvia came to my rescue. “Except that—wait a minute, let me check.” She moved over
and took down an imposing volume from the top shelf, which she had no trouble reaching.
After a moment, she pronounced: “ ‘In everyday speech, para and apo were used without
exactness of distinction.’ ” She closed the tome, which also had a rather ancient look to it.
“That’s the verdict of Mr. Brose, who by the way is long dead, poor fellow.”
She swept back and stood beside me again. She seemed animated, almost giddy. Her
nearness, especially being a woman who stood as tall as myself, was becoming
overwhelming, provocative. Part of me signalled that I was in grave danger. She tapped the
Greek New Testament in front of us. “I’m willing to bet you’ll find apo used in the other
sense even some places in here.”
“I’ll have to check when I get home.” I took my hands out of the book, leaving it open at
the 1 Corinthians passage. “But it certainly seems as though Paul could be offering the
Corinthians something he got from the Lord through inspiration: the words Jesus was
supposed to have said at the Supper, which made it a sacrament—of a very un-Jewish type.
Whether he got the idea from some cultic meal in particular, or was just expressing general
sacramental ideas he had absorbed from the Hellenistic world around him, his own treatment
of Jesus and the myths of the cults seem very close.”
When I looked back to that moment some time later, I told myself that I had probably
stood on the verge of making a connection, that something was about to click in my mind, if
only I’d had another few seconds to think without distraction. As it was, Sylvia glanced
down at the open page and said, “Anyway, it doesn’t sound right the other way. If Paul is
about to tell his readers the very words Jesus spoke, why would he start by saying that these
words ultimately came from Jesus? That’s redundant. It makes much better sense if he’s
saying that he knows these words of Jesus because they came to him directly from the Lord
himself.” She smiled at me with an almost childlike delight. “Don’t you think?”
I looked at her in open admiration. She had made that connection just off my partial
reading a few minutes ago. “I don’t think I would ever have thought of that. You’re
beautiful, Sylvia.”
Just how I meant these words was perhaps hard to say, but their effect was unambiguous.
Releasing a little sound of pleasure, Sylvia pushed herself against me and put her arms
around my neck. Perhaps it was my mouth that sought out hers, but her lips on mine were
intoxicating. For the space of a few seconds we were both drunk. Was it on an alcohol of
lust—or some kind of intellectual stimulant? The latter may have been part of the cocktail,
but that full warm body pressing me against the bookcase had lost all sense of awkwardness,
and my hands at their own direction began to search out dangerous places. Sylvia’s pelvis
was fearlessly seeking its own perils.
They no longer rang bells at universities to announce classes, but something must have
gone off in both our heads at the same time. Sylvia abruptly stopped her movements against
me and pulled partially away. My mouth and my hands came slackly to rest and we both
looked, startled, at one another. A moment later she withdrew and moved around the desk,
brushing at her hair and clothing.
“I’m very sorry, Kevin,” she said, her voice subdued but holding a little tremor. “That
wasn’t very fair of me. I don’t usually try to seduce men who visit my office. Especially

88

ones I hardly know.” She placed herself between the chair and the desk and glanced up
hesitantly at me. Her face looked a little like a frightened bird.
“I—” I looked away, faltering. “I don’t know what to say either, Sylvia.” For some
reason, I pushed the guilty book away from me, to a point a few inches along the ledge. “I
hope you don’t think I was trying to take advantage of you.”
“No, no. It was my fault. You’re just...a very nice man. And, well, you...know a lot of
things that interest me—without being some stuffy academic.” She was playing idly with
her jacket collar. “Of course, I realize you’re—otherwise attached.”
“Yes, I suppose I am.”
Mechanically, she reached for the pile of papers at the edge of the desk and moved them
in front of her. “But I hope you’ll still feel like consulting me if you want any further
information regarding your work. I’ll try to behave a little better.” Her expression was
faintly plaintive. “I find your research very interesting. I would like to understand it more.”
I felt that the less I said, the better. I smiled at her and promised I would certainly consult
her again, and that I too would behave better. When I waved to her awkwardly from the
doorway, she was still standing with her hands resting on the exam papers.
I made my exit from the building more than a bit furtively. My biggest fear was that I
would bump into David. I was sure the expression on my face would give everything away.

*****************************

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Chapter Eight

The ride home seemed to take foreover, though I was driving more slowly than usual.
Perhaps my instincts were imposing safety precautions, for my mind was having difficulty
focusing on the road. For one thing, it was trying to decide how guilty I should be feeling. I
told myself that I would never have initiated the physical contact with Sylvia, but there was
no denying that when it was offered—or thrust upon me—I had seized it with an intensity
which shocked me. Were all men like that? My relationship with Shauna was a satisfying
one, within the limits we had established. Or so I thought. Something had taken over when
Sylvia’s body was suddenly against me, but there were other urges as well. That curious
vulnerability in the woman seemed to signal an internal unrest, a struggle of confidence.
Fear and need were in uneasy habitation in that awkward, oddly voluptuous body. The faint
ripple of some subterranean conflict shivered her skin, and I had felt drawn to her. The
instinct of lust had no doubt caught me as well, but so had an even deeper urge: to rescue,
protect, vitalize. Perhaps, I thought ironically, to give salvation. Was all that, too, a part of
the male instinct? Maybe not in these politically correct days.
I knew one thing. I would make no resolution now as to whether I would see her again.
Life was unpredictable by nature. Who was I to override natural law?
I turned my thoughts to my conversation with David. The end of June in Philadelphia.
The Age of Reason Foundation vs. the medieval forces of American fundamentalism. How
would I, as ‘resident publicist’, portray the great struggle? David against Goliath? The
ghosts of Darrow and Bryan returning to confront each other again? Too predictable. I
needed a new image, something that summed up the Reason vs. Revelation debate, the
ongoing progress of enlightened secularism which for me had begun on some March day in
1961, as near as I could recall. Could such grand themes be handled in all seriousness, or
were we too cynical for that? How about something with a tongue-in-cheek approach—
would David approve? The question was, would Burton Patterson? No doubt it would all
boil down to how the man wanted to portray himself.
So Burton Patterson, civil rights litigator extraordinaire, was raring to return to the arena
and take on creation fundamentalism. Was it for him an intellectual affront, as it was for
David? With the earth teeming with so much evidence that life was an undirected,
experimental work in progress, did the imposition of the primitive myths of some ancient
scientifically-ignorant society constitute the ultimate insult, an offense to human intelligence
which had labored so long to reach its present stage? Or were less altruistic motives
involved? It would be interesting to watch, I decided.
But one other thought struck me, a connection I had failed to make while at David’s
office. Had Patterson been aware of the ACLU’s intentions in Philadelphia before he had
approached the fledgling Age of Reason Foundation? Had David’s project struck Patterson
as an ideal launch pad for a renewed career in the spotlight, a group that had as yet no firm
organization and sense of self—one Patterson might try to mold to his own purposes? If that
were so, did David have the perspicacity to see this and guard against it?
I began to see that perhaps my role would have dimensions to it which neither David nor I
had envisioned.

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And somewhere in the midst of all this, I, a lowly novelist, was attempting to find out
who Jesus of Nazareth had really been and why early Christianity presented a piece of
Gordian knot complexity which made the theory of evolution look like a child’s coloring
book.
Indeed, where to go from here? Over a meal of leftovers fitting a throwaway, muggy
Tuesday in early May, I tried to put Sylvia’s body and mercurial, affecting eyes out of my
mind and review the state of my research. I instinctively felt that somewhere in the work I
had done thus far lay the intimations of a pattern, a picture of what the early Christian
movement, as represented by Paul, had been. What it had not been was the perpetuation of
the life and personality of Jesus of Nazareth, of the things he had taught and the wonders he
had performed. Many scholars seemed to think that such things were being preserved in
other places, among other groups, and these were avenues I would have to investigate. But
they lay beyond the world presented by all the New Testament epistles. Did these other
places and groups lie in some alternate universe, contiguous dimensions which never came
in contact with Paul and his Christ cult? It certainly seemed so.
Had Paul’s movement turned itself into the Jewish equivalent of the cultic mysteries that
were proliferating among the pagans during the first century? If the need of the age was for
savior gods, did some Jews yearn no less for such a figure, one the traditional Messiah idea
could not quite fill? Had this led certain sectarian circles to lean toward their own ‘Jewish
mystery’ and seize on Jesus as a promising candidate for a savior divinity?
Paul, and possibly unknown others behind him, had unquestionably shaped the worship
of Jesus along such lines. But their national heritage had contributed much that made it
characteristically Jewish. Jesus’ resurrection guaranteed their own, but unlike any Greek
aspirations, it was a resurrection in flesh. The picture of Jesus fitted the general atmosphere
of the mystery deities, but it had been fleshed out and given meaning by the Hebrew sacred
writings, an element the pagan cults almost entirely lacked. Jesus, like the savior gods,
rescued the devotee from the clutches of the hostile spirits and forces of fate—one of the
concerns of epistles like Colossians and Ephesians. Yet a point of great distinction was that
he had also been on earth itself to combat the demons. He had done it before people’s very
eyes, proving his power over the spirit world through exorcisms and healings. The pagans
had their healing gods, too, like Asclepius and even Isis, but Jesus had done more. He had
healed in the flesh: with his hands, the touch of his garments, his compassion and
encouragement, his human presence. On top of all that—unlike the savior gods—he had
taught people an ethic, how to heal by charity, how to better the lot of suffering men and
women by mercy, forgiveness and love. He had set this example, too, by the act of
humbling himself and entering humanity’s own realm.
And yet all this came up against that baffling stumbling-block, that stubborn impediment
to a rational, coherent picture. As I sat alone on my modest deck overlooking an even more
modest garden, which every year cried in vain for more attention, I savored the cool, damp
evening air and a snifter of after-dinner brandy and asked myself the ever-present question:
If these features of Jesus were so unique, so beneficent—so saleable!—why did the early
Christian movement not trumpet them to the skies? Scholars so often drew the fundamental
contrast between Christ and the mystery deities: why didn’t the early Christians do the same?
If, in competition with the cultic gods, Paul and other Christian apostles possessed the
immeasurable advantage which the earthly career of Jesus provided, how in the world could

91

they have buried the human man under the obliterating weight of all that divinity? How
could they have ignored, scorned, lost interest in the very thing which would have won the
hearts and minds of the multitudes who craved salvation: the personality, words and deeds of
Jesus of Nazareth, son of Mary, recently of Galilee and Judea, crucified by Pilate, risen from
a tomb outside Jerusalem?
A savior god in the flesh. What a trump card! The trouble is, no one bothered to play it.
Certainly not the writers of Colossians and Ephesians, not even Paul himself. The
competition would have collapsed before them.

The evenings of mid-spring were still short-lived. I sat in near-darkness, the lights of a
quiet suburbia etching pale, half-seen outlines around me. Tonight I had no desire to resume
my work, or to seek out human contact. Today’s contact had been too unsettling.
And so I felt almost resentful when the telephone, which I had earlier brought out to the
deck, rang insistently beside me. I lifted it after the fourth ring and heard David’s agitated
voice.
“Sorry to bother you so soon, Kevin, but I need your advice. Our Ascended Masters are
apparently going to make themselves an ongoing nuisance. Or worse. Listen to this:
“‘Clue number one: This is the revelation given by God to Jesus Christ. The hour of
fulfilment is near. Behold, every eye shall see him pierced, and all the peoples of the world
shall lament in remorse. So it shall be. Amen.’
“It came in a couple of hours ago. I don’t know offhand what this is from. Do you?”
“Actually, it’s from the opening of Revelation—though not quite accurately, as I recall.
Wait, let me get my copy.”
I retrieved my New Testament from the study, switched on the outer light and settled
back into the deck chair. Nearby a dog barked briefly, and the distant sound of a passing
vehicle ruffled the night air. Other than that, there was no sign of an approaching
apocalypse. I lifted the phone to my ear.
“The prophet John is taking a forced vacation on the island of Patmos, presumably at the
behest of the Roman authorities. He says it was ‘because I had preached God’s word and
borne my testimony to Jesus.’ Yes, here’s the main part of your message: chapter 1 verse 7.
As usual, they’ve garbled it—or abbreviated it for whatever reason. ‘Behold, he is coming
with the clouds! Every eye shall see him, and among them those who pierced him; and all
the peoples of the world shall lament in remorse. So it shall be. Amen.’ ”
“Do you think it’s a threat of some sort?” David asked.
“Oh, I’m sure that’s the intended effect of the thing. The question is, do they mean it as a
divine threat, or do they have something more human and immediate in mind?” I asked
David to repeat the quotation as it appeared in the e-mail message. I jotted it down at the
bottom of my New Testament page.
“They call it clue number one,” David observed. “Are we supposed to infer some
specific meaning from it? And that implies there’s more to come, wouldn’t you say?”
“Oh, I’d bet on it. These guys are probably going to play games with us.”
I realized that my choice of words showed that I was already considering myself an
integral part of the new project. I wondered if David had picked up on the “us” as well.
But David only sounded worried. “I don’t like this Revelation business. The thing’s a
lightning rod for every crazy millenarian who’s coming out of the woodwork these days.

92

I’m beginning to think that living this close to the year 2000 is a curse rather than a
blessing.”
“We’ll survive it, David. And when we emerge on the other side and nothing has
happened, this end of the world and return of Jesus fever will be shown for what it is. Then
we can get on with the business of living and leave all this nonsense behind.”
“I don’t know. True fundamentalism is something you can’t reach. Not with all the
arguments in the world.”
“Then we have to neutralize the stuff it feeds on. Like Revelation.”
“Revelation is a drop in the bucket.”
“So let’s start emptying the bucket, even if it’s a drop at a time.”
“Sounds like a Chinese water torture to me.”
We said good-night. I remained on my deck for another hour, leafing through the
notorious final document of the New Testament with a jaundiced eye. David was right.
This one piece of writing had contributed more to Western neurosis over the last 1900 years
than any other, and it continued to unsettle the outlook and mental health of many in today’s
society. It had been the product of a disturbed mind, one man’s vindictive nightmare of a
blood-soaked end of the world, commanded by God and directed from heaven by Christ ‘the
Lamb’ using teams of angels. That it was written by the apostle John who had traditionally
been one of the Twelve was no longer held. Nor was he the same as the one who wrote the
Gospel of John, or the epistles under that name. That much modern scholarship had
established.
Bearing his testimony to Jesus, said the prophet. The stir he had caused had gotten him
banished for a time to an Aegean isle. But what was that testimony? Was it to the figure of
Jesus of Nazareth, his teachings, his life and death on earth? Even though Revelation was a
piece of writing quite different from the epistles, both in genre and circumstances, even
though it was probably written at the very end of the first century, it too had not a word to
say about the human life recently lived.
The John of Revelation had been a local prophet in Western Asia Minor near the end of
the first century. He had apparently made the rounds of the Christian communities in the
area, and at the beginning of his document he had Jesus Christ in a vision dictate letters to
them. The letters were full of the mundane, petty circumstances of these communities,
things John had obviously dealt with first hand. Nevertheless, these local Christians—or at
least those who heeded John’s words—would soon find themselves sitting on the very
thrones of heaven, from where they would rule the nations of the world. So the prophet
made Jesus promise in his letters.
The message of apocalyptic. The lowly, the marginalized, the faithful shall be given the
earth’s government. With such a vision, it was no wonder that many disturbed and
delusional souls flocked to a banner like Revelation.
The Ascended Masters. Were they a real threat? Fanatics came in all styles, and all in
some way were dangerous. Why did religion and fanaticism go hand in hand so readily?
Were there neuronal connections between these two human expressions as well? What was
the world in for, now that the more sedate versions of the established religions were
crumbling before the steady advance of rationalism and secular philosophies? The field had
been left to the more fundamentalist expressions, with their determined closure of the mind
to modern scientific and social advances. Perhaps Revelation represented the spirit of our

93

times more than we cared to admit. David’s misgivings may have been on the money: we
were in for some real woes and upheavals before the new era he was so anxious to bring
about could begin.
I peered into the shadows about me, glimpsing lurking forces which I could probably do
very little to counter. At midnight I retired for an uneasy night, one haunted by Ascended
Masters and by the spirit of Shauna consoling an inconsolable Sylvia.

The next day I had not lost my sense of foreboding. I decided to make a close
examination of whatever the Ascended Masters sent to us. The use of the word ‘clue’
suggested that their choice of passages would yield some indication of their intentions. I
compared the e-mail quotation with the original text. Why had they chosen to cut out certain
phrases? The first step in answering that question was probably to study the actual
Revelation passages and see what meaning emerged from them.
They had reproduced the first part of the opening sentence of Revelation, which read:

‘The revelation from Jesus Christ which God gave to him to show his servants what must
soon take place, and Christ made it known by sending his angel to his servant John.’

A chain of revelation from God to Jesus Christ to John, all of it through spiritual
channels. This seemed to be the mark of all the early writers, seeing Christ as the present
intermediary between God and the world, passing on knowledge through inspiration and
revelation. John was no different from the rest in ignoring any appeal to Jesus’ words on
earth, or any apostolic tradition going back to him.
Then the Masters had stuck in the last phrase of verse 3: ‘For the time of fulfilment is
near.’ This was straightforward. No matter how long ago such things were written, no
matter how many others in the past had been similarly convinced, each investigator of
scripture always believed that the sacred writings referred to his own time and immediate
future. God was aiming his ancient message directly at the reader. Delusions of grandeur
were a prerequisite for the scriptural fundamentalist.
The clue had then jumped to 1:7, which read in full:

‘Behold, he is coming with the clouds! Every eye shall see him, and among them those
who pierced him; and all the peoples of the world shall lament in remorse. So it shall be.
Amen.’

The first sentence could not be other than a reference to the so-called Son of Man. The
clouds motif went back to Daniel 7:13, that epoch-making vision in which God conferred
glory and sovereignty over the nations of the earth on the ‘one like a son of man’ who
approached the divine throne ‘with the clouds of heaven’. Daniel meant this figure, perhaps
an angel, to represent the righteous saints of Israel who were to receive these things at the
establishment of the Kingdom. In the Gospel of Mark the evangelist made Jesus declare to
the High Priest that he would return in glory as the Son of Man, ‘coming with the clouds of
heaven’. Mark’s idea was an obvious derivation from Daniel.

94

Speculation about this figure had undergone a surge since the writing of the book of
Daniel in the second century BCE, for the Gospels, Revelation, and a couple of Jewish
apocalyptic writings, 1 Enoch and 4 Ezra, had all incorporated a figure under this name some
time in the latter first century, and all handled him differently. I was aware that the Son of
Man had appeared in the lost document Q, sometime around the Jewish War. This
preoccupation with the Danielic figure reflected the intense focus on scripture during this
unsettled period, in a search for information about God’s intentions for the coming End time.
Had such a trend existed in the time of Jesus, and had Jesus really used the term of
himself, as the Gospels portrayed it? There were those who denied both elements of this
question, and many regarded the Son of Man as perhaps the thorniest problem in New
Testament research; no one claimed any comprehensive solution to it.
A search showed that Revelation used the term twice, in 1:13 and 14:14, but the curious
thing was that John must have gone directly to Daniel for it, not to any Gospel tradition. For
he used the term in its pristine form as it appeared in the Danielic vision: ‘one like a son of
man.’ He did not turn it into a title: the Son of Man, as the Gospels did. It seemed to me
that this would indicate that Jesus had not employed it as a title he applied to himself, for
how could John have escaped knowing that?
Why had the Ascended Masters cut out the reference to the clouds? Obviously, they had
no interest in the idea of the Son of Man. It was probably too arcane and cryptic even for
them, and it may not have fitted the ‘clue’ they were trying to give. But what did they mean
by the phrases they actually used?
In Revelation itself, the remainder of this verse had been a close adaptation by John of a
verse from the prophet Zechariah, 12:10b, which read:

‘Then they shall look upon him whom they have pierced, and shall wail over him as over
an only child, and shall grieve for him bitterly as for a first-born son.’

The Muratorian commentary described how early Christian interpreters had made an
‘atomistic’ use of the sacred writings. That is, they searched for phrases and passages which
seemed to be related to the subject they were investigating. These they lifted out of context
and declared them to be prophecies about Jesus and their own day. They ignored the
original context or any meaning which the writer had intended. Old Testament prophets
who had been speaking of their own time and circumstances were turned by men such as
John and Paul into prophets of the distant future. These later investigators believed they
were living in the final days of the old age, on the verge of the new, and were convinced that
God had foretold all the details of this End-time and encoded them into scripture.
I was beginning to get an insight into the process of ‘revelation’ which so many early
writers spoke of, including Paul. These men had pored over the pages of the sacred writings,
and when they got an idea, when they made a connection between what they were reading
and what they were looking for, a light went on, and they regarded it as a revelation from
God, perhaps through Jesus Christ, his intermediary. Perhaps they imagined Jesus himself
standing over their shoulder, and it may have been that in the intensity of the moment, the
result of long hours spent in fevered examination of God’s cryptic word, they even had a
vision of him.

95

I reflected that fundamentalist writers and roving evangelists were even today doing
exactly the same thing. An industry was in full swing out there, especially in America,
ransacking scripture for prophecies of the imminent return of Jesus and the events of
Armageddon. Probably no New Testament document was more scrutinized for this purpose
than Revelation.
Is that what the Ascended Masters had done? Were they, too, some fundamentalist group
who pored over God’s word and imagined that it pointed directly at them? David Koresh of
the ill-fated Waco, Texas community of millenarians had evidently done the same thing.
Revelation had determined their world-view and demented ideas. The Masters had
performed a dramatic ‘atomistic’ operation on this passage of Revelation, choosing only
those phrases they wanted. Why? ‘Every eye shall see him pierced’ significantly altered the
sense of the original verse, but in what direction? It did not immediately seem clear. Was
Christ, in their mind, to be crucified once more? Something the world would be responsible
for and would subsequently lament? Perhaps I was going to have to wait for future
messages before I could unravel the puzzle.

*****************************

Chapter Nine

It was approaching evening, and the day had been oppressive. Dark, low-hanging clouds
had held in their moisture, as if willing it to rain by condensation alone. The dusk was also
descending on my sense of comprehension, the murk in my mind fast closing on darkness.
I had not left the house since returning from the university. Perhaps it had been some
vain attempt to submerge myself in a fevered examination of my own, to search for the word
that would provide inspiration, listen for the revelation that would unlock the key to the
puzzle. I was hungry but I didn’t feel like eating. Had that been a part of the process of
revelation, too? A submersion in rapt study to the exclusion of all else, until dizziness, a
physical intoxication had induced the vision of inspiration? Perhaps I should try it.
About seven o’clock, the phone rang. Following my hello, there was a silence of about
two seconds before the voice on the other end said, “Hello...Kevin? This is Sylvia. I—hope
I’m not bothering you. If I am, I could call back at another time.” Her voice sounded as
tentative as her words.
“No, no. Not at all, Sylvia. I’m not busy.” I was, however, experiencing a sinking
feeling that my ill-advised actions of the day before had set in motion some ongoing
consequences. Not the least of which was my own ambivalence, for part of me had
definitely taken a leap when I realized who was calling. “What can I do for you?”
There was another hesitant pause.
“I—I just wanted to apologize for my behavior yesterday morning. I’ve been feeling
badly about it, and I didn’t want you to come away with a bad impression of me.” She was
clearly feeling some discomfort.
“Sylvia, that’s not necessary. We’re both adults. Those things happen.”

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Now she was flustered. “Yes, of course, I suppose so. I just have to be careful. I guess
there was no harm done.”
“No, of course not.”
“I just don’t want to be responsible for anything.”
I had to assume that this was an allusion to my relationship with Shauna. It seemed to me
she was over-reacting. I tried to steer the conversation in a less awkward direction. “There’s
no reason to worry, Sylvia. In fact, I want to thank you. Your knowledge was invaluable to
me. You’ve given me some good insight into things.”
She seemed pleased. “Oh. I’m glad I could be of help. I hope you’ll think about me
again.”
I’m sure I will.”
And that was the end of this curious phone call. It crossed my mind to wonder where she
had gotten my number. Perhaps from David. Though there was only one Kevin Quinter in
the telephone book. I decided to disconnect the phone for the balance of the evening.
The study windows were open. The air, rich with the smell of new spring foliage, was
warm and muggy. I tried to put the image of a troubled Sylvia Lawrence out of my mind and
return to the matter at hand. I had transferred my jotting of the message from the Ascended
Masters to a piece of paper. This I picked up and looked at again, for the twentieth time at
least.
‘Every eye shall see him pierced.’ ‘Pierced’ referred to Jesus’ crucifixion. His death on
the cross. The defining moment of his life. The pivot point between the world’s past and
God’s future. The moment of salvation.
If a single event had burned itself into Christian consciousness, it surely had been this.
But had it? As I had already seen, no writer anywhere had bothered to reproduce any of
the details of the Gospel story surrounding Jesus’ death. A fluke? Coincidence? It was
impossible to believe that none of these writers had known anything about the event, even if
the details eventually provided by the Gospels were not accurate. Surely something had to
have been known beyond the fact of the death itself.
I stopped my pacing of the study floor. Could I have overlooked something? Suppose
the Gospel details were in effect not an historical account, but rather some later overlay of
invention. If an earlier writer, one not familiar with any Gospel, had wanted to tell his
readers something about Jesus’ crucifixion, what would he have said? I had not in my
searches approached the question from this angle.
If there had been a doorman at the entrance to the Muratorian Project, he might have
wondered at my constant visits. Past the illuminated manuscripts once more, I entered the
Index. As always, I was fishing, and my own associations, my own index of terms residing
in my brain, often determined the corridors I followed. One of these corridors led me to
Galatians 3:

‘You foolish Galatians! Who has bewitched you, before whose eyes Jesus Christ was
publicly portrayed as crucified.’

Paul was reminding the Galatians of how he had preached to them about Christ’s
crucifixion, painting some picture which he obviously felt had impressed them. What were
its details? He did not say. Outside of the Lord’s Supper scene, which he seemed to impute

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to direct revelation from Jesus, nowhere did Paul give a single Gospel incident concerning
the passion. If one dismissed 1 Thessalonians 2:15-16 as a later interpolation, which most
critical scholars did, Paul failed even to hold the Jews responsible for Jesus’ death, a silence
particularly astonishing in Romans 11. Nowhere did he give a single detail about the rising
from the tomb on Easter morning, and even the list of post-resurrection appearances in 1
Corinthians 15 was suspect, for the language was that of revelation, and the ‘seeing’ of all
the others was seemingly identical to Paul’s own.
What, then, had been the content of Paul’s picture of Christ’s crucifixion, or anything
else, which he had painted for the Galatians?
Another corridor led to 1 Peter 2:22-24. At first glance it had the air of a description of
the passion.

‘He committed no sin; no guile was found on his lips. When he was reviled, he did not
revile in return; when he suffered, he did not threaten, but he trusted to him who judges
justly. He himself bore our sins in his body on the tree, that we might die to sin and live
to righteousness. By his wounds you have been healed.’

Here were faint echoes of the trial, Jesus silent before his accusers and abusers. His
character, sinless and honest, trusting in God. The use of the word ‘tree’ for the cross
seemed a little odd. I wondered what influence might have led to a tradition which spoke of
the cross of Calvary in such terms.
‘Peter’ had given his readers this portrait of the suffering Christ as an example of how the
Christian should suffer persecution or mistreatment with humility and acceptance. But how
thin the account! If it was the silence before the Jewish Sanhedrin, or before Pilate, why
were such figures not mentioned? If it was the silence under abuse and scourging, why none
of those details? And where were the words from the cross, Jesus’ comfort to the good thief,
his call for forgiveness for his executioners? These sentiments would have served admirably
in making the writer’s point to his readers.
A notation to the 1 Peter passage led me in an unexpected direction. Scholars had long
noted the similarity of this passage to parts of the Suffering Servant Song in 2nd Isaiah,
chapter 53. This entire chapter had been an important source of prophecy about Jesus to
early Christians. I called it up on the screen. Running through its twelve verses, I
recognized that certain ideas corresponded to what the author of 1 Peter had written, some
almost word for word. In my copy of the Old Testament I highlighted the pertinent lines:

‘But he was pierced for our transgressions, tortured for our iniquities...
and by his wounds we are healed...
He was afflicted, he submitted to be struck down, and did not open his mouth...
He was led like a sheep to the slaughter...
He practised no lawlessness, and there was no deceit in his mouth...
He bore the sins of many and interceded for their transgressions.’

The commentary even noted a possible connection in the use of the term ‘tree’ in 1 Peter.
The word appeared in Deuteronomy 2:23, with its prohibition against leaving a man who

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had been executed on a tree hanging past sunset. Apparently this too had been looked upon
as a prophecy of Jesus’ fate.
Once more that curious picture of early Christian writers and preachers going to scripture
for information about Christ. According to the commentary, some scholars acknowledged
that the writer of 1 Peter showed no trace of literary dependency on the Gospel story, but
was citing solely from Isaiah 53. Had ‘Peter’ no oral traditions to draw on in describing
Jesus’ suffering and death? Why did he turn to perceived prophecies of the event rather than
the real thing? If Christians of this writer’s time had no information about the central event
of their faith, nothing resulting from historical witness, what in heaven’s name did they
have, and how could the movement ever have gotten off the ground, let alone sweep the
empire, if they could say nothing about the historical event itself?
Had Paul’s description of Christ’s crucifixion similarly been drawn from scripture?
The rain had started. It drummed on the deck with an impatient sound. With whom were
the gods impatient? I hoped it was not with me. The forces of nature had ever been the
gods’ only true voice. Unfortunately, it was in a language none could understand, except
perhaps for its effects in storm, flood and earthquake. For more exact communication, the
gods relied on the voices of men, occasionally women. They spoke through human vocal
chords. To get men to speak as they wished, inspiration was needed. This in turn required
faith; faith on the part of those who had been chosen, faith on the part of those who heard
them speak. Throughout history there had never been any shortage of either.
I asked myself when had Christian writers begun to describe Jesus’ crucifixion in terms
familiar from the Gospels? I had all but exhausted the epistles of the New Testament. One
lone, passing reference to Pilate was to be found in the Pastoral epistle 1 Timothy. This,
however, was a late piece of writing, even though attributed to Paul. Scholars dated the
Pastorals anywhere between 100 and 130. The circumstances and organization of the church
which they reflected did not exist in Paul’s time, and their overall picture fitted the early
second century. In any case, the commentary noted that some scholars questioned the
authenticity of this reference to Pilate because it did not seem to fit the context well.
I moved on to the non-canonical writings of the period around the year 100. I had so far
dipped very little into 1 Clement, the letters of Ignatius, and the Epistle of Barnabas. If such
writers knew nothing of any historical details surrounding Jesus’ death, I was ready to
despair.
1 Clement had been written about the year 96 from the Christian community in Rome to
the one in Corinth, attempting to mediate a dispute over leadership in the Greek city.
Whether its author was really the so-called bishop of Rome at that time, a certain Clement as
later tradition had it, was difficult to say. My own search system for the copy of 1 Clement I
had scanned into my computer was not as efficient as the Muratorian one, but it didn’t take
me long to locate an astonishing passage in chapter 16.
To admonish the feuding Corinthians, Clement appealed to the example Jesus had given
them, as one who had come not in pride but in self-abasement. To illustrate this, Clement
drew not on memories or traditions about Jesus’ humble conduct in life and in death, but on
scripture. He lifted out the entire 53rd chapter of Isaiah and quoted it to his readers. To this,
he added verses from Psalm 21, whose original writer had lamented the contempt and
derision he had been shown by his enemies during some misfortune. That derision had been

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voiced in this taunt: ‘He set his hopes on the Lord; let him deliver him, let him save him,
since he has such a liking for him.’
I realized without checking that these words of the Psalm were very close to ones
Matthew had put into the crowd’s mouth at Jesus’ crucifixion scene. Yet Clement had gone
to scripture for them. If this writer in Rome at the end of the century knew of Matthew’s
Gospel, as some claimed, —since he offered a few “words of the Lord Jesus” which echoed
the Sermon on the Mount—why did he not draw on such a Gospel for an account of Jesus’
passion? In quoting the Psalms, why had he not felt the urge to point out to his readers how
those prophecies had in fact been fulfilled by the events themselves? This was a practice
rampant in the Gospels, but so far I had not encountered it anywhere in early Christian
correspondence.
As for Ignatius of Antioch, he had been my earliest locatable source for a reference to
Pilate outside the Gospels. Yet beyond the simple declaration in two or three spots that
Jesus had suffered and died under Pilate, no further details of the historical event of the
crucifixion were offered. In view of Ignatius’ eagerness to impress the fact of Christ’s
passion upon his readers, it had to be significant that he appealed to no Gospel account to
support it. Chapter 3 of his letter to the Smyrnians contained a declaration that he knew
Christ had risen in ‘human flesh’ because he had shown his wounds to his disciples. But
Ignatius pointed to no written record as the source of this information. It was evidently a
piece of oral tradition, or perhaps some preaching anecdote developed to support the
contention of Christ’s resurrection.
Such silences would be my starting-point, I decided, in trying to pin down the probable
dates of the Gospels: if Ignatius, the bishop of an important center like Antioch in the early
second century, had not yet received a copy of a written Gospel, what did this say to those
who maintained that the first one had been penned almost half a century earlier?
The voice of the gods was more insistent now. Heavier rain had rolled in and with it the
deep sonority of thunder. I had yet to glimpse any of Zeus’ lightning bolts in the late
evening sky. How frightening such things must have seemed to our primitive ancestors,
huddling in caves as the elements thrashed the earth about them. How could they not have
believed that some sentient force was aiming itself directly at them, sending a message and a
warning—or worse? The world’s oldest profession had surely been those to whom fearful
people had turned to explain such furies and guide them to a proper response. The priest and
the prophet were still with us, but they were on the defensive now. Science and secularism
were squeezing them into musty corners from where they had to shout all the louder. To
such voices had the speech of the gods retreated.
I hoped that the storm would not produce a power outage. If it became more violent and
moved any closer, wisdom would dictate that I disconnect my electronic equipment and
return to the primitive practices of my more immediate ancestors: reading from the pages of
books. When one considered that the material I was now perusing had survived to reach me
down most of the long centuries by means of a laborious copying and recopying, by hand
and by quill, often under difficult and pain-filled conditions, one had to marvel at the
perseverance of the human spirit in its concern over the message of Divinity. Today we
could call up that message in a fraction of a second and reproduce it in not too much more.
The gods were going to have to make adjustments.

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I turned next to the Epistle of Barnabas, probably the latest of the non-canonical writings
to survive before the period of the great second century apologists. It was a long, rambling
and rather uninspiring work, so the verdict went, probably written in Alexandria around the
year 120. Its ancient attribution to the apostle Barnabas who had accompanied Paul on some
of his journeys was now rejected. The writer roundly condemned the Jews for not
understanding their own sacred scriptures, which were entirely a coded prophecy about
Christ and his cross. So the allegorical method clearly showed, said ‘Barnabas’. And he
went on to demonstrate this, often in embarrassingly outrageous fashion.
I found that this epistle, despite its late date, had many perplexing silences about Jesus.
Yet beside these stood intimations of a crude familiarity with some historical elements. The
writer could speak of Jesus’ ‘teachings to the people of Israel’ and yet never offer a single
ethical saying of Jesus; in fact, in his ‘Two Ways’ section which presented traditional moral
precepts, not even the material that resembled the Gospel ministry did he attribute to Jesus.
Two items which sounded like Jesus’ sayings were assigned instead to scripture. There were
chapters on the Sabbath and Jewish dietary laws, but no appeals to any of Jesus’ words on
these subjects. Barnabas did make reference to ‘miracles and wonders’ by Jesus, the first I
had found anywhere in Christian correspondence, but he gave no specifics. And he told of
unnamed ‘apostles’ chosen by the Lord, but described them in very un-Gospel terms, calling
them ‘sinners of the worst kind.’ I wondered what channels of oral tradition had produced
this image of the likes of Peter and Paul. It was hard to believe—indeed impossible—that
Barnabas possessed any written Gospel, even in the year 120. His sketchy, distorted picture
of historical events, emerging as it were from a murky fog, was certainly curious.
But I was searching for descriptions of the crucifixion. This is what I encountered in
chapter 5:

‘Now, when the Lord resigned himself to deliver his body to destruction, the aim he had
in view was to sanctify us by the remission of our sins....For what scripture says of him
is: He was wounded on account of our transgressions, and bruised because of our sins,
and by his scars we were healed. He was led to the slaughter like a sheep, and like a
lamb that is dumb before its shearer.’

This was clearly yet another use of verses from Isaiah 53. In lieu of a written Gospel, or
even oral tradition, it would seem that Christians for almost a century had relied on Isaiah
and an assortment of Psalms to provide them with a picture of Jesus’ experiences at the most
important point of his life. What a strange state of affairs! To go to an ancient writing
whose details had been twisted to serve as prophecy, rather than to the historical events
themselves. 90 years after Jesus’ death, a major Christian writer working in a center like
Alexandria had scarcely a snippet of concrete information he could quote about the atoning
death of the man he worshipped as the Son of God.
But something following Barnabas’ quotation from Isaiah 53 caught my eye. The fact
that this coincided with a resounding crack of thunder directly overhead I took as of no
significance in supernatural terms, but some resident spirit in my brain told me that I was
putting my computer, even if not my soul, in jeopardy. I decided to shut the thing down and
unplug it. If my ancestors could do it, so would I. I grabbed my old Penguin copy of Early
Christian Writings and a Greek-English version of the Apostolic Fathers from the University

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(now overdue, I realized). With these I retreated to the darkened living room. There I
settled into my favorite reading chair and turned on a single lamp behind me. The rest of the
house was virtually shut down, to ride out the storm which now sounded as though it was
leading a charge down my street.
The lamp flickered occasionally but held valiantly on. It was close to midnight.
I chose the Greek-English version and turned to the pages of Barnabas, chapter 5. ‘For
the scripture concerning him speaks thus,’ were the words which prefaced the quotation
from Isaiah 53, and this is what followed it:

‘Therefore we ought to give great thanks to the Lord that he has given us knowledge of
the past, and wisdom for the present, and that we are not without understanding for the
future.’

I knit my brow. It was at this point, I think, that the veil started to lift, but to my
conscious mind it was only a flicker of movement—off to the side, so to speak. My forward
vision simply registered the opinion that there was something very peculiar about this
statement. For Barnabas seemed to be saying, quite bluntly, that knowledge of the past,
which would have included the experiences of Jesus, came from scriptural passages like
Isaiah 53. A little footnoted cross-reference pointed one back to 1:7 where the writer had
made a similar statement: ‘For the Lord made known to us through the prophets things past
and things present...and a taste of things to come.’
Here was a Christian writer in the second decade of the second century praising God for
revealing Jesus through scripture. Not prophecying, but giving knowledge of. With no idea
supplementing this, that the events of history had in fact fulfilled such prophecies. If
Barnabas’ stated intention was to show that the Jewish scriptures had in fact been a
prophetic repository about Christ, he would have been making constant comparisons
between scripture and history. Instead, all he ever pointed to was the former.
Over the next couple of chapters, Barnabas went on to draw many bits and pieces from
scripture which he took as relating to Jesus, particularly his passion. One said: ‘Nail my
flesh,’ from the Septuagint version of Psalm 119:120. Another quoted Zechariah 13:7:
‘When they shall smite their shepherd, then the sheep of the flock shall be destroyed.’
But the quotation from Zechariah was introduced by an exceedingly curious statement.
The Penguin translation put it most clearly: ‘For God lays the bruising of His flesh at their
door, with the words—’ Was Barnabas saying that we know the Jews were responsible for
Jesus’ death because prophets like Zechariah tell us so? Was this possible? Would
Christians, who for over two generations showed no sign of blaming the Jews for the death
of Jesus, have taken it upon themselves to create a ‘history’ which said that they were
responsible, simply on the perceived witness of God’s word in scripture? This was more
than curious, it was staggering.
There was another quote which served to support the Jews’ responsibility. I saw that
Barnabas had presented many of his scriptural quotations as the direct words of Christ,
presumably because they were phrased by the prophets and psalmists in the first person
singular. “For the synagogues of the wicked have risen against me,” said Psalm 22, and so
Barnabas had taken this as the voice of Christ speaking from the pages of scripture. This
reminded me of something I had just read in 1 Clement, and I flipped back to the earlier

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epistle. Sure enough, the long quotation from Isaiah 53 had been introduced as the voice of
the Holy Spirit speaking in scripture and telling of Jesus. In Clement’s view, God was
revealing things about Jesus through his Spirit, in the writings. Occasionally, as in
Barnabas, Jesus himself was presented as speaking directly.
The veil shifted just a little more. Writers like Clement and Barnabas—and the one who
had written Hebrews, for I recalled that he too had done the same—seemed to regard Jesus
as a figure who resided in scripture. From there he spoke. From there came some of the
‘teachings’ he was said to have imparted. As for his deeds and experiences, especially
surrounding his suffering and death, did they, in the view of these men, reside there too? If
traditions about Christ’s crucifixion had been lost—as the silences in Paul and elsewhere
strongly suggested—had scripture provided the only source available? Jesus was entirely
spiritual now, and both he and God were telling of those lost experiences through the
writings, indeed they had encoded them there in advance.
Another bolt of lightning, now visible through the forward windows of the house, must
have given me a jolt. I berated myself. What kind of absurd rationalization was I indulging
in? Such a bizarre situation could never have developed, the complete loss of history, the
total eclipse of the man who had begun the whole movement. Nor was there any suggestion
of such a thing in the words of the documents themselves. And to consider that Christianity
had started out of some totally mundane career and that all the traditions about Jesus were
later invention made no sense either. If Jesus had done virtually nothing, what had provided
the amazing energy for the missionary movement, the impulse for such cosmic deification?
For someone like Clement, Jesus gave no impression of being a dead man in the past,
whose memory was reverently cherished or whose precepts were carefully preserved and
observed. He was a living, active presence who operated through the Spirit and who spoke
through the words of the Hebrew bible, the spiritual son communicating knowledge of God
and of his own redeeming activities. In the later Barnabas, it was as though he were
beginning to emerge from that spiritual world, stepping into the past, but in a haphazard,
indistinct fashion, still tied to his scriptural home. In Ignatius, it had been into a skeleton
history: son of Mary, really born, truly crucified by Pontius Pilate.
But to read Clement and those who came before him was to read of a suffering,
sacrificing Christ who had undergone these things in scripture itself, or whatever world
scripture represented. One travelled to the pages of the sacred writings to learn the details of
these otherwise unknown events. Was this conceivable?
My internal agitation was being aggravated by a more outward reaction to the onslaught
around me. For the full force of the storm seemed to be releasing itself right over my head.
Streaks of ghostly light seared the walls and furniture around me. Cracked bells that had lost
their pitch pealed through the heavenly cathedral. Whether it was the voice of God giving
me an answer, or perhaps trying to drown me out, it would need someone more adept than
myself at interpreting divine communication.
But before I was completely swept away into bottomless, uncharted waters, I thought I
spied a raft, a life-saving straw. Someone had said—I was sure it was Paul—that Jesus had
been ‘born of woman’ and was ‘the son of David’. If Jesus had been viewed as the Christ,
the expected Messiah, this was an essential requirement, for the Old Testament had been full
of promises that one of David’s stock, of Jesse’s seed, a branch from the tribe of Judah,
would be raised to the kingship of Israel, creating a new glorious monarchy that would rule

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the earth. It was utterly impossible that Christ would not have been regarded in some way as
descended from David, and this would surely have to be given an historical basis. It could
not have been lost sight of in oral tradition that the human man who had ministered in
Galilee and died on Calvary, who had risen from a tomb outside Jerusalem, had been of a
line which went back to Israel’s greatest king.
Where had those Pauline references been? It was late, and with the distraction of the
storm, I was losing my concentration. There was nothing for it but to make a quick skim of
the epistles.
Back in the darkened study, while the downpour outside was blown against the window
panes, I groped for my Greek-English New Testament and rescued my trusty old dog-eared
copy as well. As I made my way back to the living room, I wondered why it was that we
bothered. Even in the face of tumult and adversity, what gave us our thirst for knowing?
How long had primitive humans been overwhelmed by the elements around them, powerless
to do anything but survive in an uncaring universe? How long before they had stood up at
some subtle moment of transition and said, ‘No more. We don’t want to huddle in the cold,
drenched by the rain, cowed by the forces around us. We want to do something about it.
We want to understand.’
In Vardis Fisher’s second novel of the Testament of Man, the human species had
harnessed fire and created for itself “Golden Rooms” of light and warmth. This discovery
was part of the development of intelligence, the creation of golden rooms in the mind.
Fisher had vividly conveyed the wonder and elation when a fundamental truth entered the
brain for the first time. But with the light of awareness and self-discovery came greater
questions and greater fears. When humans began to know, they also realized how much they
did not know. And with the heightened awareness of one’s own existence, came the fear of
non-existence. As Fisher portrayed it, this, together with the reverence humans felt for the
miracle of fire, created an instinct for religion. The world had been split into two, and the
supernatural was born. To the challenges it faced in the real world, humanity now added a
new concern—some would call it an albatross—the dread of unknown, unseen powers
which must be placated. It had embarked on the path leading to gods and superstition.
The single lamp over my reading chair created its own golden room, and within its aura
of warmth and light amid the surrounding tempest I opened my New Testament to the letters
of Paul. There at the very head of the corpus, in the opening lines of the epistle to the
Romans, lay the passage I remembered.

‘Paul, a servant of Jesus Christ, called to be an apostle, set apart for the gospel of God,
which he promised beforehand through his prophets in the holy scriptures, the gospel
concerning his Son, who arose from the seed of David according to the flesh, and was
designated Son of God in power according to the spirit of holiness by his resurrection
from the dead, Jesus Christ our Lord.’

The other translation did not make this turgid sentence any more lucid, but from what I
could see, Paul was stating two facts about Jesus, seemingly relating to the two sides of his
nature or activity. The first was in the flesh—presuming that this was the meaning of kata
sarka, ‘according to the flesh’. The second was in the spirit—kata pneuma, ‘according to
the spirit’. The meaning of this too was cryptic, for the other translation chose to make this a

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reference to the Holy Spirit. Was Paul saying here that in the sphere of the flesh Jesus had
been descended from David, while in the sphere of the spirit he had risen from the dead and
been declared Son of God and assumed his full power? I resolved not to show this passage
to Shauna. This had to be an unusually difficult one, but I would never be able to convince
her that the writers of the New Testament were anything but unintelligible.
Why had Paul chosen these two elements? I wondered. If he had wanted to make a
statement about the two spheres of Jesus’ activity, earth and heaven, it seemed odd to pick
the descent from David as the most quotable element of Jesus’ entire life. And if Paul knew
this piece of historical data about Jesus—presumably through human channels—why did he
never give his readers any other biographical information?
Another anomaly struck me. The second element didn’t quite parallel the first. Being
declared Son of God in the spirit sphere was something that had to be a matter of faith, not
historical knowledge. It was essentially a scene in heaven after his resurrection. Here Jesus
had received his full investiture as Son of God, along with certain unspecified powers.
A piece of historical data and a spiritual event. Why this curious combination of
elements?
Both were essential parts of his gospel, Paul was saying. Paul preached that Jesus was
the son of David, and yet he never gave us other information about the human man. Was
nothing else essential? In view of his relegation of everything else about Christ’s life to the
scrap heap, it would seem not.
But there was something else about this whole passage which bothered me. The trouble
was, I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. I had been looking for something historically
concrete, something to set against all the implications in documents like 1 Clement that
Christ existed in and spoke from scripture, that for all knowledge of Christ one went to the
writings, as though historical tradition had simply been lost or was non-existent. Paul
himself had implied the same thing. Only here did he seem to give a piece of historical
biography. And yet—
The clock on my mantelpiece, an antique mechanical thing I had inherited through
several generations, struck midnight. I felt as though I had been sitting there, beneath the
storm, for hours. Perhaps the force of it had bent time, slowed it down. I went back and
read through Romans 1:1-4, performing my own deceleration, stopping on each phrase to
absorb its implications.
The gospel of God. That is, given by God. A manner of expression Paul often used.
Paul’s gospel was God’s gospel. As he insisted elsewhere, he had not gotten it from any
man. It was not a man’s product. He had received it through revelation. From God, from
heaven. No role for Jesus there.
God had promised this gospel beforehand. The verb was proepaggel∩. This he had done
through the prophets. What did Paul mean by ‘promise’? It did not seem logical that he
meant God had merely said through the prophets that in the future he would give a gospel to
Paul. It surely meant that the very content of that gospel had been forecast in the sacred
writings.
I checked my other translation. There, God ‘announced’ the gospel beforehand. This
fitted my assumption much better. The root of the verb was the same as the word for angel,
God’s ‘announcer’ and messenger. God had given the details of the gospel about Jesus in

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scripture. Everything was there ahead of time, pointing toward the gospel which had been
revealed to Paul. Indeed that, obviously, was where Paul had gotten it.
About his Son. The gospel of God was ‘about his Son’, peri tou huiou autou. Both
God’s gospel, given in scripture, and Paul’s gospel were one and the same, a message, the
‘good news’ about the Son of God. God in scripture had looked ahead not to Jesus, but to
the gospel that told of him.
What was wrong with this picture?
God had foretold Paul’s gospel.
God did not foretell Jesus. Or promise him, if that were in fact the meaning of the verb.
Rather, he promised and foretold the gospel that Paul would carry.
My mind felt as though it was hovering on the edge of an abyss.
If Paul believed that God had encoded in scripture information about Jesus which would
form part of Paul’s gospel, then God would have been first and foremost foretelling Jesus.
Even if absolutely nothing about Jesus’ life had been transmitted to Paul through human
channels, learning about Jesus’ life in its foretelling in scripture would be a window onto
that life. Any sane mind would have made the simple adjustment and said that God had
given information beforehand about Jesus. That’s the way it would have been presented.
Not that God had given information about Paul’s gospel. The Son came into the picture only
as the content of that gospel.
Scripture had not been the prophecy of Jesus’ life and activities. It had been the prophecy
of the gospel which told of those activities.
All trace of the storm was blotted out. The universe was filled with silence.
No life of Jesus intervened between the writing of scripture and the revelation of the
gospel to Paul. Wherever or whenever those activities had taken place, it had not been
located in history between the two events.
They had all presented it the same way: Paul, Peter, Clement, even to some extent
Barnabas. And no doubt others. The Son lived in scripture, or whatever world scripture told
of. His very existence—never mind the actual details of his life—his very existence was to
be learned of only through God’s sacred word, the word that had come to Paul and others
like him.
There had been no historical Jesus.
I waited for the thunderclap. Would it be a bolt of horror—congratulations—
punishment?
None came. Only the steady drumming of the rain.
The sentence in the Greek had gone on. The content of the gospel which had been
foretold by God. Paul offered two elements about the Son. That Jesus, in the sphere of the
flesh, had been of the seed of David. That in heaven after his resurrection Jesus had been
proclaimed or appointed Son of God, receiving his full power in that role. The structure of
the sentence, the relationship between its elements: clearly Paul was identifying these two
points about Jesus as elements of his gospel, elements which had come from the source of
that gospel: scripture. God had recorded them there. Paul had read them there, inspired by
God’s Spirit.
I could not see how the sentence could be taken in any other way. Why had no one else,
as far as I knew, seen it with this meaning?

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This would eliminate that anomaly I had noted earlier, the linking of a piece of historical
data with an item of faith about an event in the spiritual world. The first was not a piece of
historical data at all. It, too, had been a feature of Jesus derived solely from scripture, that he
was the son of David. To be literal, ‘had arisen out of the seed of David.’
Was this possible? Kata sarka. A cryptic phrase, when one thought about it, one I had
encountered a few times in Paul and other writers, or some close variant of it. It was almost
a stereotyped reference. Why not ‘in his human life’? Or ‘when he came to earth’ or some
such? Kata sarka, according to the flesh. What did it really mean? Could Jesus be of the
seed of David in an entirely spiritual sense? I resolved to find out.
It would also explain that other anomaly: why Paul showed no interest in any other piece
of biographical information about Jesus. This one wasn’t biographical in the historical
sense. It was a feature derived from scripture.
But now another unconscious perceptor was going off. That the Messiah would be
David’s descendant was an idea which ran riot throughout the prophetic writings. That
Paul’s Christ enjoyed this necessary characteristic Paul could readily deduce from prophets
like Isaiah. Because of its prominence in the writings, Paul would have been justified in
presenting this as a chief feature of Jesus’ nature ‘in the flesh’. But that odd second feature:
Jesus in the spirit being designated Son of God in power following his resurrection. I had
asked myself why Paul had chosen to highlight this idea, one that seemed less significant
than the death and resurrection which had been shunted to the side. Was there a passage
somewhere which would have suggested this scene in heaven, something whose importance
would have led Paul to present this as being a supreme experience of Jesus ‘in the spirit’?
My tingling perceptor was telling me yes, and I had a feeling where. It was a passage I
had encountered more than once, discussed in the commentaries in one connection or
another, one of crucial importance to early Christian interpreters of Jesus.
I almost ran into the study—a hazardous piece of foolhardiness, since the place was
totally dark—and retrieved my Old Testament. Back within my golden room, I opened it to
the Psalms. It had been an early Psalm, I was sure.
It was unfortunate I couldn’t have had this kind of luck in picking lottery numbers, or
catching buses. There it was: Psalm 2. This was a Psalm written for a royal coronation.
God welcomes and anoints his king and the writer warns the foreign nations to beware of
their plots and ambitions against the Lord and his anointed. At its center, I read these lines:

‘I will tell of the decree of the Lord:


He said to me, “You are my son, today I have begotten you...
Ask of me, and I will give you the nations as your inheritance,
and the ends of the earth as your possession...” ’

Here, surely, was the source of Paul’s second assertion in Romans 1, in both its elements.
Paul had assumed that this passage in the Psalm applied to Jesus. Jesus is proclaimed,
appointed God’s son by God himself. And he is invested with power, receiving the nations
of the earth as his possession.
In my island of light underneath the lamp, it seemed to me that all the elements of the
opening lines in Romans now fell into place. God told the ‘good news’ about Jesus his Son
in scripture. This account resided there, unknown and unperceived, until prophets of Paul’s

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time unearthed it through the inspiration of God’s Spirit. As Colossians and Ephesians and
the writer who added Romans 16:25 were later to put it: it was a mystery kept secret through
long generations. Paul had seized on two elements of this scriptural account to highlight for
his readers (although some said he might have been borrowing an earlier creedal formula).
That Jesus was ‘of David’s seed’ according to the flesh. And that he had gained his full
stature as Son of God following his resurrection when God had welcomed him in heaven and
gave him power over the earth.
Again, one set of questions needed to be answered. If Jesus had never been on earth in
history, where had he come to heaven from? Where had the death and resurrection taken
place? Could this be accommodated to the meaning of ‘according to the flesh’, and could
Jesus be regarded as connected to David in this state?
The shock was beginning to wear off. I could see that so much of what I had previously
observed had pointed inevitably in this direction. Paul and the early Christian writers had
never appealed to Jesus of Nazareth. They had been silent on everything in his life. There
had been no concept of apostolic tradition going back to Jesus. Instead, they had all spoken
of the Spirit, how the Spirit inspired, how it told of God’s secrets. They had gone to
scripture at every turn, pointing to Jesus on its pages, never turning from there to his
historical life and declaring how such ‘prophecies’ had been fulfilled in the historical events.
Paul’s letters revealed a world of rival apostles, all claiming that the Spirit they had received
was the true one, and none of them ever claimed a link to Jesus himself. Jesus was a present
force, not a figure of the recent past. The picture of Jesus they knew, the picture they
presented to the believer, was the picture of Jesus found in scripture.
The center of the storm seemed to be passing. Lightning flashes no longer filled the room
with starkly edged specters. It was yet too soon to risk reactivating the computer, and I still
had no memory as to where that other reference was located, Paul speaking of Jesus as ‘born
of woman’. But I recalled now something which Sylvia had said in connection with one of
the savior gods of the mystery cults: Dionysos, too, had been born to a woman, in a cave.
Yet Dionysos had never been regarded as an historical figure. Perhaps this was the simple
answer. That in all these ‘historical’ features accorded to Jesus, such things had existed in a
mythical realm, as the activities of the Greek deities had. Early Christianity and the
sectarian Jewish circles it grew out of had developed their own equivalent form of myth,
something in which the Jewish scriptures played a crucial part. Perhaps it could even in
some way have been thought of as existing ‘in the sphere of the flesh’.
I resolved to track down Paul’s reference and investigate the whole question. With a
little shiver of misgiving, I realized that this would require further consultation with Sylvia.
One thing seemed clear. Jesus’ death and resurrection had been mythical events, they had
taken place somewhere in the spiritual world. No other explanation could account for the
total silence on all the details of the crucifixion and the rising from the tomb. Not just the
Gospel details—any details. That such a situation could exist surrounding the central event
of the Christian faith was simply inconceivable. Pilate, had he been responsible for Jesus’
crucifixion, could not possibly have dropped completely out of sight, to emerge in Christian
correspondence only with Ignatius and a second century Pastoral epistle. Paul had pointed to
the demon spirits as the unwitting executioners of Jesus, and the spirits did not reside on
earth. They were part of the heavenly realm just above the earth. If Jesus’ death were a

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mythical event, like the deaths of other savior gods, then it, too, had been revealed by God.
It, too, was a part of God’s mystery, hidden for long ages.
I realized that I had already encountered the probable source of the idea that Jesus had
been crucified. Writers everywhere, 1 Clement, John the prophet of Revelation, Barnabas,
and no doubt others, had opened the sacred book and pointed to passages about piercing, the
nailing of flesh. If these were messianic, then the Christ had clearly undergone crucifixion.
According to 1 Peter, probably drawing from Deuteronomy, he had hung on a ‘tree’.
I suddenly realized what other incident had been revealed—at least to Paul. He had
declared it so in 1 Corinthians 11:23. ‘For I received from the Lord what I passed on to
you...’ Paul was speaking of the revelation he had received about Jesus’ words over the
bread and wine of the thanksgiving meal which the Pauline communities observed. Like the
cultic meal of the Mithraic myth, this was part of the myth of Jesus. Perhaps it had been a
product solely of Paul’s mind, an ‘inspiration’ arrived at for no other reason than a mundane
one: to induce the unruly Corinthians, who scrambled for more than their share of food and
drink, to treat the meal with more respect, to see it as a sacrament established by the Lord.
The bread and wine were in fact sacred elements, said Paul, for they were the very body and
blood of the sacrificed Jesus. Perhaps this would explain why his term, the Lord’s Supper,
was unlike any other term used for the meal in early Christian literature, because it had
nothing to do with any established tradition.
It seemed likely that Paul’s innovative treatment of the Jewish meal had been influenced
by the mysteries, which also believed in the establishment of cultic meals by their gods.
This form of sacrament would have been repugnant to Jews, whereas it had strong affinities
with Greek practice.
The lightning and thunder had moved on. Only the rain continued to beat its persistent
rhythms around me. I decided it was safe to return to the study and get my lifeline operating
again. Two points would have to be cleared up before I could give myself the go-ahead to
tentatively accept my startling conclusions.
All tiredness had been washed away in the rush of revelation. I hoped that mine had not
been the product of divine communication—although I had been studying scripture.

Somewhat to my surprise, I discovered that the storm had not obliterated the outside
world. The Muratorian Project still existed. When I called up the words of Paul in 1
Corinthians 11:23, it was like reestablishing contact with some living voice.

‘For I received from the Lord what I passed on to you, that the Lord Jesus, on the night he
was betrayed, took bread, and when he had given thanks...’

‘On the night he was betrayed.’ Most readers would have taken this as an allusion to
Judas. My old translation had ‘on the night of his arrest.’ Again, the post-Supper scene
when Jesus was seized by the authorities came naturally to mind.
Why these two different translations? The verb Paul used was ‘paradid∩mi’, which
meant literally ‘to hand over’ or ‘to deliver up’. From my Lexicon I learned that one of its
uses was as a kind of technical term in the context of martyrdom, best rendered as ‘to

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surrender’ someone. There was no necessary implication of betrayal or judicial arrest. In


fact, the identical verb had been used in Romans 8:32: ‘God delivered him up for us all.’
And in Ephesians 5:2 and 25 it was Christ himself who performed the action, who ‘gave
himself up on your behalf.’ In neither case could the idea have involved betrayal or arrest.
Clearly, translations of the epistles could be influenced by the Gospel picture.
Then there was the question of ‘at night’. This fitted the Gospel account, of course, but
after a moment’s reflection I realized there was no reason why a mythical story could not be
set at night. Paul may have deduced this element from some passage in scripture; or, since 1
Corinthians 5:7 suggested that he made a connection between Jesus’ sacrifice and Passover,
he may have associated the meal with that celebration, which took place after sunset.
So far so good.
My second point was the passage in 1 Corinthians 15, Paul’s statement of the core
doctrines of his gospel. It was prefaced in verse 3 by a now-familiar statement: ‘For I passed
on to you, as of first importance, what I also received...’
The verb for ‘received’ was identical to the one in 11:23—parelabon. Paul had received
his doctrines—how? Through personal revelation, or through the accounts of others before
him? I had to lean to the former, because that was the meaning I had arrived at for the
earlier phrase. And because in Galatians 1:11-12 Paul had so passionately declared that his
gospel had not been received from any man, but from a revelation about Jesus Christ.
Then Paul went on to state this ‘mini-gospel’.

‘...that Christ died for our sins according to the scriptures; that he was buried; that he was
raised on the third day according to the scriptures.’
According to the scriptures. Kata tas graphas. This was the crucial phrase. Traditional
wisdom said that Paul used ‘in accordance with’ to mean that Jesus had done these things at
the governance of scripture. They were a fulfillment of prophecies about the Christ.
The problem with this interpretation, however, was that Paul nowhere discussed such an
idea. He never compared scripture with history and pointed out the relationship between
them. This would have resulted in a clear reference to an historical event in the recent life of
Jesus, and my previous surveys had never uncovered such a thing.
But kata could be used in other senses, and one of these was the same as one of the ways
we used ‘according to’ in English. If I told someone that “According to the newspaper this
morning, the President went to Chicago,” I would not mean that the President was fulfilling
or acting in accordance with the newspaper account. Rather, I had learned of his trip to
Chicago through that report in the newspaper. Paul could well have been saying that he
knew of Christ’s death and resurrection from what he had read in the sacred writings.
Such a meaning would utterly exclude any possibility that Paul knew of a Jesus who had
died and was resurrected in recent history, a man living in his own lifetime. It was hardly
surprising that no commentator had ever chosen to interpret the phrase this way.
In both passages, then, Paul’s statements were consistent with everything else I had
investigated this dramatic night, that information and belief about Christ came through
revelation and scripture.
How strange—at least to our minds. To think that an entire religious movement had
taken to the byways of the empire, had won over hearts and minds in so many centers of
Jewish and gentile life, solely on the basis of words written in a book.

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Yet these were the words of God. And the whole tenor of the times was to seek out clues
to the unseen world which mirrored this one. Jews believed that everything in this world
was mirrored and predestined in heaven. In Platonic philosophy, the human world of matter
was an inferior reflection of the divine reality above, timeless and perfect. Beyond a handful
of rationalist philosophers, the ancients had no scientific concept of the universe to speak of.
Angels and spirits filled the layers of the heavens above them. Mystical reality was real, a
place and a state to be yearned for, to achieve through salvation.
Scripture was God’s window onto that unseen reality, revealing his secrets and wishes.
Every educated Jew—and Paul was certainly that—lived within the pages of the holy books.
He governed his life by their words. Ancient philosophy as a whole, its view of the universe
and Deity, was a product of intellectual contemplation. The genuine reality lay outside the
observable world. Ultimate truths were reached through the rejection of the world and the
abandonment of the body. God was believed to communicate first through his scriptures,
second through visionary revelation. God had spoken to Paul through both.
Perhaps it was not so strange, then, that Paul and a host of believers could love and
commit themselves to a Christ no one had yet seen. Everyone around them was doing the
same. Philosophers moved in purely mystical spheres. Isis, Mithras, all the savior gods:
they had not come closer to earth than myth. God himself was entirely supernatural. He had
never left heaven. Yet countless generations of Jews had devoted their lives and destinies to
him. Why not to a Son of God?
The Son had been the religious innovation of the age. An intermediary figure, a bridge to
the transcendent, ultimate God, a revealer, a redeemer. Such a figure had at first been
impersonal, abstract like the Greek Logos. But gradually it had moved toward the personal.
God’s Wisdom became a female entity who aided him, came to earth and called, gave
knowledge and resided among men. The Jewish philosopher Philo of Alexandria, so I
recalled from my conversation with Sylvia at the party, had taken an intermediate step,
making the Logos ‘the Son’ and ‘first-begotten of God’, instilling him into Moses. Greek
and Roman philosophers, I was to learn later, had associated the Logos with certain savior
gods, and at least one Hellenistic sect personalized it in the direction of a saving entity.
Christians followed that trend. They created a Son who, like some of the cultic deities,
had died for them, to whom one could be mystically united, who revealed God and
guaranteed resurrection and eternal life. He was a Son to love.
For Paul, scripture was not the prophecy of the Christ event, but its embodiment. God’s
word revealed the spiritual world where Christ lived and performed his redemptive acts.
Before long, however, through ways I had yet to investigate, this Christ was to spill into
history and into Gospels which told of him. I realized by now that most of this Gospel
‘biography’ had come from scripture, the details of a life painstakingly built up from their
words and ideas, no doubt with other influences enriching the mix.
When this process was complete, scripture became a book of prophecy about Jesus.
Christians lost sight of the fact that this is where he had come from.

I took a deep breath, several in fact. Was there a flaw in the picture somewhere? Would
I wake up tomorrow morning and reject the whole thing as too incredible, too unacceptable?
Could it really be true that less than a century into the Christian movement, it had turned in

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an unexpected and unprecedented direction, one which had led to 19 centuries of faith based
on a monumental misconception?
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew that the theory that a human Jesus had never
existed was one of those things which had bounced around out in left field; but I had never
encountered or taken notice of it, and I knew nothing about any of the writers or scholars
who had championed it. This could be another avenue of investigation to follow.
But tonight I had only my own thoughts to draw on. The voice of the gods had receded.
The noise of the rain was slackening to a muffled vibration. The universe felt strangely
empty, hollow sounds echoing in a new void that would never be filled. If the divine voice
had fallen silent, perhaps no sound would ever be heard again...
Except the doorbell.
Whether it was the lateness of the hour, or the fact that I had felt isolated in some other
dimension for what seemed half an eternity, the little chime at my front door struck me as
something that could not be identified. When it repeated a few moments later, I got up in a
kind of stupor, wondering what new mystery lay waiting for me on the other side.
The mystery turned out to be a rather damp and worried-looking Shauna.
“My God, Shauna! What are you doing here? At this hour?”
She stood on the porch with her little umbrella shaping the rain into a glistening tube
around her body, her pant legs and jogging shoes already spattered—though I was sure she
had not been jogging. For some reason, we both stood there, she in the rain, myself under
the lee of the doorway. She wore an almost guilty look, as though this deprived her of the
right to come in out of the downpour.
“I was worried. Your phone line has been busy or something for hours, and it was getting
so late, and with the storm—”
I spied her car out on the street. “Why didn’t you park in the laneway? Here—good
grief. Come inside. You’ll be drenched.”
She shook out her umbrella as she scurried through the door. “I didn’t want to wake you
in case you were sleeping. Yes, I know, that doesn’t make sense, does it? Well, sometimes
it’s hard to think straight at 2 AM.”
I helped her take her jacket off. “Would you like some hot chocolate?”
“That would be glorious. But it might put me to sleep right there.”
“Don’t you have to get up for work in the morning?”
“I suppose. But it’s been months since I took a sick day. I could always call in—unless
you’re going to be busy, of course.”
“No, no. From the look of it, I’ll probably be sleeping in myself.”
Shauna took off her wet shoes and we went into the kitchen. I set about preparing the
promised hot chocolate.
She asked, almost tentatively, “Is your phone out? I was trying since about seven, and
that was before the storm hit.”
“No. I took it off the hook.”
“Oh.” I knew she was wondering if she had interrupted one of my privacy binges.
Which in a way was true. “Have you been doing anything special?”
I mixed the chocolate and the Kwik just the way she liked it. “Mostly riding out the
storm, like everyone else, I imagine.” I stuck the two cups in the microwave, the modern

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male’s indispensable survival machine. “I did a little more research while I was at it.
Roughing it, of course. No computer. Had to shut the thing off, just to be safe.”
She nodded, knowingly.
“Why, what did you think had happened to me?”
She gave a little laugh, and I could tell she was still feeling self-conscious. “Oh, I don’t
know. I thought maybe you were discussing the coming apocalypse with Burton Patterson
on the phone. Or you’d run off with some history professor or other.”
I kept my eye on the microwave timer. I said with some humor in my voice, “If I do that,
I’ll let you know first.”
“I hope so.”
The timer gave three beeps. I served the chocolate piping hot and we sipped away at it,
sitting at the kitchen table. The night was quiet, the continuing fall of the rain a delicate
murmur. The world outside lay drowsy and sated in the wake of the gods’ passing passion.
If their voice was weakening, their virility seemed unaffected.
Shauna’s eyes were drooping over the steaming cup. Why had she been worried at a busy
phone signal? I wondered. Enough to come over in these conditions at such an hour?
She asked, “You said you’d been working—did you discover anything interesting?”
“Oh, a thing here and there. I’m not sure how I’ll use it.” I had no intention of trying to
explain anything tonight. The warm milk was trickling down my throat, soothing my
insides, as I knew it would be warming hers, adding to her sleepiness. With her dusky
coloring and her large, dark-edged mismatched eyes, her small, somewhat ‘zoftig’ figure—
such a delightful word she had taught me from her Yiddish heritage, meaning fleshy but in a
pleasing way—she might have been an embodiment of the Earth Mother herself. But unlike
the priests of Attis, the Great Mother’s consort, I had no intention of castrating myself in her
service. In fact, with the warm, sweet fluid tingling my mouth, I felt quite an opposite urge.
I had had enough of the stern and fulminating voices of the gods. Now I wished to draw a
different sound from a creature of the earth.
“Would you like to go to bed?”
She looked at me with the tiniest of smiles in her eyes. “And just what kind of a
proposition is that, sir?”
“To be close. To forget gods and priests and prophets. Perhaps to find out who we
should really be worshipping.” I reached for her hand across the table. “Tonight I would
like to taste something sweeter than chocolate.”
Her little shiver was not from the dampness.
We left the cups, half-filled, steaming on the table.

Hers was an altar I occasionally worshipped at in this fashion. Nothing was more
intimate than this gift of exclusive attention, requiring no reciprocating measure on her part
except sheer response. This gift she gave me in return, to fill my ears with the sounds of her
pleasure, drowsy and unabashed. The other gift was beneath my mouth. The poet had
missed out in his rapt preoccupation with the nectars of the gods; there were savors closer to
earth he might have waxed poetic on. As the night slid deeper into its post-traumatic
lassitude, I kept Shauna on the edge of languor and excitement, with the occasional flare into
a more involuntary gush of passion. For such exquisite primate capacity, 60 million years
was worth the wait. It was unfortunate we had brought some of the dinosaurs along with us.

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Eventually she asked for a respite and drew me up and into her. The combination of my
extended ministry at the altar and the tension of the day’s discoveries produced an almost
immediate visionary experience, which seemed to communicate itself to all devotees
present, and within minutes we both hovered at the edge of sleep.
“I will not stir from this bed until noon, I warn you,” Shauna purred, nuzzling against me
under the blanket.
I murmured my complete acquiescence, and we both left the world to its own devices.

Other than a discreet phone call to the lab at 9 AM, which I was blissfully unaware of,
Shauna was true to her word. We lounged in bed as the noon hour passed, and then some.
It was a day which welcomed the sun as a lord returning to his domain after the ravages of
the marauding storm.
Brunch was toasted waffles and maple syrup. The syrup was the real thing.
This morning—or afternoon, as it certainly was—I felt more secure about referring to
Shauna’s mission of mercy the night before.
“Did you really think something had happened to me?”
“Well, if you must know, Kevin, I felt lonely and a little apprehensive in the storm. I just
wanted to hear the sound of your voice.”
I’m sure I looked as sheepish as I felt. I had truly been selfish not to have thought of that.
And she had braved the storm’s rigors to cross the city just to be with me. “I’m sorry. That
was not considerate of me, was it? I could claim I had a lot of things on my mind, but that’s
really no excuse.”
Her eyes forgave me. “What sort of things?”
I told her briefly of the Ascended Masters and their e-mail to David.
There was a certain ‘I told you so’ in her expression, even though she hadn’t. “You see
what happens when you take on fanatics? They can bite back. You never know what people
will do when their precious convictions are challenged.”
“If no one ever challenged established convictions—” The rest of the thought awaited its
turn with a mouthful of waffle.
“Yes, that’s what you always say,” Shauna admonished. Were my unspoken thoughts so
predictable? “Why don’t you tell me about your little discoveries? Seeing that they were so
important you had to disconnect my lifeline to you.”
“Hmm.” I cleared my throat. How could I introduce such an idea and not seem like a
total idiot? In fact, today I had done my best not to think about it at all, though without
complete success. Now I was brought back to it in all its awesomeness. And complexity.
I began. “What would you say—” I paused as though giving my brain one last chance to
review the entire picture and decide if I had indeed jumped to some wild, hair-brained
conclusion. My RAM wasn’t equal to the task.
Shauna was waiting, her mouth full of waffle and syrup. I plunged in.
“You know how we could find no sign of anyone blaming the Jews for Jesus’ death?”
Yes, that was a good opening. She’d be sympathetic to that approach. “Suppose I were to
say that the reason is that no one at all killed Jesus.” She switched to chewing more slowly.
I tossed the rest out cavalierly. “Mainly because no such person ever existed.”

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Shauna stopped chewing altogether. Then she decided it was best to swallow. She
pursed her lips, cocked her head at me, and said: “I would say you were standing under a tree
during the storm when it was hit by lightning.”
I had a sinking realization that this was precisely the reaction I was going to get when
presenting the same outlandish proposition to them all: David, Patterson, Winston my
publisher, who knew who else. If I couldn’t persuade Shauna, neutral, clear-headed, Jewish
Shauna, who had even shared in some of my research, I might as well abandon the whole
project. I tried not to sound desperate.
“But remember all those silences we uncovered. The man’s life had dropped into a black
hole, as far as the epistle writers were concerned. And what about all those references to
secrets kept hidden for long ages? They were clearly talking about Christ. Paul looks to the
Spirit of God in scripture for revelation about Jesus; he gets nothing from Jesus. God is the
source of everything, all knowledge, even the ethics. God even does the saving. Don’t you
think it all fits?” Whether this frantic string of justifications made the case—
Shauna was digesting more than just the waffles and syrup. “But— It seems so...so
extreme! Couldn’t there be some other explanation?”
“Of course it’s extreme. It would be completely unacceptable to millions of Christians.
Regardless of whether it was good enough for Paul. But if that’s what really happened,
there’s no use in perpetuating a fiction. Think of how much better we’d understand
everything, how we could see the development of religious ideas in history—”
Shauna gave me her most skeptical expression. “Somehow I don’t think too many people
would find that an adequate compensation.” She tentatively poked her knife and fork at the
rest of her waffle, as though wondering whether she should continue to be eating at such a
moment.
Then she had a thought. “Maybe Paul placed all that emphasis on scripture because up to
then that was what everyone believed in. If it wasn’t in scripture, it had no validity. Some
people are still like that.”
“Yes. But all the more reason to make scripture clearly point to the historical man.”
“Maybe he just wanted them to have faith. If he gave them proof, there’d be no merit in
it.” I could tell that this was only a half-hearted attempt.
“Well, you’re right about one thing. Paul certainly puts an emphasis on having faith. It’s
all anyone needs to—”
I stopped short. Half of my own waffle still lay uneaten. I nodded, more to myself than
to Shauna. “Faith. Yes, Paul is always talking about having faith. That’s how you get
saved. By believing in Jesus.”
Shauna said wryly, “That hasn’t changed much.”
I prodded the air with one finger and said slowly, “But there’s one kind of faith he
doesn’t talk about...” Was I receiving a true ‘revelation’? Perhaps ancient man, when he
made any connection in his mind, believed he had been prodded by some divine force. I got
up from the table. “C’mon. We’re going to check something.”
Shauna made as if to follow, then decided that the universe hadn’t sufficiently collapsed
to prevent her from taking a last—and very large—mouthful of waffle and syrup. With her
cheeks bursting, she dutifully followed me into the study.
I activated the computer and logged onto the Web. “Faith: that’s the common
denominator of one of those chains of passages I made, but I didn’t show it to you the first

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time.” Into the Muratorian Project. “Paul is always stressing the idea that God has offered
faith in Jesus as the means of eternal life. And he talks about believing in certain things
about Jesus.” I started my chain going.
“Here’s Romans 10:9: ‘If you believe in your heart that God raised Jesus from the dead,
you will be saved.’ You talked about proof, but didn’t they have proof? According to the
Gospels, dozens of people were supposed to have seen Jesus in the flesh after his
resurrection. Why would anyone need faith that he had risen? Here—in 1 Thessalonians
4:13: ‘We believe that Jesus died and rose again...’ Did they need faith to know that Jesus
had died, too?”
The next link was 2 Corinthians 5:7. “ ‘We live through believing, not through seeing.’
Maybe Paul himself hadn’t witnessed Jesus’ life, but plenty of others had. Why is historical
witness never a factor in any of Paul’s doctrines about Jesus?”
I had already concluded that even the list of visions in 1 Corinthians 15 was a matter of
faith, for they had been precisely that: revelations of a spiritual figure, just like the one Paul
had received. “When he’s arguing with the Corinthians about the certainty of their own
resurrection, he can even speak hypothetically that if the dead are not raised, ‘then Christ
was not raised.’ He says it half a dozen times, as though it would be possible not to believe
it. He points to God and says that God’s witness to Christ’s resurrection would be false if
we were not to be resurrected too. Obviously, his faith that Jesus rose from the dead comes
from God. Meaning scripture.”
Shauna waited patiently for me to get to my point. She probably thought I was just being
my usual perverse self in stretching things out.
“Look at this one and you’ll see what I’m getting at.” I read from the passage starting at
Romans 3:21.
“ ‘Now God’s righteousness has been revealed...which the law and the prophets bore
witness to...’ Note, by the way, that Paul appeals to scripture again, not history. ‘...whom
God set forth as a means of expiating sin through faith in his blood.’ It would seem one has
to have faith that Jesus’ blood was shed. ‘...to prove now that God is righteous and justifies
anyone who has faith in Jesus.’ ” In my emphasis I was trying to lead her to revelation by
force.
She said slowly, “So Paul has a fixation about faith in Jesus. Wouldn’t that be natural?”
“Yes, very natural. Faith that Jesus has provided salvation. Faith that he died and rose
from the dead. Faith that God has revealed it all. With faith you get resurrected to eternal
life. Everything is dependent on faith. But think about it. Isn’t there another faith that
should be required? Something even more natural?”
She was staring at the screen as though the answer might be hidden in the words, like an
Anacrostic puzzle. “I—I’m not sure I can see—”
“The most important one. The one that comes first—when a Christian apostle first
approaches the prospective convert. Without this piece of faith, you don’t go on to any of
the others.” I waited another moment. “Paul has faith in the Son of God—”
Some divine force prodded Shauna as the light of revelation flooded her face. She let out
a long slow “Ah!” and turned to me. “He doesn’t say that you have to have faith that Jesus
of Nazareth was the Son of God. That would be the faith that would have to come first!”
I beamed at her like a proud tutor. And then she proceeded to turn the tables on me.

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“So Paul has faith in a Son of God—that he exists.” She measured out each idea at a
time. “And he believes in what this Son had done for him. A sacrifice and all that. But he
doesn’t identify this Son with any recent human man, someone who was crucified by Pilate.”
She added for emphasis: “Or the Jews.”
“Right. All this faith in what Jesus is, or what he has done, is not attached to a recent
human man. Paul’s Jesus is a given entity. You either believe in him or you don’t.”
Her eyes gave me that little smile which always warned me when she was about to say
something clever. “I guess you could say that what we have here is...a missing equation.”
I gave her a broad smile in return. “The Missing Equation.” I repeated it, savoring the
phrase. “Yes, I like that. I can use that.” I leaned over and gave her a kiss. “There’s only
one side to Paul’s equation. He believes in the Son, not that anybody was the Son. Paul’s
starting point for everything is the divine Son in heaven, not any Jesus of Nazareth in recent
history. That’s Christ’s starting point, too—in heaven. And that’s where he stays. Or
almost. Somewhere he had himself sacrificed. If we are to believe Paul, the deed was
performed by the demon spirits.” I added for emphasis: “Not the Jews.”
Shauna’s head gave a little bow. “Thank you. But that was my next question. Where did
the dastardly deed happen?”
“Well, you’ll have to let me get back to you on that. It had to do with myth, and views of
the spirit realm. And Hellenistic philosophy about true reality. With a few savior god ideas
thrown in. I won’t bother you with all the details just yet. I have to do more work on it.”
“It sounds like pretty esoteric stuff.”
“Yes, it is. And it’s stuff we have no equivalent for today. Which is probably why it’s so
difficult for people—even scholars—to really see it. If you read Paul without assuming he’s
applying all these heavy ideas to the Gospel Jesus, you start to get a sense that the world his
mind is moving in is actually quite alien to us. I daresay the average reader of Paul would
simply find most of it unintelligible.” I was beginning to see that I would face a
monumental task in trying to get the whole thing across in any simple fashion.
Suddenly, Shauna spoke up in a burst of excitement. “You see—didn’t I tell you? I knew
that something didn’t seem right about it! It would have been totally blasphemous for a Jew
to go around saying that a man was the Son of God. And any other Jew would probably
have stoned him for it.”
“More than likely. And when you think about it, that’s what makes Paul’s silence so
telling. If he had been going around preaching that a recent man was the Son of God, he
would have been constantly forced to defend such an outlandish proposition. But he never
gives us a word about any such defence. There’s where your Missing Equation really stands
out like a sore thumb.”
Shauna considered for a moment. “But you know, Kevin, I would think that even a
divine Son in heaven would have been offensive to many Jews. After all, ‘God is One’ is
supposed to be our central theological statement.”
“You’re probably right. And no doubt that’s why the early church suffered some
persecution. But at least the idea was part of the spirit of the times: inventing a divine son
for the ultimate God. Of one form or another.”
“And Paul could point to scripture and say: See, it’s all there. God says so.”

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I nodded. “Yes, God says so. They all put it exactly that way. The early writers never
say that ‘Jesus came to earth’ or ‘lived a life’, let alone recently. It’s always, Jesus has been
‘revealed’ by God. God ‘manifested’ Jesus.”
I pointed to the screen, where the passage from Romans 3 was still showing. “Like that
one. ‘God set him forth.’ When I looked that verb up in the Lexicon, one of the meanings
was ‘to display, to bring into public light.’ There’s a verb like that in 1 Peter. I remember it
struck me as odd at the time. Let’s see if I can find it...”
It took about half a minute to get the passage onto the screen. “There—1:20. ‘He was
chosen before the foundation of the world, and now he has been manifested in these last
times for your sake.’ ”
Shauna agreed that this would certainly be an odd way of referring to Jesus’ life on earth.
“There are a bunch of verbs like that in the early writers. They all mean to reveal or make
known, or give evidence of one’s presence. They certainly don’t mean to be incarnated—
regardless of what some of the translations read into them. They’re the sort of words a
Greek might have used about his experience of the god during the mystery rites. They’re
simply saying that God has made Jesus known.”
“Well, if that’s the case, it’s no wonder they call God the Savior.”
“Actually, they’re both saviors. Jesus performed the act—in some mythical realm and
time. Now God reveals it all and makes the benefits available through faith in the whole
thing. All courtesy of Paul, of course.”
“Does Paul call himself a savior?” Shauna asked, a little ironically.
I laughed. “Everything but. All amid protests of humility.”
Shauna suddenly turned mock serious. “And just how do you propose writing a novel
about someone who never existed?”
“It will certainly be a challenge, I agree.”
“Well, at least you won’t have to worry about character development.”
“Or physical description.”
“But this non-existent hero does have a name.” She thought a moment. “I guess I’m
curious about that. Why was this Son in heaven called ‘Jesus’?”
“I’ll have to ponder that one. But off the top of my head, I would say it’s probably
because the name in Hebrew means ‘savior’. But you should know that. Yeshua—Joshua.
Doesn’t Joshua’s name in the bible mean ‘liberator’? Or, strictly speaking, ‘Yahweh saves’.
What more natural name for a Jewish savior deity—especially one who’s considered a part
of God? As for ‘Christ’, that simply means Anointed One, like the ancient kings of Israel
who were anointed by God. The word ‘Christ’ is the Greek translation for the Hebrew
Mashiach or Messiah. For the first Christians, who would all have been Jews I suppose, the
traditional human Messiah was moved to heaven and made into a divine Son. They would
have been interpreting scripture, probably under the influence of the wider religious ideas of
the day—Wisdom, the Logos, the cults, take your pick. So ‘Christ Jesus’ would simply
mean ‘Anointed Savior’. As to who first put the two words together, or when, and applied
them to a divine Son, I doubt we’ll ever know that. I’m sure it had to be earlier than Paul.”
“Perhaps whoever it was, we should call him the true founder of Christianity. But I guess
we’ll never know his identity.”

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“Well, the ideas had to come before the names. But like all things in the history of ideas,
nothing ever springs full-blown into anyone’s mind. Christ Jesus undoubtedly evolved from
earlier, more primitive concepts.”
“But what about the Gospels? Where in heaven’s name did they come from—all that
detail about a human Jesus?”
“Basically from scripture, I would say. I’ve already seen that process at work in some of
the turn-of-the century writings like 1 Clement and Barnabas.”
Shauna seemed suddenly to think of something and asked, almost apologetically, “But
weren’t people in general, as you say, expecting some kind of human Messiah? I mean,
wouldn’t the Gospels make sense as representing a popular reaction to some preacher or
other—sort of like your Fisher’s Joshua?”
“It might,” I allowed. “And I’ll get a better idea of that once I tackle the Gospels. But
already I can see that there’s too close a link between the Gospel events and scripture. And
it wouldn’t change the fact that the Christ of believers like Paul has nothing to do with a
Gospel-type man. The circles Paul moved in don’t reflect popular Jewish expectations. I’ve
even come across some purely Jewish groups who believed in a spiritual Messiah waiting in
heaven for an apocalyptic end of the world.”
Shauna stretched her arms. “Well, my dear, I don’t think I’m going to be around at the
end of the next millennium when you get all this sorted out.” She cast a covetous glance
toward the study windows. “I have to live in this lifetime, and we really shouldn’t waste our
unexpected day together.” She added hastily, “I mean—outside the bed. The weather is so
glorious. Much as I love tramping the dusty highways of your ancient past...”
“Say no more. Paul’s waited this long for someone to listen to what he was really saying.
I guess he can afford to be patient a little while longer.”
Holding hands, we went out the door shortly afterward into a bright spring sunshine.
Despite my admonition, I thought I could detect Paul’s footstep following behind us at a
discreet distance.

*****************************

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119

Chapter Ten

The next ten days were spent in something of a haze. I found I could not allow myself to
proceed on the basis of the radical conclusion I had reached until I reconsidered the steps I
had taken to get there. I reread the whole of Paul and the other New Testament epistles. I
revisited the Commentaries and Indexes of the Muratorian Project. I rechecked my
reasoning, considered the possibility of alternative explanations. None offered themselves in
any convincing fashion. I decided I would tentatively accept the verdict that there had been
no historical Jesus, at least until I had the chance to delve more deeply into the workings of
ancient world mythology and see if Paul’s dying and rising Christ could fit into them. And I
needed to investigate the question of how the Gospels had arisen. If there were a way to see
this process as developing out of a previously mythical Christ, I felt the case would be
reasonably complete. I could then set about fashioning my novel.
That task, I realized, would not be easy. Instead of a vital central character whose fame
and influence was unparalleled in world history, I had only a mythical idea. Instead of the
colorful tale of a life and ministry, the drama of final action-packed hours in a trumped-up
trial and ignominious execution, I had snippets from the pages of the Jewish scriptures,
threaded and spun by imaginative minds into a morality tale whose action had never
unfolded on earth.
Early Christianity no longer presented the picture of a reasonably unified movement,
sprouting out of a single set of circumstances at a single place and point in time. Instead, its
picture was one of diversity, of competitive doctrines. The new religion had been born in a
thousand places, a spontaneous generation out of religious and philosophical trends of the
age. Wisdom and the Logos. The intermediary Son. The coming Messiah. All of it fuelled
by a very human passion for salvation, mystical yearnings. It was shaped by a time which
held the conviction that the End was near, that the world was about to be transformed into a
new order, commanded by God and directed by the Son when he arrived from heaven.
In fact, one of the many things I had noted in passing during my rereading of Paul and the
epistle writers, was the lack of any sense that this anticipated arrival of the Son at the End-
time—the Parousia, as it was called in Greek: the “appearance” of Jesus—was a second
coming, a return of Christ. Rather, one received the distinct impression that this would be
the first time anyone had set eyes on him outside of visionary inspiration.
‘Come, O Lord,’ pleaded Paul at the end of 1 Corinthians. The writer of 1 Peter
promised glory and honor, ‘when Jesus Christ is revealed.’ Several writers, including John
the prophet of Revelation, urged that ‘the Coming One’ would be here soon, with no
suggestion that he had already come in the recent past. Paul, in looking ahead to the hour of
the Lord’s descent from heaven, could say, in Romans 8:22, that ‘Up to the present, the
whole created universe groans in all its parts as if in the pangs of childbirth,’ showing no
sign that any of the universe’s pains had been assuaged by Jesus’ recent incarnation. In
Romans 13:11-12, he had impressed on his readers how critical was the present moment.
‘Salvation is nearer to us than when we first believed. It is far on in the night; day is near.’
It seemed clear that in Paul’s mind no dawn or salvation had arrived with the first advent of
Jesus. There had been no recent pivot point in God’s ongoing process of salvation history.

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All lay in the future, and only the missionary movement of which Paul was a part, the
revelation of the secret of Christ, had begun the process toward achieving the long-awaited
dawn.
Yes, indeed, that novel would be a challenge. It would be the story of a movement, not a
founder figure. Of a deity held in the minds of visionaries and believers, not a man. Paul
might be the story’s natural focus, but that story would have to range beyond the boundaries
of his work, for Jesus was an idea that had seized an age.

Yet I felt a curious lassitude about getting down to the next phase of research. And so
when David Porter called, two weeks after the stormy night of revelation when the universe
had lurched in a new direction, I was happy for the excuse to set it aside for a short time.
Our first meeting to plan strategy for coverage of the creationism hearing and to discuss
my post as publicist for the Age of Reason Foundation was set for the following Monday at
the University. Burton Patterson himself would attend, along with a Science Faculty
Professor who was on the executive of the Foundation. In addition, we were to be joined by
Phyllis Gramm, a freelance writer and columnist on science and social issues for an eastern
newspaper chain. She had been at the launch party at the Patterson estate, but I had not been
introduced to her. David said she had expressed some interest in the Foundation’s activities
and goals.
“If we can get a columnist of her caliber on our side, we’ll be halfway there. From what
I’ve seen, she’s got an open and creative mind. I’m sure you’ll find yourselves with a lot of
things in common.”
I refrained from pointing out that he had said the same thing about Sylvia. “What’s her
background, do you know?”
David chuckled. “As to education, I have no idea. As to her personal philosophy
regarding...certain issues of interest to us, we’ll have to see.” He paused for effect. “One
thing I have heard is that she’s an ex-nun.”
“You’re kidding. How long ago?”
“Oh, I gather it’s been some time. I didn’t really get a chance to see her following the
night at Burton’s. She went out of town on some assignment. She called me a few days ago
wanting to find out what new developments there were. I filled her in over the phone and
invited her to our meeting, rather on the spur of the moment. Burton had some misgivings
but I convinced him it was OK. I have a good feeling about her. She’ll certainly bring a
different perspective to any discussion.”
“No doubt. But can we talk about everything in front of her?”
“Oh, we’ll be starting our meeting an hour before the time I gave her. That should give
us enough time to get our new resident publicist wound up and properly programmed.”
“Hmmph. I’ll try to remember to bring along my wind-up key.”
“I thought Shauna kept that.”
I had no ready retort. I was losing my touch.

As it turned out, the pre-Phyllis part of our meeting was shorter than an hour and not
particularly confidential. Patterson arrived late on this beautiful Monday afternoon, and
while we waited David introduced me to Theodore Weiss, formerly of the University of
Florence, now Professor of Theoretical Physics at our own Alma Mater, a post he had filled

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barely a year. When I remarked on his American accent so quickly acquired, both shared a
laugh at my expense, since Weiss was a native of Long Island and a graduate of Columbia.
“I spent only four years in Italy. Not long enough to get the sounds of Manhattan
taxicabs out of my brain, let alone my speech patterns.” Weiss was a good decade my
junior, stocky and short with a head of black wiry hair that would have done the young
Einstein proud.
“I hear the cabbies in Italy are even wilder than the ones in Manhattan.”
“In Rome you take your life in your hands anywhere in their vicinity. Florence is a little
more sedate. Beautiful city, but a dowager’s beauty. You can only apply so much makeup
to cover the ravages of age. The Renaissance was a long time ago.”
David said, just a touch ironically, “If Burton were here, he’d say we’ll create a new one.”
Weiss’s voice had a jovial boom to it. “Then I’m glad I came back just in time for the
event. But we’ll have to go some to produce a new Michelangelo. Or Mirandola.”
Patterson himself arrived a short time after, without apologizing for the delay. It struck
me that his good-natured cordiality was of the magnanimous sort, which only those who
assume that their own opinions will inevitably win out can display. But then, I had adopted
my own assumption that he was still harboring predatory designs on Shauna, which may
have colored my judgment of the man. The fact that he made no mention of her during the
course of the afternoon I naturally took as suspicious.
In the seminar room which David had commandeered for the ocasion, small talk about
the response to the Foundation’s proposals over the Net was followed by Patterson’s report
on the ACLU’s final preparations for the upcoming hearing in Philadelphia. It would be our
task to start thinking about how to publicize the Age of Reason Foundation’s involvement in
the court case—which was largely to say, Patterson’s own. The actual legal procedures lay
entirely in his hands, in conjunction with the ACLU; the Foundation would be little more
than a figurehead lying behind Patterson himself. Our new litigator must have presented a
compelling case to the ACLU that such an arrangement, from the point of view of public
perception, would be advantageous. Perhaps the public’s eye was felt to be a bit jaundiced
where the ACLU was concerned, and introducing a new kid on the block, fresh-faced and
backing someone of the stature of Burton Patterson, would draw more favorable reviews. I
felt an intense curiosity about this whole aspect of the affair, but I judged it not my place—or
particularly politic—to ask pointed questions about it.
On the other hand, regardless of the benefits to Patterson and the ACLU in having the
new Age of Reason Foundation on the masthead, there was no reason why the benefits could
not flow in the other direction. I assumed it would be my job to ensure that the Foundation
would grab its share of the limelight. I certainly resolved to make it my job.
Glancing at his watch, perhaps in anticipation of Phyllis Gramm’s imminent arrival,
David steered the meeting toward that very subject: my position as ‘resident publicist’. He
proposed the level of remuneration, which was certainly adequate, and I had no reason to
object to it. The amount had obviously been cleared ahead of time with the Treasurer of the
Foundation and Patterson himself.
In any case, it was impossible at this stage to tell how much work would go into such a
responsibility. I graciously accepted.
When we began the discussion of just what sort of approach the new publicist would
take, I took out a couple of sheets of folded paper from my jacket pocket. Over the weekend

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I had jotted down a few ideas, mostly to do with the issue of creationism and the impending
court hearing at the end of June, although I had added some very informal ideas about the
Foundation’s second planned “focus”, the upcoming end of the millennium and the
opportunities it offered. I had not brought a briefcase with me. Neither the occasion nor the
day had seemed that formal. We were here to promote rationality to the world at large; as
Patterson might have put it, to try to cast light into still-darkened corners. We needed to
project the image of a new everyman, a new exhilaration in the refreshing breezes of reason
and humanistic philosophy which was now available to all under the sun, a sun as part of a
rational, understandable universe. Or so my notes had it.
It struck me suddenly that the narrow walls of the seminar room of a university seemed
altogether too confining, too elitist. They would surely cramp our own inspiration, not to
mention our image. In fact—
The thought had time to enter my mind but not reach my mouth, when a female figure
came into view in the hall outside and stopped at the doorway. David turned and stood up.
“Phyllis! We’re glad you could make it.” His gesture drew her into the room. “Let me
introduce you.”
The first honors went to Patterson, of course, even though they had already met at the
gathering on his estate. While he was cordial in greeting her again, I detected a hint of
wariness, as though media people could be a two-edged sword: an avenue to exposure but a
hazard as well.
Weiss, on introduction, fairly beamed at her. Phyllis Gramm was a pert, attractive
woman in her late thirties or so, a bundle of energy as I was gradually to learn. I could not
envision her wrapped in a nun’s habit and pausing every three hours for prayer and
contemplation. Pehaps that was a reason for the failed career.
“And a fellow scribbler, Mr. Kevin Quinter,” said David, extending his arm toward me,
drawing the two of us together who lived by the pen. Phyllis’ handshake was as spirited as
her expression, though there was a no-nonsense overtone about the woman which made
Patterson’s touch of caution understandable. I put on my best relaxed smile.
“Mr. Quinter’s scribbles are bound to be more enduring than mine, I’m sure,” Phyllis said
genially. “Today’s issues are only important until the next one comes along. Sometimes my
columns are out of date before they even get into print.”
“I’m sure you’ve written columns with a longer shelf life than that,” I responded. “Some
of the issues we’re facing today are going to shape the future. A well-turned analysis by a
prominent columnist can have a significant influence, I imagine.”
“You’re too kind.”
Patterson spoke up casually, with only a trace of judicial manner. “They say the pen is
mightier than the sword, but sometimes a good columnist can wield her pen more like a
sword. I image you’ve drawn blood in your day.”
I wasn’t sure what motive Patterson had for expressing such a thought, but Phyllis
seemed to take no offense. “Oh, I try to keep the body count down. I’d rather stimulate
someone’s thought processes than his white cell production.” She had a ready wit, and an
obvious mastery of language. I was curious to know if she had ever tried her hand at more
“enduring” literary production.
David made as if to invite Phyllis to sit, gesturing toward one side of the oval table, but
this was the moment to voice my interrupted thought. “Before we let Phyllis get settled in, I

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would like to suggest that we could move to less constricting surroundings. It seems more
appropriate to talk about fresh air and evolution in places where they’re actually to be
experienced...wouldn’t you say?”
Four faces were now looking at me with various mixtures of surprise and expectation. I
realized that I’d better make this sound good.
I looked at David. “What about Philosophers’ Walk? I haven’t been there in a few years,
but they haven’t let it get overgrown, have they? Or turned it into a skateboard alley?”
“Uh, no. I’m sure it’s still there. I haven’t been over myself this year.”
“It comes out above the Arboretum. We could sit down and look across the bowl. The
sun should be gorgeous. It’d be a great place to discuss the future shape of the universe.
And whether a group of insignificant creatures like ourselves can possibly kick it in a
direction it may not want to go.”
Patterson gave a little grunt, as though linking the idea of insignificance with himself was
a novel concept. But Phyllis chirped up, “Sounds great! Where is this place?” She was not
a native of the city.
David explained. “Oh, you cross the creek by a little footbridge down behind the
Engineering Building. There’s a fairly wide pathway through the trees they call
Philosophers’ Walk. Runs about a quarter mile. It’s University property, but fortunately
they haven’t needed it for expansion yet. It goes up at a bit of a slope and ends at the top of
the hill above the city Arboretum. The Symphony people have concerts there later in the
spring and summer. There used to be stone seats at the crest when we were students. Great
view. I haven’t checked it out since coming back, but it should be dry enough now.”
“We haven’t had any rain for several days,” I pointed out.
Phyllis had made up her mind, and since she wielded the sharpest pen, that was that.
“I’m sure Mr. Patterson’s sense of adventure is up to it,” she said with a sparkle.
Patterson gave the briefest of glances down to his shoes. All of us were dressed casually,
though for him, casual was probably a matter of degree. He shrugged and gave Phyllis a
broad smile. At least his outward demeanor was up to it.
“Sounds like a splendid idea.”

Going by way of Weiss’s office, where the sun-sensitive Physics Professor picked up hat
and sunglasses—Phyllis and I were already carrying our own pairs—we made our way
across campus to Fisherman’s Creek, a meandering affair which at this time of year was a
little too wide and active to ford on foot. Phyllis, I had the feeling, might have been tempted
to take off whatever was needed and attempt the crossing, and I wondered what Patterson’s
response to that challenge would have been. As it was, a wooden footbridge which had seen
healthier days spanned the 30-foot stream, a tributary of the city’s one notable river.
It was about 2:30 in the afternoon. The sky had been painted blue with a seamless roller
and afterward some artist, perhaps feeling that something was missing, had added a few deft
touches to the corners and edges, wisps of creamy white shaded at the rims. The old wood
of the bridge vibrated with a satisfying clunk beneath our feet. On the other side, a path led
into a wooded area, not as thickly grown as it would be during the height of summer, I

124

remembered, but enough to deny a line of sight much more than a dozen yards through its
green density.
We paused at the entrance to the woods. “Philosophers’ Walk. And what famous
thinkers have trod this path, to give it its name?” Phyllis was not taking notes, unless they
were mental ones, but I had a feeling she was evaluating the scene as an opening to some
future column.
“More likely horny undergrads, to tell you the truth,” David answered, with a touch of
cheek. “There may not have been too much thinking going on along here.” Was there a
twinkle in that eye for Phyllis, it suddenly occurred to me? In our student days, David had
always been reticent toward the girls. Shyness, I had put it down to. At our reunion he had
told me that he never married.
“How long will it take us to reach the other end?” asked Weiss.
“Depends on your walk, I suppose. And your philosophizing. Twenty minutes, maybe.”
Patterson gestured toward the beckoning trail, like a general urging on his ragtag troop.
“Let’s be on our way, then. Stragglers will not be accommodated—or fed!”
“There’s a kiosk at the Arboretum,” David informed us. “Though it may not be open this
early in the summer.”
“Nuts and leaves it is, then,” announced Phyllis, who seemed to be thoroughly enjoying
herself. Was she fantasizing about being lost in the woods with four men? That too, I
realized, was a politically incorrect thought these days.
The path was broad enough to walk three abreast, but we fell into pairs, with myself the
odd man out. Patterson led the way with Weiss at his side, I came next, and David and
Phyllis brought up the rear. Years of tramping had levelled the surface of the trail and
eliminated the grass, but a few innocent spring shoots had emerged which had not yet been
ground down. It was summer students who made the most use of Philosophers’ Walk, I
recalled, and the start of this year’s classes was still a week away.
Under the trees, the air was cool and invigorating. Dappled sunlight slid down the
treetrunks. To make things idyllic, it was just a little too early for the predatory insects. All
in all, I told myself, a brilliant suggestion. The only trouble was, did the outing still
constitute a meeting, and would we get anything further discussed?
David must have read my mind. Behind me, he said, “Phyllis asked me when I spoke to
her over the phone last week what our definition of rationality was. I had to confess we
hadn’t gotten around to giving it one yet. The best I could manage was that it’s one of those
things you can recognize when you see it, but giving it a simple, concrete definition is more
elusive.” He paused, as if waiting for someone to jump in. There were no immediate
volunteers. “So I told her all would be cleared up when she came to our meeting today, and
that no doubt our new resident publicist could give her a ready answer.”
I jerked my head around and looked askance at his mischievous grin. “Oh, you did, did
you? I didn’t realize I’d be put to work so quickly. Well, let me see.”
Resuming my stride, I glanced off into the passing woods. My eye was drawn upward by
the soaring lines of the treetrunks, until I realized that this might be construed as an appeal to
heaven for inspiration—hardly an auspicious prelude to a definition of rationality. I brought
my eye down to more earthly levels, which included the broad backs of Patterson and Weiss
trudging ahead of me. They, too, seemed to be awaiting my enlightened words.

125

“I guess any definition of rationality would have to include the principles of logic, and
making reasoned inferences from concrete evidence. One arrives at a rational conclusion
because certain things which can be observed and evaluated point in that direction.
Moreover, you don’t make assumptions that are not supportable. We use our intellect in the
process, not our emotions. And certainly not wishful thinking.” So far so good, I hoped.
“But can we observe and evaluate entirely on an intellectual level?” Phyllis asked.
“Don’t our senses come into play as well? The senses can sometimes be misleading.”
David interrupted, “The Empiricists of the Enlightenment said that nothing enters the
mind which has not come through the senses. Reason without involving the medium of the
senses was considered an impossibility on any practical level.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “despite the ancient world idea, mostly thanks to Plato, that all
philosophizing could simply be conducted in the mind, without any reference to the outside
world. But today we would probably say that our senses are the tools of reason, and properly
so. Science has been devoting itself for a long time to perfecting those sensory tools, and
adding to them. I would say that the things we reason about should never be divorced from
the human senses or the scientific instruments we’ve developed to provide an extension of
them. As soon as you postulate something which can’t be verified or even pointed to by any
sensory apparatus, you’re on very shaky ground. It opens up the door to practically anything
anyone wants to believe.”
“But what about those who would include mystical experiences and intuition as part of
the human sensory apparatus?” Phyllis objected. “Can they not have any validity?” I had
the feeling she was arguing on a theoretical level, not necessarily from personal conviction.
“Well, the problem with those sorts of things is that they can never be shown to be other
than subjective. There is no scientific way to measure or observe them. You can’t rely on
intuition, even if it’s occasionally accurate. In most cases, sense perception is empirically
verifiable. We can call on an unlimited number of other people who perceive the same
thing, and we can support those perceptions by scientific instruments which are not
subjective. But how do you measure a mystical experience? How do you compare it with
someone else’s in any objective fashion?”
“You can’t,” Weiss piped up, glancing back at me. “Astrology, angels, energy flows that
can’t be detected by scientific instruments: they all come in the door. I attended a
conference a couple of years ago at the New York Academy of Sciences. It was called the
Flight from Science and Reason. What’s happening today is that proponents of the
paranormal and the metaphysical are rejecting science wholesale as a reliable avenue to
knowledge—because, of course, it hasn’t supplied proof for the kind of ‘knowledge’ they’ve
got an interest in. They say ‘science can’t help us understand the spiritual world,’ without
allowing for the fact that if science gives us no evidence that such a world exists, then their
assumption that it does is founded solely on subjective interpretation and wishful thinking.
Instead of faulting or even questioning their own assumptions, they fault science for not
supporting the unsupportable. But if scientific measurement detects nothing during a so-
called ‘out-of-body’ experience, or forces that could be operating to make astrology work, or
the paranormal, what kind of ground do they think they are standing on? A psychologist in
the audience denounced one of the panels for not allowing for the validity of alternative
therapies in treating mental disturbances. He called himself a ‘Past Lives Psychotherapist’.
Does he think this sort of fantasy is going to be conducive to mental health?”

126

“I understand that over a third of Americans believe in reincarnation,” David remarked.


“Yes, only a little more than believe in alien abductions. For the New Agers, there’s no
death, only ‘energy transformations’. Though why they find that comforting, I’m not sure.”
Phyllis stepped in again. “But these kinds of subjective experiences, as you call them,
they do exist. Lots of people have them; and have always had them. And when they
compare notes, there are similarities.”
“Yes,” Weiss said. “But why look beyond the common propensities of the human brain
to explain them, when science can detect nothing outside it? And the research into
reincarnation and near-death experiences is notoriously biased. Yet these same people can
condemn science as being tainted by the scientists’ so-called ‘values and presuppositions’.
Some of them go so far as to say that scientific knowledge is impossible. Where would we
be if that were the case?”
“So you think research into things like reincarnation and near-death experiences can
never be objective?”
Weiss turned and began to walk backwards. We all served as his eyes, keeping watch on
his blind footsteps. “Miss Gramm, what is the definition of objective? Surely it can only
involve scientific principles of outside verification. Indeed, it is by definition something
independent of the mind. And what do we find when we bring such factors into play?
Neurologists have shown that when you stimulate parts of the brain with electrical currents,
the subject sees God, or devils or angels. He gets an insight—so he believes—into some
other reality. Is it real? Or an entirely subjective experience going on in the mind? Since it
can be summoned on command, it’s liable to be a phenomenon of certain brain reactions.
Some people are more prone to these neurological experiences than others.”
“Yes,” I seconded. “And there you have a case of using scientific sensory apparatus to
come to a reasoned conclusion. If we can observe and test the brain’s responses, we use our
intellects to evaluate the result, and that evaluation points in the direction of a purely internal
basis for mystical experiences and hypnotically induced memories. It may not explain by
itself the reasons why evolution gave our brains this propensity for religious and paranormal
responses, but it’s certainly brought us a step closer toward understanding human nature and
answering questions like whether there really is a God or not.”
Patterson spoke up for the first time, without turning round. In order for it to carry back,
he projected his voice forward, much to the edification of the silent arboreal listeners around
us.
“The existence of God does not lend itself to empirical proof, because he is a being that is
never defined in any meaningful way. For a theory to be valid, it must be falsifiable. If you
can declare certain evidence as ‘positive’, there must be the theoretical possibility of judging
other evidence to be ‘negative’. But the believer is not interested in learning whether there is
a God or not. He has already decided that there is, and he shapes his evidence and his
definitions accordingly. When one definition can no longer stand up, he substitutes another.
When one piece of evidence points in the wrong direction, he changes the evidential
requirements. He redefines his terms. He obfuscates. He has recourse to principles of logic
only he understands. When all else fails, he simply declares his faith, which becomes the
sole and ultimate standard, supported by God himself.”
“ ‘God has made the wisdom of this world look foolish’,” I intoned softly. “1
Corinthians something or other.”

127

“ ‘To shame the wise, God has chosen what the world counts as folly’,” Phyllis
responded in antiphony. “1 Corinthians, chapter 1, verse 27. Yours was verse 20. One of
our favorite passages for meditation.”
Whether she would have gone on to elaborate her experiences as one who had spent long
hours in conventual meditation, we would never know, for Patterson reclaimed the floor.
“Precisely. Paul is saying that one cannot arrive at knowledge of God through empirical
evidence and rationality. Such things are the wisdom of the world. God’s plan was to
establish an avenue to himself that could be followed only through folly, as Paul readily
admits. What a stroke of genius! Remove yourself and your convictions entirely from the
realm of reason. Take pride in your ignorance. Set your own standard and reject all others.
When rational minds call you to task for your illogicality, your lack of evidence, you’ve
already embraced it all! You’ve consigned the rational world to outer darkness—with God’s
blessing to boot! God, according to Paul, has set up faith in an irrational doctrine as the only
avenue to salvation. Those who do not repudiate science, logic and painfully acquired
human wisdom to embrace such folly shall perish everlastingly. And where did Paul get all
this? From his own mystical experiences—which we are being asked to rank right up there
beside the scientific method!”
A momentary silence followed this arresting address, and its echo in the stillness of the
woods made it seem more impassioned than it had actually been delivered. In the
courtroom, I reflected, the effect of the man must have been mesmerizing. In this outdoor
forum, judges, attendants and jury alike made no comment as they receded behind us, rooted
to their posts. Only the crunch of our footsteps intruded on their contemplative evaluation of
Patterson’s words.
David was the first to break the silence. “Faith and reason inhabit two separate universes,
it would seem. Wasn’t it Tertullian who said, ‘I believe because it is absurd’?”
“Yes,” I answered. “And Luther the one who announced that ‘Reason is the greatest
enemy of faith’.”
“I read something by Noam Chomsky recently,” David went on. “He said that three-
quarters of the population of the U.S. believe in religious miracles, which is a statistic,
according to him, unlike anywhere else in the industrialized world. He said you’d have to go
to mosques in Iran or do a poll among elderly women in Sicily to get numbers like that.”
“At the conference,” said Weiss, “there were many who felt that science and medicine
and technology in this country are being hobbled by the breakdown in critical thinking.”
David’s tone was somber. “Chomsky suggests it is not impossible that we may see a
regression to pre-Enlightenment times.”
“Surely not.” The small voice was mine, a feeble punctuation mark which evaporated
into the air and drifted off into the trees. For a little time none of us said anything. The
ground had already started to slope upward, and Philosophers’ Walk began to snake, turning
first one way then another to lessen the demand on the legs. In spots the trail narrowed as
thickets of brush thrust out into our path, and we occasionally lost our formation. The
crickets had become noisy. Perhaps it was the chirp of critics, dissenting voices urging us to
return to the haven of like-minded belief. Under the trees the air was becoming close and
hot. We were in the thickest part of the woods, where no breezes penetrated. I for one was
sweating a little as we mounted the hill, and I wondered who would be the first to voice a
complaint. I was determined it would not be me, since I had proposed the outing.

128

It was Phyllis who intruded on the crickets’ chorus. “And yet everyone has been saying
for the past twenty-five years that this is the most secular age the world has ever known.
Isn’t there some kind of contradiction here?”
“It would certainly seem so,” I said. “The outward face of society is definitely more
secular than it’s ever been, especially in the media and entertainment. Look at the way the
established churches are drying up. Our secular expressions have been more open, more
dramatic than anything in the past. But it’s as though collectively we’ve set up this new
intellectual standard, but as individuals most of us choose not to follow it. We haven’t
dressed for the occasion. And the party’s breaking up into cliques.”
Weiss cautioned, “I would say, though, that this is very much a North American
phenomenon. I was living in Europe for four years and my impression was that things aren’t
nearly so bad over there.”
Suddenly, the woods thinned dramatically. The trail broadened and became grassy.
Perhaps thirty yards ahead lay the crest of the hill we had been ascending. To a man, I
noticed, the four of us were puffing.
But not Phyllis. Both the walk and the conversation seemed to have invigorated her.
“And so just how do you gentlemen propose to deal with this situation?” She had her mental
notebook out.
We all slowed, as though now that our destination lay in sight, we could relax the effort.
Our formation soon disintegrated. Weiss turned and once more let his heels lead the way.
“It was my idea to focus on education. I think that’s where secularism has fallen down.
We haven’t insisted on teaching critical thinking—no matter whose paranoid toes it treads
on. We back away from confrontation with parents who don’t want the schools to endanger
the religious beliefs of the home. In this age of political correctness, it seems we can’t risk
offending anyone’s personal convictions. In Tennessee a few years ago, parents complained
that favorable mention of the Renaissance in history textbooks unduly exalted man and
demeaned God. In one of the provinces of Canada, I read that they actually removed the age
of the sun as over 6000 years old from teaching guidelines. Some people seem to think that
schools should be institutions of indoctrination. They’re supposed to shield pupils from
ideas, I guess, rather than expose them to as much as possible and help them develop the
capacity to think for themselves. If flat-earthers were still a force to be reckoned with, we
would no doubt have to drop astronomy from the curriculum. We’ve virtually buried
evolution for fear of the creationists.”
“And you want to resurrect it, do you Mr. Patterson?” Patterson had said nothing after
his earlier tirade, and Phyllis was attempting to draw him out again.
“I wouldn’t call it a resurrection,” he asserted. “You can’t kill the most firmly
established scientific theory in the history of rational enquiry. What we need—” here he
gestured to the invisible jury which seemed to accompany him wherever he went— “is a
resurrection of our courage.”
“I see,” said Phyllis.
David jumped in a little hastily. “Of course, we must prevent Creation Science, so-
called, from invading the classroom, and we’ll probably be successful. But it may be a
tougher prospect restoring evolution to its proper place. One of the things we’re planning is
a campaign aimed at textbook publishers and school boards. As Burton says, it may be time
for the forces of reason to become more aggressive.”

129

We had reached the top of the hill. From behind us, the slanting mid-afternoon sun
bathed the grass of the crest in a vibrant light, casting shadows behind the few scattered trees
which had been allowed to stand by those who had redesigned the old tree nursery on this
site. Popular usage kept the Arboretum’s name. The crest was not very deep and swung in a
wide, gentle arc to either side, like an expanded horseshoe, pointing away from us. Ahead,
at the far edge of the crest, stood a low concrete wall perhaps two feet high, broken at
intervals by openings. It followed the curve of the horseshoe and was flanked on the near
side by an asphalt walkway. The corner of a parking lot could be glimpsed off to the left.
We stopped at the wall and looked down a gentle slope to the focal point of the
Arboretum. Summer evenings often saw several thousand people sitting or reclining on the
grassy hillside, listening to concerts by the city’s Symphony Orchestra or to jazz bands from
around the country. The stage stood some distance off at the base of the bowl, its sound-
reflecting canopies awaiting the rush of music. Today it was silent and deserted, save for a
couple strolling past it, holding hands. The kiosk where refreshments were sold lay off to
our right, but it too looked unattended. The trek back would be on empty stomachs.
On the grass beside the walkway on its outer side stood a series of polished stone seats
arranged in clusters of three or four. They followed the crest like a line of balcony loges.
From some of these one could just see the top of the concert stage over the edge of the wall,
but since during performances people always sat along the wall like birds on a backyard
fence, sound and sight lines were often blocked. Today, after our expedition through the
wilds of Philosophers’ Walk, we rested our too-sedentary bodies on stones where countless
others had sat, David and Phyllis side by side on the wall, Weiss, Patterson and myself on a
group of seats facing them.
To me, it felt like an odd confluence of souls: two writers, two professors and one
attorney-millionaire, perched on a hilltop where music could still be heard to echo and
nature herself still had something to say. For those of us present—presuming I could include
Phyllis—that voice had sounded down long eons of slow, struggling evolution. No doubt for
others who had occupied the same seats, the voice of God could be heard in the sounds of
nature, a nature many believed was only a few thousand years old. Could anything possibly
reconcile the two views? More important, could anything reconcile the two groups which
held those views?
“This is a beautiful spot,” Phyllis remarked in a tone of deep satisfaction. “I don’t get out
into the country like this often enough.” She had drawn up one foot to place it on the edge
of the wall, so that her hands rested on her knee a little below her chin. David, I noticed, had
seated himself beside her, just close enough to create a suggestion of intimacy, yet not so
near as to assume it. I had no idea whether Phyllis was picking up his subtle signals, or
whether she might be interested in them if she were.
David said, “I don’t know whether this qualifies as the country, Phyllis. If you look past
the Arboretum, you can catch a glimpse of the downtown skyline through the tops of the
trees.” His tone, too, had just the faintest suggestion of intimacy.
Phyllis didn’t turn to check. “Well, when most of your living has been done in a big city
core, or inside the walls of a convent, a spot like this constitutes communing with nature.”
“It’s not so pristine when summer gets into full swing and people are tramping through
with their snacks and soft drinks. They’re communing more with Beethoven or Keith
Jarrett. But right now, we’re catching it in a virgin state—at least for this year.”

130

“Renewable virginity.” Phyllis gave David an unchecked smile, not without its own
touch of intimacy, and at that proximity it must have produced some pleasurable shock
waves in him. Phyllis had what I might have called a face that had seen a lot—though what
that had been was anyone’s guess. But she was a mature and seemingly secure woman, one
not to be underestimated. David would have his hands full.
“Or reincarnation,” Weiss offered wryly from one of the stone seats. These were all
backless, and the Physics Professor was bending forward, elbows resting on his knees, chin
in hand. The hat had perched itself at an odd angle. Patterson nearby had his legs stretched
out in front of him. He was leaning back, hands resting at the corners of the stone to give
him support. He struck me as having only one ear on the conversation, the rest of him
wandering vistas that only began with his immediate surroundings. The man was an enigma,
it seemed to me, one who probably revealed very little about his true self. I, sitting cross-
legged roughly between them, felt strangely out of place.
Phyllis looked skyward. “It must be beautiful at night. So many stars, I imagine. Don’t
you think that nature itself is responsible for producing a feeling of spirituality? We stand in
awe of things which are so much bigger than ourselves. It’s no surprise that people get
caught up in ideas and emotions which you label non-rational.”
I jumped in. “Oh, there’s nothing wrong with feeling a sense of wonder at the universe,
Phyllis, even of being overwhelmed by it. There’s nothing irrational about that. Someone
like Carl Sagan encourages a sense of wonder. He thinks it’s an essential part of a proper
scientific orientation. But we need to understand how we fit into that larger whole. And it’s
only scientific investigation which can tell us that.”
“Is it? Perhaps science can only detect and measure the pieces, the connecting forces.
Can it understand the meanings? That’s where one turns to ‘spirituality’—for want of a
better term.”
“But where do such meanings exist?” I objected. “They are either part of the physical
structure of the universe, in which case we should be able to detect them, or they exist only
in our own minds—the meanings we choose to give to the impersonal world around us, to
create for ourselves.”
Patterson said, surprisingly neutrally: “The spiritual person would say they exist in the
mind of God, whether that God is a personal, cognizant being or a force inherent in nature.”
“I have no objection to the latter,” I pointed out, “as long as we let nature herself tell us
whether in fact she has any meanings in her mind. What I object to is imputing to nature
whole other dimensions of reality when nature gives us no indication that she possesses such
dimensions.”
Weiss grunted into his hands. “Perhaps she’s schizophrenic and isn’t aware of her other
personalities.”
“Does anyone remember that ‘Harmonic Convergence’ thing back in 1987, I think it
was?” David asked. “People gathered around the world to hold ceremonies that were
supposed to usher in a new age of global harmony and peace. They held hands and chanted
along the shores of lakes and various sacred places to set up some kind of cosmic energy
flow that would reorient the world along more harmonious lines.” He seemed to be avoiding
an overly skeptical tone. Was it for Phyllis’ sake?
“Can you be sure that they didn’t?” she asked, with a touch of humor.
“The evidence would seem to indicate otherwise,” Patterson muttered.

131

“Nature, as you say,” remarked Weiss, sitting upright, “gives us no evidence that people
acting in such ways can produce these desired results. It would be far more fruitful if they
spent their energies on things which do have detectable effects. Like depleting less of the
world’s energy resources, or having fewer children. Or better caring for the ones we have.
These people must have disrupted global harmony far more by driving their cars to these
sacred sites, than any chanting or hand-holding would have accomplished in the opposite
direction.”
Phyllis had lowered the one leg and now dangled both over the edge of the wall, clapping
her feet gently together. It was an engaging bit of playfulness which she was probably not
aware of. I had a feeling that David was quite aware of it.
“But you are missing my point, gentlemen. Our urge toward spirituality is there because
we desperately want to be a part of some larger whole. We need to sense a wider
significance than the one we can find in our own paltry lives. It doesn’t have to be a feeling
of dependence, or worship—just belonging. We need to feel a connection to something
outside ourselves as individuals. Otherwise, for most people the feeling of isolation and
meaninglessness becomes overwhelming. It can even lead to suicide.”
I assured her that I had no objection to that analysis. “These are basic human needs, I
admit. But we have to recognize them for what they are and start from there. Then we
proceed carefully and investigate what might actually be out there which could fill those
needs. But to create a whole mystical superstructure to the universe, one that never gets
founded on or verified by rational evidence: that’s committing intellectual suicide. Look at
the supposed workings of reincarnation: the Karma system, astral bodies, an interregnum
between lives. The whole thing is so complex it makes Einstein’s theories look like some
sandbox construction—and there isn’t a shred of scientific evidence for any of it. We create
these fantasy worlds for ourselves and meanwhile we neglect the real world where we might
have some genuine prospect for achieving happiness.”
“There’s also a distinction between seeing yourself as part of a larger whole, and wanting
to transcend yourself.” David was dangling his legs as well and he leaned toward Phyllis as
he said this, not quite to the point of contact. “The transcendence of self has always been the
mystic’s dream. Leave your body and ascend to some higher plane. Join some astral force,
or God, and realize true happiness and your true destiny. That has to be a destructive
philosophy. As Kevin says, it negates the only world we can be sure exists, and the only self
we can be certain of, our present bodies and minds. In the absence of concrete evidence,
everything else is made of fairy dust.”
Phyllis would not be dissuaded. “Perhaps the spiritually oriented mind, or the religious
one, would claim that it has a different standard of rationality, different ways of measuring
evidence. It would say that we can arrive at an alternate view of reality.”
She did not seem to mind playing devil’s advocate against the four of us, if that were her
intention. It was difficult to know where her personal sympathies lay. I had the feeling she
was being the consummate professional columnist: sounding us out, uncovering all the
ramifications of the subject under discussion. I wondered if everyone had the impression I
did, that we and our ideas were under a microscope. And how would the findings be
presented by this influential scribbler? The public image of the Age of Reason Foundation
might well lie in the hands of such as her. I knew these things were supposed to be part of
my own job, but at this point I was hardly in the same position as Phyllis Gramm.

132

Patterson stirred himself and slowly stood up. Every eye swung in his direction even
before he opened his mouth.
“I would say that the question which needs asking of these people is: what beneficial
effects have proceeded from their alternate view of reality?”
He took a stride or two onto the paved pathway just beyond the point where Phyllis and
David sat. For a moment he stood with hands loosely on his hips, looking out over the bowl
of space beyond the wall. His voice was quiet, but he made it seem as though it would carry
even to someone standing on the stage below.
“Every advance humanity has made in recorded history has proceeded from the
application of rational principles. Enlightened laws are enlightened because they have
become more reasonable and humane. They are founded on the premise that we are all
rational, responsible human beings whose fate in this world is deserving of consideration.
When you lose that principle, you start to burn people at the stake for incorrect belief in
order to save their souls for another world.”
He began to pace, almost without effort, moving within the space bounded by his
audience of four. The force of his presence, the charisma of that mellifluous voice as it
became subtly more impassioned, seemed to warp the circle of our space until we felt as
though we sat at one of the focal points of the universe.
“Every improvement in living conditions, in health, in human control over the
environment has proceeded from the application of science and the scientific method, even if
used instinctively, because someone has put a value on our happiness in these bodies and in
this world. As soon as you denigrate that happiness, or postulate a deity who has other plans
for us, you condemn lightning rods for foiling God’s punitive purpose in sending the storm,
or deny someone the right to end a painful terminal illness through departing his life as he
sees fit. Where is the single advance in technology or the single understanding of nature we
have achieved through focusing on the spiritual world? Has a belief in angels kept one
person from drowning or crashing in a plane or dying of a disease? Will we find a cure for
cancer by entering into a personal relationship with a savior? What about Eastern
mysticism—has it helped us to understand the workings of the atom or the origin of life? As
for Shirley MacLaine’s endless books on reincarnation, or the Celestine industry created by
James Redfield: have they contributed one iota to the betterment of the human condition—
other than the condition of their own bank accounts?”
Patterson’s eye fell on me, as though turning from the court at large to the jury box. No
doubt this was a favorite courtroom technique, to single out one member of the jury and
convey the sense of a direct appeal to one specially perceptive individual. I felt transfixed by
that intense gaze, which fortunately he diverted occasionally to a point above my head.
“We got together today to discuss the issue of combatting Creation Science. If a creation
scientist were standing here at this moment, what would he have to say about the effects of
his doctrine as opposed to evolution? First he would say that at the doorstep of evolution lie
most of the world’s evils: abortion, sexual promiscuity, women’s liberation, homosexuality,
euthanasia, sex education, pornography, alcoholism, crime in general—because, of course,
without the literal interpretation of Genesis, everything else in the bible is suspect and
relative, thus undercutting the dependability of God’s word and the divine basis for all
morality. Evolution, for the fundamentalist, has become the flagship doctrine of secular
humanism, because it destroys the reliability of literal biblical inerrancy.”

133

“Creationism, on the other hand, does more than just describe how the world came about.
Providing an explanation for the universe’s existence is hardly the prime reason for the
creationist’s dogged insistence on his doctrine. Rather, the creation story places all human
life and purpose in the hands of God; everything proceeds from his whim and direction.
Human will, initiative, desires: these are not only inconsequential, they are denigrated. For
in the story of creation lies the Fall, in which mankind suffers through its pride of self and
thirst for knowledge and enlightenment. One of the morals of the story is that such human
initiative leads to pain, suffering and death, the casting out from Eden, the loss of the favor
of the Deity. The Fall is made the responsibility of Eve, and since the process God followed
in creating the two sexes supposedly holds up the male as superior, this supports the
fundamentalist’s blatant sexist philosophy which sees the modern equality of the sexes and
the feminist movement as one of the greatest evils of our time.
“The story of Noah and the Flood is also of essential importance in the creationist’s
account of the world’s beginnings, because it shows that God’s punishment is a force to be
feared and reckoned with—and it came about, so one would gather from fundamentalist
propaganda, as a result of the too widespread practice of homosexuality, another of the
world’s great evils in their eyes. And we mustn’t forget, of course, that the whole concept of
the Fall and guilt and sin is absolutely necessary to the creationist viewpoint, for without
man’s fallen nature he wouldn’t have needed a Savior, and this would severely undercut the
need for Jesus and cast doubt on the meaning of his death—perhaps even that he died at all.”
As Patterson had been largely directing this phase of his speech at me, I gave a little start
at this. How would the man react to the theory of the non-existence of an historical Jesus?
Was the idea ‘out there’ to a greater extent in the collective unconscious than I myself had
been aware of? Eventually, I knew, I would have to bring up the matter of my research with
the group—even to consider how, if at all, we might make use of it. But not today.
Patterson swung his attention back toward the group as a whole, and his delivery became
increasingly more vigorous. “And so what effect has the alternate reality of the creationist
had on modern society? Or promises to have if his assault on the classroom is successful?”
We waited for the answer.
“We have the disparagement of human pride and initiative, the rejection of the entire
concept of human wisdom. We enshrine the words of a collection of primitive ancient
writings as providing exclusive, indisputable answers to the universe, rather than modern
scientific investigation and our own intellect. We sanctify the denunciation of reason and
critical thinking. We return women to the kitchen. We consign to outer darkness a sizeable
portion of mankind—and womankind—for their innate sexual orientation. We construct the
scientific edifice of the 21st century: biology, anthropology, genetics, geology, paleontology,
archaeology, astronomy, physics, around an antique myth which says that a Creator produced
out of nothing these billion billion suns only 6000 years ago, that the infinite multitude of
life forms we see around us is his whim, that all geological deposits—as well as extinct
fossils—were laid down in a world-wide flood a few thousand years ago which eight
humans survived by building a boat out of gopher wood, 150 yards long, to hold all the
creatures of the earth, and that all humans and animal life forms across the planet today are
descended from the denizens of this aquatic expedition which came to ground on the slopes
of Mount Ararat.”

134

He came to a stop and cocked his head in a gesture of mock astonishment. “And out of
such an alternate reality we are expected to produce the scientists and philosophers and
leaders of tomorrow.”
We all sat spellbound. One could almost believe that to the top of this little hill the
whole world was tuned in, and that Patterson was reaching all five and a half billion of us.
Was he rehearsing for the moment of the court case, some six weeks away in Philadelphia?
Somehow I felt that the scope of the hearing might not allow for such a sweeping
denunciation of the opposing side.
Phyllis asked incongruously, “Why astronomy?”
Patterson looked at her with a somewhat bemused expression. She enlarged on her
question. “Why does creationism compromise astronomy?”
He gave this jury member an understanding smile. “Because if astronomical observation
places certain stars more than 6000 light-years away, then either the universe has to be more
than 6000 years old for the light to have reached us, or else light travelling through space has
not always behaved as science says it does. Creation Science, in fact, postulates that light
has slowed down in the last couple of centuries. It used to travel much faster, you see, so
that it could have covered those vast distances since Bishop Ussher’s starting date in 4004
BC. To support this contention, creation scientists call up certain minute inconsistencies in
the early measurements of the speed of light, failing to concede that a century and a half ago
such instruments were hardly as precise as the ones we have today.”
Weiss snorted. “And we are expected to give ‘balanced treatment’ in the classroom to
this kind of reasoning? ‘Unbalanced’ would be more like it.”
Phyllis took a deep breath and let it out in a slow audible whoosh. Like the rest of us, she
had clearly been moved by Patterson’s skillful harangue, but she wasn’t ready to accede the
entire day to him.
“Well, I would certainly agree that creationism, and perhaps fundamentalism in general,
is a clear case of irrationality, but I still think that spirituality as a whole is a natural human
expression which seeks to provide answers to our questions. You talk about effects, but
religion and mysticism have given a lot of people answers that have satisfied and even
enriched their lives.”
Patterson waited just long enough for the silence to become pregnant, then delivered his
baby, one I could not believe had just been spontaneously conceived. “Science asks
questions about the unanswered,” he said in measured tones. “Religion answers questions
about the unanswerable.”
Phyllis couldn’t keep herself from smiling in wry admiration, while David involuntarily
clapped his hands in a single note of applause.
Patterson made no acknowledgment. “Therein lies the relative merits of the two
approaches, I would say. Lives are quite capable of being enriched by a fantasy. As for
myself, I would much prefer a satisfaction grounded in actual reality, regardless of what that
might be. And the only dependable avenues I know of to that end are reason and science.”
David jumped the six inches to the walkway and after a gesture toward Patterson, turned
to Phyllis and laid a hand briefly on her arm. “How about a compromise?” It had given him
an excuse to touch her, the first physical contact I had noticed between them. “I’m willing to
admit that we need to take the concept of spirituality into account—or the better expressions
of it. Perhaps we need a less emotional word, one less compromised.”

135

“Spirituality is essentially about emotions, wouldn’t you say?” I suggested.


“If it is, then you ignore it at your peril,” Phyllis cautioned, sliding to the ground herself
and giving the back of her slacks a brush or two. “All the rational ideas in the world won’t
appeal to most people if you ignore their emotions.”
Weiss stretched and stood up. “Emotions and rationality. A potent mix. All we have to
do is design a way to get them to work together.”
David grinned at me. “We’ll get our resident publicist to whip something up on it by
tomorrow morning.”
“He’d better hurry,” Weiss returned wryly. “On the way into town I read two bumper
stickers that said, ‘One Hour Nearer Jesus’ Return’ and ‘Beam Me Up, Lord’. Pretty soon
we’ll have no one left to preach to but the converted. The rest will be in heaven where the
laws of rationality are probably illegal.”
A movement to one side caught the attention of all of us at the same time. The couple we
had earlier noticed strolling down near the Arboretum stage had by some drawn-out route
reached the upper walkway and were approaching us. Both looked to be in their early 20s,
casually but neatly dressed. They might have been university students, though no classes
were currently in session. Whatever their life’s pursuits, they seemed to be successful at
them.
The two smiled at us as they came up. They stopped when Phyllis asked cheerily,
“Excuse me. We’re taking an informal survey today. If you had children, which book
would you want to give them to help them understand the true nature of the world?” I
silently commended Phyllis for her question, fashioned on the spur of the moment. It held
enough ambiguity that answering it could bring any number of revealing prejudices into
play.
The two stood in some surprise, still holding hands. The woman, a fresh-faced brunette
with a generous mouth and intelligent eyes, turned to her companion and said, “What’s that
book by Stephen Hawkins...A Brief History of Time?” The man gave a little shrug. She
turned back to Phyllis. “Yes, I think that would be a good choice. He talks about black
holes and things.”
Phyllis smiled. “A good choice, certainly.” She looked expectantly at the companion, a
crew-cutted fellow who looked mildly into body building. He seemed momentarily
uncomfortable, but still managed a good face. “Well...I can’t say I’ve read anything like that
recently. I used to like Isaac Asimov when I was a kid—mostly the science-fiction stuff.”
He found a straw he could grasp at. “I guess the Bible is always a good bet. If you know
how to interpret it, as they say,” he added knowingly.
Phyllis gave him an equal smile. “Yes, sometimes these things can be a bit cryptic. The
world isn’t always what it seems.” Neither had a comment on this remark.
Patterson said nonchalantly, “I like reading about alien visitations and abductions. I can’t
quite make up my mind about those things.”
The young woman said earnestly, “Neither can I. But I think we shouldn’t close our
minds to anything.”
“You’re quite right, we shouldn’t,” Phyllis answered, and she seemed earnest herself.
“Well, thank-you. It’s been nice talking to you.”
“You too,” the woman said. “Have a nice day.” They went off, still hand in hand, toward
the parking lot.

136

When they were out of earshot, Weiss mumbled, “There’s a relationship that must take
some compromise.”
“You think so?” Phyllis asked. “I doubt she’s really read Hawking’s book—at least not
enough to remember the writer’s name properly.”
“Still, the fact that she knew of it and would think to recommend it is promising,” said
David. “And I rather think he thought of the bible out of cultural conditioning.”
“And because he couldn’t think of anything else,” Weiss remarked dryly.
Patterson spoke up and he sounded surprisingly optimistic. “What they represent
between them is a mind that could go either way. Reasonably intelligent, not set, not
especially informed but not indoctrinated either. Precisely the mind we want to reach—and
could, I imagine. It’s minds like theirs that will make all the work worthwhile.”
“On the other hand,” said David, “we’d better be the first to reach them. I have a feeling
that both of them would be quite capable of adopting their own share of bizarre views.”
Phyllis gave him a nudge. “But remember what the woman said: ‘We shouldn’t close our
minds to anything.’ That has to be promising, wouldn’t you say? We might all take a cue
from those sentiments.” Her little stress on the ‘all’ had been obvious.
“As long as we don’t confuse an open mind with an empty mind,” Weiss cautioned,
getting to his feet. His tone sounded almost embittered. I had noticed, in the course of our
journey through the thickets of irrationality, that the jovial mood he had shown on our first
meeting had become progressively more somber. Was there something in his personal
background which had led to his joining the Age of Reason Foundation? Though evidently
Jewish, the man was clearly too young to have experienced the Holocaust. “Ignorance,” he
said, “can give rise to a host of devils: bigotry, intolerance and cruelty among them.
Rationality and education are the best antidote to fanaticism.”
Phyllis turned and stepped over to the wall, looking down at the wide hooded stage
below. Perhaps she had had enough of heavy discussion about the instabilities of the human
mind.
“I would like to hear some music here. Stretch out on the grass and let violins wash over
my skin and clarinets tickle my ears.” Scribbler indeed, I thought. “I like Mendelssohn and
Mozart. They’re so fresh and alive.” She turned to David. “When do the concerts start?”
He had come up beside her. “Early June, usually. Perhaps you’d like to come back and
attend one with me. I could get hold of a schedule and let you know.”
Her head gave an animated nod. “Yes, let’s do that.”
We all stood momentarily, gazing over nature’s silent concert hall, as though each
hearing his or her own melodies. When Patterson started to speak, it was so unobtrusive that
his first few words seemed to merge with that mental music.
“I was at the Hollywood Bowl two years ago. A marvel, that place. The Los Angeles
Philharmonic played the Fifth Symphony by Carl Nielsen, the Danish composer. The first
movement is unlike anything else in music. It starts very quietly, very tensely. The
atmosphere is dark and ominous. The themes are in fragments and everything seems bogged
down, unable to develop. You get a sense of some lurking, intimidating force. Then a few
minutes into the movement, it appears: the snare drum enters like some sinister overseer and
proceeds to pound out a single-minded, repetitive rhythm. The rest of the orchestra falls into
line, no deviation possible. Lots of bluster, but no beauty or development. Then the snare
drum withdraws, leaving the rest of the instruments milling about.”

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Patterson had not moved a muscle. He stood, still speaking quietly, a conductor with
hands in his pockets. We found ourselves listening, each hearing the music he was
describing in one’s own way.
“Then an absolute wonder occurs. A slow theme on the strings starts in a new key. It’s
warm and expressive and spine-tingling. It unfolds and soars and modulates and it sounds
like the embodiment of everything that is good and creative and generous in the human
spirit. The rest of the orchestra gradually joins in. But now a tension builds. Nervous
figures on some of the instruments herald the approach of danger. Some return
apprehensively to the former rhythm of the drum. Suddenly, in a frenzy the snare drum
returns, pounding out its rhythm, determined to regain control and destroy the new theme.
Forces are ranged on either side. Before long the snare drum abandons its rhythm altogether
and launches into a frantic cadenza. Neilsen instructs the drummer in the score to try to stop
the advance of the music. The battle rages until the theme manages to heave itself against
the force of the opposition and reach a crest. It washes over everything in an overwhelming
statement of affirmation, completely swamping the snare drum.
“Then the music calms. The drum, defeated but not destroyed, marches off defiantly,
alone, still beating out his rhythm. He’s warning his former subjects that their new strength
had best be maintained and their vigilance never relaxed.”
The silence over the group was complete. Presently Patterson said, “Neilsen wrote it just
after the end of the First World War. Next door in Denmark, I imagine he’d been able to
hear the guns of fanaticism and irrationality pounding away in the distance.”
After a further pause, Phyllis said softly, “You should have been a music critic, sir.”
Weiss asked, “I don’t know that work—how does the rest of it go?”
“There’s only one other movement. I think Neilsen tries to convey the struggle to create,
amid pitfalls and human limitations, but he achieves a transcending triumph at the end. His
music as a whole blazes with life. Hearing it outdoors at the Hollywood Bowl was an
inspiring experience.”
There was little more any of us could say. We gathered ourselves for the walk back to the
university. I glanced at my watch. It said 4:30 PM. The sun was almost touching the
treetops, gilding their edges.
As we moved down the hill toward the opening to Philosophers’ Walk, I caught up to
David and Phyllis who were walking side by side. I was regretting that I had not had the
chance to lay out the ideas I had put together on the creationism issue. I said as much to
David.
“Don’t worry about it, Kevin, there’ll be other opportunities. We’ll be having another
meeting in a couple of weeks.”
“I don’t think you have any cause for complaint, any of you,” remarked Phyllis. “You
certainly batted around a lot of stimulating and controversial ideas today. I’m going to
follow your group with considerable interest, especially the hearing. Don’t be surprised if
the Times features an article about the Foundation in a few weeks.”
David knew well enough not to suggest any clearance of the content of such an article
with himself, even though, for a mix of reasons, I knew he would dearly love the right of
consultation. Then Phyllis went part way toward solving the dilemma for him. “You won’t
mind, I hope, if I get in touch with you should I need any more information—which I’m sure
I will.”

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David’s response was not particularly subtle. “Not at all. Please call me any time. I’d be
delighted to give you whatever you need.” Apparently infatuation could loosen tongues—
even rational ones.”
Further conversation was no longer feasible, as we entered the wood and followed the
twisting path at a greater pace than on the trip out. Most of it was now downhill and the
afternoon was waning. Patterson and Weiss were out of sight. Phyllis and David pushed on
ahead of me, and while I could see them talking together I could not hear their words.
Presently I lost sight of them.
I decided I was in no particular hurry. The softer light of the late afternoon woods was
enchanting and my mind was ringing with some of the things Patterson had said. Where had
this man come from? What had inspired his outlook, the forces that drove him? The ideas I
had been so eager to lay before the others now seemed paltry and unexciting beside the
power of this man’s convictions. As for the delivery of those ideas, I could not hope to hold
a candle to him. I would indeed have to rely on my scribbles. The pen may have been
mightier than the sword, but could it equal the voice of one such as Patterson’s?
Perhaps that was always the case. The pen was more enduring, but the immediate day lay
with the charismatic preacher, the orator, the one who could draw men and women in with
the sound of the spoken word, the dramatic declamation, delivered in physical flesh and
blood. History had shown that the content was not always important, nor even required to
make sense. But with the right idea, the right voice to deliver it, a new movement might be
irresistible. Weiss had been a bit cynical, but was there a way to turn the exercise of
rationality into something that would seize the imagination, play to those emotions Phyllis
was so anxious we not overlook? Could I possibly do with the pen what Patterson could do
with the voice? Might we join the two together? After our conquest of Philosophers’ Walk
and that magic hour on the hill, almost anything seemed possible.
I paused for long minutes to meditate upon the flow of water under the footbridge. By
the time I straggled back onto campus, David and Phyllis were bidding goodbye to Patterson
at the exit of the parking lot. I could not make out the type of car the millionaire was
driving, but it was a classy one. I waved at him from the edge of the Quad, some 20 feet
above the level of the lot, but he seemed not to notice me. Weiss was nowhere to be seen.
Leaning on the railing, I watched David accompany Phyllis to her own car, one of more
modest style. From this distance I could not tell if their parting handshake held any romantic
promise, but they did seem to hold it for a little longer than necessary. As if feeling my eyes
on him, David turned and they both waved at me. Then Phyllis got into her car and drove
out. The lowering sun seemed to be smiling.
David came up the little stair a moment later. “Don’t say anything. It’s up to her. I’ve
misread women before. Anyway, I have to be careful so as not to jeopardize things for the
Foundation.”
I gave him a grin. “Business before pleasure, is it?”
“Life is a juggling act.”
My own car stood off at the far corner of the parking lot. I had not gone to it, in case
David had intended any further consultation with me. My premonition had been correct.
“I hate to put a damper on this day—by the way, your idea to get outdoors was brilliant.
But I’ve got something to show you. We’ve had another communication from our friends,
the Ascended Masters. It came in last night, and I haven’t mentioned it to anyone yet.”

139

I made as if to follow him. “No, just wait here. I’ll run up to the office and get it.”
He dashed off. As I waited, the university campus seemed deserted. A center of
learning. Learning:such a precious thing. Hard won, and even harder possessed.
Knowledge—did it exist as an entity in itself? The sum of current human wisdom and
investigation. But even here, it had its existence only in the minds of those who transmitted
it and those who absorbed it. It was a fluid, fragile creature. How many of the ideas
contained in the Library’s million-odd books were real, how many outdated, how many
simply wrong? How many languished between unopened covers, uninterpreted, unapplied?
The intellectual life of a society was an intangible thing, as vulnerable as a vessel tossed on a
sea whose deeper currents were rarely exposed to the sun of rationality.
David came back into the sun with a piece of paper. He handed it to me without
speaking. I looked at its handful of words. They were familiar and ominous. Another
passage from Revelation—or derived from it.
‘Clue number two: Those who think themselves great men, and the rich and the strong,
shall call to the stones: Fall on us and hide us from the face of him who is seated on the
throne and from the wrath none can stand before.’
“I’m trying to decide whether to notify the police or the FBI and have them look into it. I
think these things could be construed as a threat, don’t you?”
I read the e-mail message again. “It’s hard to say. Essentially they’re just quoting
scripture. With alterations. Unless we can show some cryptic message buried in those
alterations, there’s probably not much the police would try to do about it. I take it this one
came in with a dummy return address as well?”
“Yes. The police would probably have the authority to put a trace through the detour
route, but so far the person I asked to check the first two messages hasn’t been successful.
I’m going to call him tonight and see if he might have better luck with this one.”
“I’ll take this copy and check it against the actual passage. If anything suggests itself I’ll
let you know right away.”
David accompanied me to my car. “I guess even Patterson wouldn’t be able to move the
Ascended Masters,” he said glumly.
“David, don’t get your hopes up too much. The Age of Reason Foundation is a good
idea, and I know it’s going to have an influence. But religious and paranormal beliefs are
too firmly entrenched in the human psyche to accomplish anything dramatic overnight. And
to be quite frank, Phyllis is right. Spirituality fills an awful lot of needs, and not all of it is
destructive. We’re simply not going to be able to offer a substitute for it just like that.
Rationality and secularism have to be given time to take root. The seeds have been there off
and on over the centuries, but you and I were still born before the end of the Middle Ages.
Humanism, or whatever we want to call it, is still a young shoot. Instead of trying to
produce a forest, we’ve got to set our sights on nurturing a few tender plants. Personally, I
have a feeling we can get a nice nursery going. It’ll be an exciting challenge.”
We reached my car, a five year old model that Patterson’s sleek sedan probably sneered at
as it passed by. “I’ve already started to recast some of my ideas on the way back from the
Arboretum. Let’s see what I can put together before our next meeting.”
A handshake and a clap on the back sped me on my way.

*****************************

140

Chapter Eleven

“Now, I want you to tell me what’s wrong with this picture.”


Actually, it was a mural. My time chart on the study wall had grown over the weeks. I
was now using larger, lined Post-Its to represent the documents of the first and second
centuries so that I could record brief notes on them. I had been forced to expand the chart’s
dimensions, with the result that it took a turn at the corner and continued along the right
hand wall. The split coincided with the year 100 CE, a clear turning point in Christian
development. A continuous paper strip running along both walls above the fluttering Post-
Its now bore elaborate markings: divisions into decades and years, together with symbols
representing important contemporary events and emperors’ reigns.
For this demonstration I had fashioned a lightweight pointer, a little longer than a
conductor’s baton. I didn’t know what kind of music I could create out of the cacophany of
early Christian documents, but the orchestra was ready and my audience had her ears perked.
The problem was, my musical score was missing some key notes.
On a chair facing the corner of the room sat Shauna. The first century advanced along the
left of her vision, the second swept toward a Christian future on her right. The greens, reds
and blues of the Post-It notes created a marching kaleidoscope against the pale cream walls,
tickling the eye. On a table to the right of her chair I had placed a bowl of popcorn, to tickle
her taste buds. It was ideal fare for a Saturday afternoon.
“So here we have the traditional starting point to it all,” I said, lifting my baton. “Some
time around the year 30, Jesus is crucified in Jerusalem. Or so the Gospels, aided by
scholarly calculations, tell us.” I had drawn a bold red cross on my time strip which I
proceeded to tap with my baton. It stood directly above the computer monitor.
I moved to the right. “Perhaps two to five years later, Paul is converted to the new faith.”
I tapped on a large “P” drawn on the strip in the mid-thirties. “It can’t be any more, because
Galatians tells us that either 14 or 17 years elapsed between Paul’s conversion and his visit
to Jerusalem for a conference with the Apostles, and most calculations put that in the year 48
or 49. It isn’t until the year 50 or 51 that Paul starts writing letters, or at least letters which
have survived to reach us.” The baton waved over a violin section of seven green Post-Its
spread through the fifties. “During the next several years Paul writes the epistles known as 1
Thessalonians, Philippians, Galatians, 1 and 2 Corinthians, Romans and Philemon, not
necessarily in that order, and at least one of them, 2 Corinthians, is an edited composite of
two or more separate letters.”
Paul’s music was fairly harmonious. “There is not a word in these epistles, aside from an
acknowledged interpolation in 1 Thessalonians, which clearly refers to a Christ who was a
recent historical man, and the only Gospel-like scene one can find is the account of Jesus’
words at the first Lord’s Supper—which I would label a mythical story to explain features of
the cult’s community meal. Everything to do with Jesus’ Gospel teachings, with the trial and
crucifixion scene on Calvary, with the story of the empty tomb, is nowhere to be found.”

141

Shauna nodded vigorously, like a keen and observant pupil, though her enthusiasm may
have been directed as much at the bowl of popcorn as at my presentation. The former had
just taken up a new position in her lap.
“The same situation of silence exists in all the New Testament epistles written over the
next half-century.” My baton gave the cue to various woodwinds as I worked my way along
the left-hand wall. “James and Jude, both possibly written before the Jewish War which
came to a head in the year 70...” The pointer sailed up and onto a six-pointed star enveloped
in flames which I had crafted at the seven decade mark on the time strip. “Hebrews might
have been written before the War as well, or else a little after; it can’t be too much later. In
Hebrews we find a couple of references which have been labelled ‘allusions’ to Gospel
details, but even the scholars will admit that they don’t quite fit a Gospel context and usually
interpret them as a product of the author’s study of scripture.”
“Such as?” Apparently Shauna had decided to keep me honest. Maybe she felt she had
to do something to earn the popcorn.
“Well—” I checked my notations on the Post-It. “For example, 13:12 says that Jesus
‘suffered outside the gate’. But no mention is made of Jerusalem or even a city. In fact, the
point is made in a discussion about the practice of animal sacrifice in the earliest days of the
priestly cult in the desert of Sinai, at the time of the Exodus. The writer talks about parts of
the sacrifice being performed outside the Israelite camp and compares Jesus to that. So it’s
probably a case of him tailoring his Christ myth to the scriptural precedent on Sinai.
Comparing Moses’ establishment of the old covenant and Jesus’ establishment of the new
one is the central theme of the epistle. Which makes his silence on all the earthly settings
and details of Jesus’ work so startling. Instead, he presents Jesus’ sacrifice as part of a
heavenly scene in a heavenly sanctuary—it’s very Platonic—and never mentions Calvary.
Nor does he mention the Last Supper, even though that’s when Jesus is supposed to have
identified his body and blood as the sacrifice sealing the new covenant. On top of that, he
completely ignores the resurrection in his theology of redemption.”
“It sounds like he was on a different planet from Paul.”
“And from every other surviving document as well. It’s this kind of radical diversity of
beliefs about Christ which foils any attempt to see the Christian movement as arising from a
single founder and point of origin.”
Details like these, and of the day’s presentation to Shauna as a whole, were to a great
extent the product of almost two weeks of study following the outing at the university. I had
decided the next day to begin tackling the question of the Gospels: when had they started to
show up in Christian thinking? Could I arrive at any rough dates for their composition, and
could I start to get some idea of how they had come to be written if Jesus had originally been
a mythical deity? I had only begun to get my feet wet on this vast and complicated subject,
but Shauna had expressed interest in keeping abreast of my research, and this gave me the
opportunity to bounce my investigations off someone at regular intervals.
My pointer moved on to the violas and cellos. “Colossians, Ephesians, 2 Thessalonians:
written by Paulinists a decade or more after Paul’s death. Still no Gospel details, no Jesus of
Nazareth anywhere on their pages. The writer of 1 Peter, perhaps in the 80s, claims he was
‘a witness to Christ’s sufferings,’ and many translators still insist on taking this as meaning
eyewitness, but in the religious context, martus means to testify to one’s faith in something,

142

and everything ‘Peter’ says is based on scripture, which is clearly where he gets his
information. No Gospel details in sight.”
Next, the French horns. “Then here we have the epistles 1, 2 and 3 John.” Three staccato
taps near the corner. “Fascinating stuff. The big one, 1 John, seems to be a layered
document, reflecting maybe three successive stages of belief on the part of this community.
Do you know what one of the disputes is that the letter has to deal with?”
Shauna shook her head, since her mouth was full of popcorn.
“Whether Jesus Christ has come in the flesh or not. The writer claims he has. The
dissenters he is condemning have denied it. In other words, they deny that the spiritual
Christ was incarnated to earth. And yet it’s possible for the deniers of this doctrine to still be
considered Christian!”
“So this is when people started to believe that there had been a human Jesus?”
“It would seem so. In this community anyway, probably in the nineties. But they have
nothing historical to say about him. And get this—where do they derive this doctrine?
There’s no mention of any information coming through apostolic channels going back to the
time of Jesus. The epistle never even specifies an historical time for his incarnation. The
writer has gotten this doctrine through ‘the spirit which comes from God.’ In other words,
through inspiration, probably from reading scripture. The dissenters are accused of being
victims of a false spirit from Satan.”
I checked my notations on the paper. “Chapter 5: the writer talks about accepting God’s
own witness to his Son and to the eternal life which is found in him. There’s no mention of
any witness by Jesus himself, in his own life and ministry. This Christian knows of the Son
because of a revelation by God! It’s right there in black and white.”
“So why doesn’t everyone see it that clearly?”
I shrugged. “It’s a tribute to the power of the human mind not to see what it doesn’t want
to see. Oh, there are attempts to interpret the meaning of the words in other ways. But when
you have to do that in passage after passage—not just in 1 John—then any validity in such
interpretation breaks down. At some point you have to start accepting that the words in all
these documents by all these writers are probably saying what they seem to be saying.”
“So where do the Gospels fit in here?” Shauna asked, gesturing toward the wall.
“I’ll be getting to that. Keep your shirt on....On second thought—”
She pointed peremptorily. “The Gospels, please. No distractions.”
“If you insist.” I turned to the desk on which the computer stood. There I had four green
Post-Its waiting. I picked up the one labelled MARK in large letters.
“Now, here we have the earliest written Gospel of the Christian canon: Mark. It wasn’t
put together by any ‘Mark’, of course. A later church tradition says that it was written by
John Mark, an assistant to Paul and later Peter, and represents Peter’s reminiscences. We
don’t know who the real author was, or even when it was written, except that it was outside
Palestine, since it makes mistakes about Palestinian geography and offers interpretations of
Aramaic phrases. And it was written for Gentiles, since the writer provides explanations for
Jewish customs.”
“How do they know it was the earliest one?”
I sighed. “I was hoping you wouldn’t ask that. It’s a complex question. The church
always said that Matthew was the first Gospel. Basically, a close literary comparison of the
Synoptics—that’s Matthew, Mark and Luke, since they’re so close they can be compared

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side by side—shows that Mark had to be the principal source of the other two. Matthew and
Luke, probably working independently and unknown to each other, revised Mark each in his
own way and added in the lost document known as Q, supposedly a collection of Jesus’
sayings. That’s one of my next projects, doing a study of Q.”
“What’s that mean: ‘Q’?”
“It’s a modern term. It stands for the German word “Quelle”, which means “source”. It’s
the source of the sayings that were seen to be common between the two Gospels.”
“Got it.”
“Anyway, Mark is obviously the most primitive of the three, especially theologically.
Matthew and Luke very often ‘clean up’ his scenes and change his terms and titles in
directions which are more advanced. Also, Mark lacks all the great teachings of Jesus such
as the Sermon on the Mount, and he has no Nativity scene or resurrection appearances—
though somebody added a few of those later to make up the shortfall. Those who prefer to
see Matthew as the earliest have no good explanation for why the writer of Mark would
simply have cut so much important material, if he were the one doing the copying. What
would be the purpose of such a Gospel? And their own theory of priority creates more
problems than the Markan one.”
Shauna raised her hands. “OK, I’m sorry I asked, too. So where are you going to put that
thing?” She pointed to the Post-It I was holding.
“How about...right here!” With a flourish I pressed the adhesive strip against the wall,
just beyond the line of the year 70 and the conflagration of the Jewish War. “At least, that’s
where most scholars like to put it. Because the Little Apocalypse in Mark 13 talks of great
upheavals and woes and the destruction of the Temple, which took place in 70, they think
Mark wrote in the late stages of the Jewish war or soon after.”
“But you don’t think they’re right.”
I stood back. “I don’t think that such an early date is necessary. Or proven. There were
vivid apocalyptic expectations among both Jews and Christians until at least the end of the
century, and the memory of the war certainly didn’t fade soon. It’s a little like some later
generation to ours deciding that any 20th century work which talks about the fear of nuclear
war should be dated to 1962, the year of the Cuban missile crisis. Just because that was the
most prominent nuclear scare doesn’t mean that the fear and the concern couldn’t be voiced
at any time before the end of the Cold War. In fact, if you read Mark 13 carefully, you can
see that Jesus is actually prophecying that the End is not imminent, even when the war
arrives. This would tend to indicate that Mark wrote some time after it. And the situation
envisioned for the actual End emphasizes a time of persecution rather than war, which fits
the later reign of Domitian better. So there is nothing in Mark that should require him to be
dated earlier than the year 90, let’s say.”
“So why don’t you put him there?”
“Because I want to see what the traditional picture gives us.” I turned back to the desk
and picked up the two Post-Its marked MATTHEW and LUKE, one in each hand.
“Now, conventional wisdom has it that Matthew and Luke made their revisions of Mark
within a decade or so—Matthew in the eighties, Luke perhaps ten years later.” I placed them
in those positions. “Matthew used 90% of Mark, Luke not quite so much. But both their
Passion stories are almost carbon copies of Mark with a few extra details thrown in.”
Shauna reacted to this with a look of curiosity, but said nothing. I went on.

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“John is a separate case. His Gospel contains a picture of Jesus quite unlike the others,
but there are elements in it which suggest he might have incorporated Synoptic traditions,
especially in his Passion story. John likes to do things his own way—he has his own
theology and editorial purposes to plug—but scholars seem to have tentatively decided that
his Passion account is ultimately based on Mark or some stage of the Synoptics. So this
means that all four Gospels, in their story of the trial and crucifixion of Jesus, really go back
to a single source: whoever produced the first version of Mark.”
I retrieved the final Post-It from the edge of the desk. “So we place John around the year
100, which is the traditional date usually given it. And now we have a string of Gospels, the
four which ended up in the canon, running through three decades at the end of the first
century. By the way, none of the other three Gospels were written by their traditional
authors, either. All the names are later church ascriptions. Even as late as Justin Martyr in
the middle of the second century, the Gospels are anonymous. Justin calls them “memoirs
of the Apostles” and never gives any evangelist’s name.”
Shauna placed the bowl of popcorn, now half empty, back on the table. She wore a
thoughtful expression which I had long ago come to recognize was the signal for some
insightful comment. I waited expectantly.
“It seems you’re saying that each of the Gospels was produced in a separate community,
that some of them didn’t even know what the others were doing.”
“Right. It’s pretty clear that Luke didn’t know Matthew, and vice-versa. And John is
always regarded as though his community inhabited some universe of its own—except that
he would have had contact with Synoptic traditions in shaping his Passion story at least. But
they probably all came from various regions of northern Palestine and Syria.”
“Well, shouldn’t there be something odd about this situation, if Jesus really existed? If
Matthew belonged to some Christian community that was different from Mark’s—”
“Yes, it certainly wasn’t the same one. Mark and has community are undoubtedly
Gentile, while Matthew works in a much more Jewish milieu. He was probably a Jew
himself.”
“So one would think,” Shauna said slowly, still working out the idea in her mind, “that
each of these communities would have remembered Jesus in its own way and developed its
own traditions about him. You’d think the story of his trial and crucifixion would have
taken shape differently—to some extent, anyway—with different details and ways of telling
it. But if Matthew is almost a carbon copy of Mark, as you say, and Luke from another
separate community also copies Mark, it sounds like neither of them had developed any
traditions about Jesus’ death. Otherwise, their own ways of telling the story would have
taken precedence over Mark’s account. They wouldn’t have copied him so slavishly.”
I looked at her in some admiration. She hadn’t disappointed me. “That’s a very
perceptive observation, Shauna. I agree, you’d have to think that they knew nothing about
the details of Jesus’ life until a copy of Mark came into their hands.”
I thought a moment further. “But, you know, there’s more to it than that. There were
Christian communities all over the Mediterranean by the later first century. Oral traditions
about Jesus’ words and deeds were supposed to be their life’s blood. We would have every
reason to expect that many of them would have produced some written version of those
traditions. And each community, as you say, would have had its own way of telling the
story. Yet all we have are four Gospels, three of which are almost like peas in a pod.

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Matthew and Luke are essentially reworkings of Mark with a collection of sayings added.
As for John, his Passion story is a pea in the next pod. And they all come from only one
general area of the empire.”
“Didn’t anyone ever find this curious?”
“I guess not. I’ve never seen the point raised. Christianity really owes its story of Jesus
to one document: the first version of Mark.”
“Was there more than one version?”
“That seems to be the latest understanding. Some scholars figure that each of the Gospels
went through multiple stages of writing and editing, adding newer pieces of material and
excising others. Apparently Clement of Alexandria gives us some evidence of two or three
versions of Mark, and John is thought to have gone through three to five stages of
construction during the first half of the second century. Don’t forget that in the earliest
phase these writings would not have been regarded as sacred scripture. There would be
nothing to prevent anyone from revising them to keep pace with never developments. In
fact, we see the process right in the New Testament, with Matthew and Luke being revisions
of Mark.”
“I guess there wouldn’t be any objection if they were telling a story about a figure nobody
was familiar with.”
“Yes, and after the upheaval of the Jewish War, reliable links to the past to verify these
things would have been lost. Besides, if Matthew and Luke can so readily change the things
Mark wrote, they certainly didn’t see themselves as writing strict history.”
I turned back to my right-angled orchestra pit. “Anyway, Miss Rosen, you’ve gotten me
sidetracked. Let’s say we leave the four Gospels in the spots where scholars commonly date
them and continue with our picture. We’re looking for signs of the Gospels in other
Christian writings of the time. We’ve reached the Johannine epistles in the nineties.
Nothing so far. Not even the concept of apostolic tradition, things traced back through a
chain of teaching and authority to Jesus himself. Not a single teaching ever attributed to
Jesus, except for those couple of sayings called ‘words of the Lord’ in Paul.”
“I remember!” Shauna exclaimed. “They’re considered to be directives Paul thinks he’s
received through inspiration. From the spiritual Christ in heaven.”
I offered my congratulations and took up my baton again. The trumpets needed cueing.
“Next, Revelation, written in the mid-90s, so most scholars think, though some place it in
the early stages of the Jewish War. The spiritual Christ writes letters and makes predictions
about the coming end of the world, but there’s no sign of the Gospel Jesus. In fact, there’s
no sign of a human life for this heavenly Christ at all.” I referred to my notations. “In
chapter 12, ‘a woman robed with the sun’ has a child, who is immediately snatched up to
heaven by God to escape the clutches of a dragon, and there he awaits the End when he will
take over the rule of the earth. This is clearly the Messiah, and the imagery is drawn from
Jewish and Greek mythology. But the complete absence of any suggestion of a life and
ministry on earth for this child has had scholars scratching their heads. Or ignoring the
whole problem.”
“And no birth in a manger in Bethlehem, either, I take it?”
“No. The Nativity stories in Matthew and Luke don’t show up in Christian writings until
the middle of the second century. Except for a little piece of curiosity in the Ascension of

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Isaiah.” I pointed at a Post-It on the right wall, which I had placed under the year 115, and
peered at some closely written scratchings.
“There’s a section in it which is regarded as one of several Christian insertions in an older
Jewish document. The dating of individual parts is very uncertain. This passage gives us a
little story about how Mary had a child at her and Joseph’s home in Bethlehem. But Mary is
surprised and hasn’t been forewarned about who this child is. There’s nothing about
mangers or shepherds or Magi; no Herod or flight into Egypt. It must be an early version of
a nativity story for Jesus, one which Matthew and Luke may have enlarged on, each in his
own way. The Nativity stories in Matthew and Luke are totally different, by the way, except
for the location in Bethlehem, which would have been drawn from a well known prophecy in
Malachi that the future king of Israel was to be born there.”
“Where do you think the names Mary and Joseph came from if they never existed
either?”
“Who knows? Perhaps from some mythmaking Christian prophet. In Exodus, Miriam is
the sister of Moses, and his birth legends have elements similar to the one attached to Jesus.
But it’s impossible to say.”
“Does that make the Star of Bethlehem a myth as well?”
“Many famous figures of the ancient world, real or imagined, had some astronomical
portent attached to their births. And often some kind of dangerous situation, like Moses. In
fact, the slaughter of the innocents by Herod in Matthew is so close to the legends
surrounding Moses’ birth that there had to be a conscious borrowing. The fact that Herod
executed so many of his own family over paranoid fears that they were plotting against him
may have contributed to Matthew’s story. But no historian of the time records any official
slaughter of Jewish children. Or any star, as you say.”
Shauna adopted a bit of a despondent look. “We seem to invest so much in things which
have no basis in reality. I guess every religion and culture is the same.”
“We create the things we need for our own edification,” I said. “And the past is the only
place to put them.”
“I suppose so. Sorry, I keep interrupting. Go on.”
My baton went out to the year 96. Miscellaneous instruments were contributing to the
score. “Here we have the earliest surviving Christian document which did not end up in the
canon: 1 Clement, a letter written from Rome to Corinth. Now, there’s an odd situation in 1
Clement. The writer talks about ‘the words of the Lord Jesus which he spoke in teaching,’
and then gives a few maxims about mercy and forgiveness which vaguely resemble parts of
the Sermon on the Mount. This makes him the first Christian writer outside the Gospels to
refer to Jesus as a teacher. Yet in other places he can offer sentiments very similar to other
elements of the Gospel teachings and make no attribution at all, or else he assigns them to
the Old Testament. He also shows himself to be abysmally ignorant about Gospel details,
like the miracles and the figure of John the Baptist. As for Jesus’ trial and crucifixion, he
seems to know nothing and simply draws on Isaiah for his information. So the consensus
among scholars is that Clement knew of no written Gospel. Personally, I think his reference
to Jesus as a teacher may simply be to the spiritual Christ speaking through scripture. The
word for ‘spoke’ Clement also uses of the Holy Spirit in exactly that context. The whole
epistle is built upon the idea of scriptural justification. Even the spot where he says the
Apostles were sent out by Christ could be a reference to a spiritual call like Paul’s.”

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I noticed that Shauna’s fingers were scraping the bottom of the bowl. “Do you think
you’ll want more popcorn? I can get another packet started.”
“Oh, no. I want to save some appetite for later. I’m sure you’ll be wanting to take me out
for a movie and dinner after this very detailed dissertation.”
I managed to look a bit sheepish. “Yes, of course. I’ll try to speed things up.”
I turned back to the wall. “Now we turn the corner, almost literally. The letters of
Ignatius, around the year 107. Seven of them. Here we find the barest bones of the Gospel
story: Mary, Pontius Pilate, even Herod gets a mention. But no Gospel. Ignatius never
appeals to one. He never even appeals to apostolic tradition as a way of supporting his
assertions about Jesus’ historical data. And no teachings. Not even the fact that Jesus was a
teacher is mentioned anywhere in his letters. He has one Gospel-like scene, in the letter to
the Smyrneans: Jesus appearing to Peter and his companions after the resurrection and
letting them touch him. Ignatius wants to prove that he came back to life in actual human
flesh. But he gives no indication of his source for this little anecdote. We’re almost a
decade into the second century and still no sign of a written Gospel.”
My baton dropped down a little. “Next, the Didache, around the same time as Ignatius.
A resounding silence about Jesus’ teachings, even though it’s got many ethical directives
resembling his. A couple of them, including the Lord’s Prayer, are even attributed to God.
No establishment of its eucharistic meal by Jesus, no linking of it with his death. In fact, no
death of Jesus at all, and no resurrection. Everything’s oriented toward God, with Jesus
getting a mention only as his child or servant. He seems to be regarded as some kind of
revealer who makes known God’s ‘life and knowledge’. There’s no apostolic tradition
going back to Jesus, not even when discussing the legitimacy of wandering prophets and the
validity of their teaching. Again, the consensus is that this writer could not have known any
written Gospel. Or writers, because the document was put together in stages, they think.
Most of it probably goes back into the first century, which is why it hasn’t a hint of any
historical Jesus.”
“So now we’re 30 or 40 years after Mark is supposed to have been written, and no sign
that anybody’s read it yet.” The popcorn bowl was all but empty.
“Now you’re catching on. Can we really believe that if Mark had penned the first story of
Jesus as early as 70—some scholars like to place it even earlier—that it would take several
decades for Christians in other parts of the empire to take notice of it? By the end of the
century, there were supposed to be four different Gospels available.”
“No fax machines?”
“No photocopiers either. But this isn’t the Ice Age. The Christian world should have
been hungry for information about Jesus. There were disputes all over the place, on many
important matters. Some authoritative record of what Jesus had said and done would have
been in great demand. These Gospels should have been on everyone’s lips—and pens.”
“So when do they surface?”
“Well, not in the rest of the New Testament. Not even in the epistles that were written in
the second century.” My baton cued the double-basses: the three so-called Pastoral letters,
written in Paul’s name: 1 Timothy, 2 Timothy and Titus. These I had placed around the year
115, a compromise on the various datings by scholars. “Some would argue that this isn’t the
case in 1 Timothy 6:13, where we find a clear reference to Pontius Pilate—the first one in
any epistle. But there are so many glaring silences in the Pastorals, especially in regard to

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the teachings of Jesus, that I would have to regard the Pilate reference as a later
interpolation. It offers a kind of parallel-in-passing to the situation the recipient of the letter
is in—it’s supposed to be Paul’s friend Timothy. But a few scholars have pointed out that it
really doesn’t fit that situation very well, and they question whether it might be an addition
by a later copyist.”
I checked my notations on the Post-It. “And in fact, a few verses before that there’s a
phrase which clearly looks like an interpolation. The Pastorals six times refer to
‘wholesome teachings’ but never indicate that these are from Jesus—except here, where a
phrase is stuck in that sounds like it was originally a marginal gloss. Scholars generally
agree that it looks suspicious.”
“But couldn’t it be a reference to revelation by the spiritual Christ, like Paul’s ‘words of
the Lord’?” Shauna asked. She was happy to get some mileage out of her memory about
Paul.
“I suppose it could. But I rather think the passage has the flavor of an interpolation, and
if so, it would support the idea that an ill-fitting phrase nearby, the one about Pilate, is also a
later insertion.”
“You should be careful, though, not to label too many inconvenient passages as
interpolations.”
“Oh, I agree. There were phases of critical scholarship in the past which dismissed
passages right and left as interpolations. But as far as I can see, the one about Pilate in 1
Timothy and the one about the Jews killing the Lord Jesus in 1 Thessalonians are the only
ones I would really need to claim. And everyone agrees on the latter one.”
The popcorn bowl was empty. Shauna wiped a tantalizing streak of butter from her lower
lip and then crossed her hands in her lap. “Next.”
“Next. Yes, that would be the latest epistle of the New Testament: 2 Peter.” I pointed
with my baton; a document with an incongruous sound, perhaps part of the trombone
section. “Even though it usually gets dated around 120, there are still many telling silences
about Jesus. The writer is concerned about the coming Day of the Lord, yet he offers none
of Jesus’ pronouncements about that event. In fact, he tells his readers to ‘remember the
predictions by God’s prophets,’ so it seems impossible that he knew a Gospel which
contained all those prophecies by Jesus himself about the End time.”
I looked more closely at the Post-It. “And this epistle has a very fascinating scene. The
writer is pretending to be Peter, and at the end of chapter 1 he says that he and others saw the
Christ on a holy mountain, ‘invested with honor and glory.’ This is very reminiscent of the
Gospel scene known as the Transfiguration, but in the epistle no setting during an earthly
ministry of Jesus is provided. Everything fits the occasion of a vision of the spiritual Christ.
Perhaps this was a tradition about something that had happened to Peter, and the writer
draws on scripture to elucidate it; the scene is loaded with scriptural allusions. He’s saying
that Peter’s vision is a foretaste of the Parousia, a guarantee of Jesus’ power and the promise
that he would come in glory at the End time.”
Shauna interrupted. “If the writer wanted to give an example of Jesus’ power, why didn’t
he offer the resurrection?”
“A very perceptive question, one which some scholars have raised. Of course, they don’t
consider the possibility that for this writer there had been no physical resurrection, because
there had been no human Jesus. But in the Gospels, this tradition about Peter is turned into

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an incident during Jesus’ ministry, and it serves to give a foretaste of his resurrection, not of
the Parousia.”
“So they still had apocalyptic expectations this late?”
“Apparently so, even though scoffers were saying that these promises had been around
for too long without being fulfilled.”
I reached for my New Testament on the desk. “But there’s a bizarre passage right after
this scene. Here: ‘All this only confirms to us the message of the prophets...which is like a
lamp shining in a murky place until the day breaks...’ The writer is presenting Peter’s vision
of Christ only as a support for the primary testimony about the coming kingdom and
Christian hopes for the future. And what is that primary testimony? Scripture! Isn’t there
something wrong with this picture?”
After a moment, Shauna raised both eyebrows. “I see what you mean. Why would
scripture be considered the lamp for Christians waiting in the dark for salvation, and not
Jesus’ recent life and the things he had promised?”
I nodded. “Which are things the writer of this epistle never appeals to. Wherever 2 Peter
was written, and we don’t know where that was, we can see that even two decades into the
second century some Christian writers still have no Gospels and don’t show any awareness
that Jesus was ever on earth.”
“Incredible,” Shauna exclaimed. “This is really like a detective story, isn’t it? You look
for clues, you use your magnifying glass on the texts to see what they’re really saying—”
“And not saying—”
“You come across red herrings, like interpolations—”
“And unfounded interpretations by scholars based on established preconceptions.”
Shauna clapped her hands. “So where’s the first clue to the Gospels? Where do we see
the first unmistakable sign?” Her animation showed that I finally had her complete and rapt
attention.
I couldn’t resist a wry comment. “In New Testament scholarship, my dear, nothing is
ever ‘unmistakable’.”
I turned back to the chart. “Now, a scholar like Helmut Koester, who’s done a lot of
work on tracing Gospel development over the years, concludes that up to and including
Barnabas, the Apostolic Fathers and other early writers seem not to have known any written
Gospels. When they sound vaguely like Gospel material, they’re drawing on oral traditions
which were themselves incorporated into the Gospels.”
I tapped on another trombone around the year 120. “Now, Barnabas here is also a curious
case. He seems to show some crude knowledge of historical information. He also gives two
quotes that are very similar to sayings of Jesus in Mark and Matthew, but he doesn’t identify
them as coming from any Gospels, and he misapplies them. On top of that, he is still
woefully ignorant of any teachings of Jesus, and for details about his Passion he relies
entirely on scripture. So this is another writing which is at least two decades into the second
century and still shows no sign of a written Gospel. Then around the same time, or perhaps
earlier, we have the longest surviving document of the early Christian writings, the Shepherd
of Hermas, a huge mystical thing, but it talks about the Son of God without even mentioning
the names Jesus and Christ, let alone any reference to a human life!”
Shauna tapped her finger on the arm of the chair. “A clue, please,” she said, with a stern
expression. “I’m still waiting for some sign of the Gospels.”

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I saluted with my baton. “OK, Koester points to the letter of Polycarp, bishop of
Smyrna.” And so did I. “It’s made up of two parts written at two different times, the larger
and later part probably around 130. Koester thinks that Polycarp knew Matthew and Luke,
because he has a couple of quotes close to those Gospels. He also draws on a passage from
1 Clement, the one giving maxims from ‘Jesus in teaching,’ which we saw earlier, and he
alters the wording so that it’s closer to the Matthean version. The problem is, Polycarp
never uses the term ‘Gospel’ and it still sounds as though he is quoting from some kind of
oral material. Moreover, if he knew Matthew, why quote it via 1 Clement? And why does
he go to 1 Peter’s quote of Isaiah for a reference to Jesus’ crucifixion? Why not draw
directly on Matthew’s Passion story?”
“So we’re still without a clear written Gospel, AND NO CLUE, even—”
“Even 60 years after Mark was supposedly written. However—” I went on hastily, lest
she throw the popcorn bowl at me. “Now we get to Papias. Bishop of Hieropolis in Asia
Minor, who wrote around the same time as Polycarp. Or at least we get to him through
Eusebius, the church historian who quotes him about two centuries later. All of Papias’
works are lost.”
“Lost. So this is a clue buried in someone else’s clue.”
“Precisely. A second hand clue, assuming Eusebius is giving us the accurate goods.” I
pulled the Post-It off the wall to consult the notes on it. “Actually, it’s a third or fourth hand
clue, because Eusebius says that Papias says that the Elder John told him that ‘Mark was
Peter’s interpreter and he had set down all that Peter remembered about the Lord’s sayings
and doings, though not in order.’ Now, that seems anything but a clear reference to a
narrative Gospel. Papias is also quoted as saying that ‘Matthew compiled the Lord’s sayings
in the Hebrew language and everyone interpreted them as best he could.’ This one is
certainly not a reference to a narrative work, and in any case it can’t be the canonical Gospel
of Matthew, since that was a work written in Greek and derived from the Greek Gospel of
Mark. Papias himself doesn’t use the term Gospel, and according to Eusebius he disparages
written records anyway, saying that he prefers oral traditions.”
“Does Papias not quote from these things?”
“It would have been handy if he did, wouldn’t it? But Eusebius doesn’t give us any
quotations. Which makes it highly unlikely that Papias even saw these documents he speaks
of. Several Christian commentators quote things from Papias’ lost work, Expositions of the
Oracles of the Lord. Many of them are weird anecdotes about things like the gruesome
death of Judas, or a story about a believer who drank serpents’ poison unharmed. But
there’s not a word that could have been drawn from a narrative account of Jesus’ life. If
Papias had really quoted from Matthew and Mark, or discussed them in any depth, it would
be impossible that no one would have mentioned it.”
“All of which means—”
“That his Matthew and Mark are chimeras floating on the wind. At best, they may
indicate that collections of sayings and anecdotes were circulating which derived originally
from unknown sources and became attached to an historical Jesus early in the second
century, then got associated with certain legendary apostles’ names.”
Now Shauna genuinely looked as though she was about to throw the popcorn bowl at me.
I plunged ahead dramatically. “But now, at long last, our search bears fruit. Not 40, not
60, not 80, but 85 years after the first Gospel is reputed to have been written, we find the

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first clear reference to narrative accounts of Jesus’ life written by his reputed followers, and
the first unmistakable quotations from them.” With a flourish I cued the timpani, two Post-
Its set in the mid-150s. “Justin Martyr, writing in Rome just after the middle of the second
century. Scholars are pretty certain he’s quoting from Matthew and Luke, and perhaps
Mark. He apparently doesn’t know anything about John.”
“Pretty certain?”
“Well, unfortunately, Justin’s quotations don’t usually agree with the present canonical
texts, and he refers to his sources only as ‘memoirs of the Apostles’. Are they from the
Gospels we know, or perhaps from some earlier versions or even a harmony of the sayings?”
I dodged. The popcorn bowl sailed through the air and struck the wall below my Post-It
mural. Fortunately, it was made of light plastic. Then we both laughed.
“Eighty-five years to get Mark to the capital of the empire?” Shauna shook her head. “I
thought the Romans were famous for their efficient road system.” She stood up to retrieve
the bowl which had rolled back into the center of the room. “So when do we get Matthew,
Mark, Luke and John?”
“By name? Only with Irenaeus, bishop of Lyons, around 180. He says it’s fitting that
there are four Gospels because there are four winds and four corners to the earth. But
actually, Tatian, a pupil of Justin, composed a harmony of the four, probably a decade
earlier. And in fact, the earliest use that we know about of some primitive version of a
Gospel was made, ironically, by one of the great enemies of the Roman church, the Gnostic
Marcion. This was in the 140s. The Gospel he used seems to have been a proto-Luke. We
know that from Tertullian’s detailed condemnation of him later in the century.”
“More clues within clues. I guess it really is quite fascinating, if you can put all the
pieces together.”
“Well, Marcion’s Luke is further evidence that the Gospels went through stages of
revision in the early period. His Luke wasn’t the same Luke we have today. And it almost
certainly didn’t have the Acts of the Apostles attached to it. It’s quite possible that Acts
wasn’t even written before the time of Justin. Justin himself shows no knowledge of it, and
there are no traces to be found of Acts, or even of any source elements, before the year 170.
And yet the traditional scholarly position is that it was written in the late first century; some
even say in the sixties!”
“A 110 year journey to Rome, is that it?”
“Right. A few scholars are more sensible and think that Acts was written in the mid-
second century by the same writer who revised Luke. The Roman church wanted to create a
more acceptable picture of Paul, as well as a particular view of Christian origins. In Acts
Paul was painted as completely subordinate to the Jerusalem Apostles and preaching an
orthodox gospel. You see, Paul had been claimed by some of the heretical Gnostic sects as
one of them, so he needed to be rehabilitated before the orthodox church could welcome him
back into the fold. That’s why Acts’ portrait of Paul is so at odds with what Paul tells about
himself in his letters. There are also huge discrepancies between the two accounts in the
picture they create of the early Christian movement.”
“Doesn’t that bother people?”
“Rationalization is a wonderfully potent thing.”
“So where does that leave the early history of Christianity, if that’s what Acts was
supposed to provide?”

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“In limbo. A very murky limbo. Acts is no longer considered reliable history. The more
progressive scholars realize that much of it is sheer fabrication. I guess we have to fall back
on the early documents, like Paul, and ask ourselves what they are really saying.”
Shauna moved up to the wall and gave the Post-It labelled MARK a little flick with her
finger. “So do you have any idea where these things ought to go?”
“Actually, the traditional dates may not be that far off, in some cases. I’d rather see Mark
around 90, but Matthew and Luke can’t be too far into the second century, because the
picture they paint of the so-called ‘parting of the ways’ between the Christian sect and the
Jewish establishment—at least in the Palestine-Syria area—fits the turn of the century
period. The same goes for John, though his gnostic-leaning ideas would probably pull him
further into the second century. But remember that these dates would be of the earliest
versions of the Gospels.”
“And I suppose that if these stories were about someone nobody was familiar with, it
might have taken some time for other communities to accept them.”
“Yes, that’s probably the case. If they went against the grain of current knowledge and
belief, they would have enjoyed only limited use and isolated reworking, all within the same
general area. Perhaps for as long as a generation. Bits of ideas would start to circulate, but
the total package about an historical Jesus might have taken a long time to get established. I
have the impression that all parts of the Christian movement didn’t really get on board until
the latter half of the second century.”
Shauna was peering more closely at the notes on my Post-Its. “So you think Ignatius got
his information about Mary and Pilate from where?”
“Well, that’s difficult to say exactly—probably impossible. I think the tendency to
historicize Jesus, at least to place him at a specific point in history, may have occurred in
certain preaching circles before it solidified in literary ones. The bare setting of his birth and
ministry would start to develop and circulate before any full Gospels were written—or at
least before they were disseminated. Paul had said that Jesus was ‘born of woman’, in a
mythical context. But the tendency to regard that as an historical statement and come up
with a name for this woman was probably irresistible. And Paul also called James ‘the
brother of the Lord’. That was eventually misinterpreted to mean a sibling of Jesus when
originally it could well have been a title for James as head of the Jerusalem brotherhood.
Christian apostles are regularly called ‘brother’ in Paul, and 500 of them are said to have
received a vision of the Christ in 1 Corinthians. They can’t all have been siblings of Jesus.”
“Mary would have been a busy woman.”
“Especially for a virgin.”
Shauna drew the tips of her fingers over several of the Post-Its, as though stirring them to
life, urging them to release the dormant secrets of the documents they represented. “But we
both know there’s a lot more in the Gospels than just a few names, virgin or otherwise. Are
you going to be able to explain where all this material came from? It can’t all be sheer
invention.”
“It depends on one’s definition of ‘invention’. The world of scripture and myth was very
real to those people. What I’m starting to get a sense of is that the Gospel stories were
originally meant as a kind of metaphor for deeper spiritual processes, new spiritual truths.
But I can’t say yet whether the earliest evangelists felt they were writing some form of
history or not. You’ll have to ask me those questions again later.”

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“And all these other ones—the blues and reds?”


“More work is what they are. Various Jewish and pagan writings I have to take a closer
look at. To see what, if anything, they have to say about an historical Jesus, and how they fit
in with my theory. I’m already familiar with some of them, Josephus for example. You’re
probably right: it’ll be the end of the next millennium before I’m ready.”
The sun was streaming in the study windows, reflecting off the polished wood floor onto
my multi-colored mural. “Speaking of the next millennium,” Shauna said, taking my hand,
“how about if we indulge in a little bit of this one before it’s over.”
I put my arms around her waist. “I’m quite willing to indulge with you any time you
wish.”
She gave me a brief kiss. “That kind of indulgence we can save until later. It’s summer
and we should be outdoors, at least while the sun’s so cooperative. Why don’t we take a
stroll over to the mall, see a sexy movie, then we can grab my car and go eat somewhere
where it’s all candlelit and romantic. Then if you’re still in the same mood...” She trailed
her voice and her finger tip down my shirt front.

That shirt was almost the undoing of our mood. I had worn it two days before on a brief
walk to the park, alone. In its pocket I had brought along for further rumination a piece of
paper on which I had jotted down the two clues from the Ascended Masters. It still rested in
the same pocket when Shauna and I emerged into the June sunlight and wended our way
toward the local mall, a sprawling complex of shops, recreation areas and theaters almost a
dozen blocks away.
Before I became aware of its presence, however, a different subject came up. I said, “I
have an idea for the promotion of the Age of Reason Foundation, but I need a term, and I’m
caught between punch and political correctness.”
“Uh oh. Guess which one’s going to win out. What is it?”
“Well, I realized after my day with David and the others that no matter what you’re
selling, whether it’s vacuum cleaners or rationality, you need effective imagery. I think
there’s a principle in salesmanship which says that you don’t sell by extoling the virtues of
the product per se. You do it by making the prospective buyers associate themselves with
the product in a positive way. You promise them excitement, pleasure, fulfilment: all they
have to do is buy and use the product.”
I pointed to a red sports car passing crossways through the next intersection. “That
fellow doesn’t own a car like that for pragmatic purposes. He was sold on it because he sees
it as creating an image of himself. It becomes an extension of his personality, his interaction
with the world.”
Shauna gave me a poke. “Why are you assuming the driver was male? You couldn’t see
from here. It might easily have been a woman. Or don’t you think women have needs like
that, too?”
I cringed in my best show of sexist guilt. “Oh, I’m sure they do. Well, I can see that
political correctness is definitely going to be the winner. Trouble is, none of the neutral
words work. You see, we probably shouldn’t extol rationality itself. The product is too
dangerously dry and intellectual. What we have to promote is the exercise of rationality, the

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idea of a man or woman being rational: what this entails and how exciting and rewarding
that can be. So. I want to create and dramatize the image of—” I paused for a silent
flourish— “Rational Man!”
Shauna looked sidelong at me with narrowed eyes. “I assume that includes women as
well. Or do we fall into a different category?” She was going along with the game.
“So now you see my problem. Somehow Rational Human, or Rational Person hardly has
the same ring to it. I even tried to think of names that are common to both genders, but
Rational Sam didn’t cut it either.”
That brought forth a laugh. “How about Rational Vivian?”
“Very funny.” I took her hand. “So what do I do?”
We reached the intersection where our unisex driver had passed a few moments ago and
waited for a walk signal. Shauna said, “Well, perhaps we don’t need to be lumped together.
We could stand side by side, bravely facing a universe without gods and without ghosts,
championing science and reason and human pride hand in hand.” A flourish with her free
arm complemented the flourish in her voice. “Rational Man and Rational Woman! Or, for
shorthand, Rational Man and Woman. How’s that for a powerful image? And the long way
you get to say your key word twice. Don’t the rules of salesmanship say something about
repetition, too?”
I was genuinely impressed. “Shauna, you may have something there. The double term
would open up all sorts of possibilities as far as imagery is concerned. It might even strike a
blow for sexual equality—uh, bringing men up to the level of women, of course.”
“You see, it does work. You’re becoming more rational already.”
We crossed the intersection.
“So, what exciting things are Rational Man and Rational Woman going to do together?”
Her tone was just a little too ingenuous. It had inuendoes written all over it.
“Oh no—I’m not going to touch that one! But one thing they will do is take pride in their
ability to think. To think for yourself and come to judgments based on the exercise of your
own reason: I can’t imagine a greater source of self-satisfaction than that.”
“So Rational Man and Rational Woman are standing side by side, thinking. What are
they going to think about?”
We were passing middle-class suburban homes, well-tended for the most part, though in
this neighborhood they all bore the same developer’s stamp. One of the impediments we
faced in thinking for ourselves was the herd instinct. When your neighbors all think in one
way, it’s often hard to stand up for your own convictions.
“Well, I would say that one of the first things they aim for is an understanding of the
world around them. How can you function efficiently in the world if you see it through
unscientific and superstitious eyes? If the universe is governed by natural laws, how can you
believe in miracles, or some vast network of forces engineering reincarnation? How are you
going to make the right decisions in life if you rely on palmreading, or tarot cards, or
psychics? When you understand the forces that govern the world, you don’t have to grovel
before some higher power, you don’t beg for the intervention of an unpredictable deity, and
you don’t fear the unknown. Fear and ignorance make you a slave. Understanding brings
freedom. Science and rationality are not substitute gods; they’re servants. We can use them
to better our lives and the world we live in.”
Shauna cleared her throat. “It sounds like Rational Man is also Theatrical Man.”

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“Ha! You should have heard Burton Patterson the other day at the Arboretum. That was
theater! Fortunately, it’s theater with substance. The problem is, he seems to make others
around him feel inadequate by comparison.”
“Maybe that’s the way he expects you to feel. You’re letting his superiority complex get
to you.”
I said a touch glumly, “I guess human personality and emotions can’t be avoided.”
“Rational Man and Woman would be pretty boring without them.”
“Right. Boring is a no-no. Dynamic, questing, bright-eyed...”
“Naked?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you see this Rational Man and Woman of yours standing side by side without
clothing? After all, wouldn’t that symbolize freedom from shame, from a sense of sin? I
take it the concept of sin isn’t rational?”
“Well, not when it’s indoctrinated as being an inherent part of humanity’s nature—which
is one of the dogmas most religion has always upheld. Of course, it’s all part of the outlook
which glorifies suffering, self-abnegation and the condemnation of everything worldly.
Heaven forbid we should be proud of ourselves and the world we grew out of.”
“Heaven does forbid it—isn’t that the idea?”
“Yes. The question is, where did such an idea come from? What flaw in our evolving
intelligence gave rise to something which has caused so much misery and crippled our
human potential?”
“I should think that such a question is unanswerable. How can we uncover the mental
processes of men and women who lived millennia ago?”
“Well, anthropologists and cultural historians do theorize, based on a study of ancient
myths and other things. But most of them seem to place sexuality at the center of our
psychological problems. Once we moved beyond the instinctual sex of the animals, human
sexuality became something volatile and obsessive. It needed repression in order for society
to function in the ever more complex world of civilization. It’s no accident that the Hebrew
myth has Adam and Eve covering their genitals when they leave Eden for the outside
world.”
“So shame and guilt are our fig leaves, is that it? But why suffering?”
“Actually, Vardis Fisher offers an interesting view of the question in his fifth novel of the
Testament of Man, The Divine Passion. It’s set just before the dawn of recorded history.
The title refers to sex, of course. Once people came to understand the male role in
procreation, the gods were regarded as the embodiment of the procreative principle.
Communion with the gods was attained through sex. That’s why primitive agricultural
societies have always tended to have rituals involving sexual practices and orgies, the
surrendering of virginity to the gods, things like that. They say this was part of the
matriarchal line of thought, but it persisted as an undercurrent even after societies became
more patriarchal.”
“So who brought out the chastity belt?”
“Let’s see if I can remember how Fisher puts it. His third and fourth novels were about
the matriarchal phase and the first shift toward male dominance, which at the same time
created religion as we know it. In The Divine Passion he suggests that the sun, which came
to be seen as a reflection of the male principle, had become the chief deity. Before, it had

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been the moon, with its governance of the menstrual cycle. But now the sun’s astronomical
movements became the focus of humanity’s thinking and behavior, at least of the peoples
living in the northern hemisphere. The sun was seen as undergoing suffering and the threat
of death. Each day it sank into an underworld of darkness, and in the winter it battled its
enemies who were pulling it ever further south. Vegetation died, warmth receded, and life
and light seemed in danger of extinction. Donations and sacrifices were required to give the
god strength to conquer and return. Fear and anxiety led to cruel customs. The world was
seen as full of evil forces. Sacrifice became the symbol of salvation.”
“That’s ironic. To think that the earth’s own life-giving patterns of movement would
induce its intelligent life form to develop all that metaphysics of magic and misery.”
“Yes. Nothing highlights the impersonal nature of the universe and its workings more
than evolution itself. Darwin certainly gave us the most dramatic and disturbing revolution
that science ever produced. We’re still reeling from it. And there are those who still fight
against it tooth and nail.”
“But where did the sexual repression come in?”
“A lot of it involved the male reaction against matriarchal dominance. But as we moved
further and further from instinct, Fisher suggests that there was a greater focus on all the
perceived evil in the world, together with a more acute sense of self and separateness. In
The Divine Passion he brings in a symbolic character, a prophet, who decides that evil is the
result of the culpability of society’s behavior, and that the practice of sex is the primary
sinful cause. Woman, as the erotic force acting upon males, is the source of that evil. The
only solution is asceticism and castration—real or symbolic. The divine passion became an
evil passion.”
“With women as its high priestesses,” Shauna murmured. “Poor Eve.”
“Yes, and sex was divorced from the gods, who now required its suppression. The world
became a place to reject, the body an entity to spurn in the search for the good pure soul that
humanity shared with the good and pure gods. Of course, this was not a development every
society followed. But it’s a mark of patriarchal cultures generally, and it was strongest in the
Near East where it came to be embodied most fully among the Semitic peoples. The
Western world has inherited it through the Judaeo-Christian line.”
“Oh, great. Now we’ve got something else to feel guilty about.”
No doubt by coincidence, we were at that moment passing a Christian church. It sported
one of those modernistic designs which dotted and blended so well into American suburbia.
The building’s slanted, almost rakish lines suggested that even religion could keep up with
more free-spirited times. Its slender metal cross, unadorned, rose unobtrusively from an
unpretentious steeple.
“The sense of sin is the life-blood of religion. Without it, the whole structure would
collapse. That cross up there keeps the image planted in every believer’s mind. The son of a
god is throwing a life-preserver to us sinners mired in a world of evil. He goes through
suffering, self-denial and death. Sacrifice is still the only avenue to salvation. The only
good we can ever know is through a resurrection to another, perfect world. Has there ever
been a more counterproductive philosophy hatched in humanity’s fevered brain?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Shauna said wryly. “It hasn’t been counterproductive for clergy and
evangelists. Look at the employment it creates.”

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“Yes, although a better word might be ‘power’. Those who can save your soul from
eternal damnation and put you on the path to a blissful eternity can pull the strings of your
deepest responses and volitions. If they want you on your knees, they have the power to put
you there. Rational Man and Woman will never allow that. They’ll stand free and proud—
yes, I’m getting theatrical again. But there’s no reason why the rational mind can’t arrive at
its own enlightened ethical behavior.”
“You might not get everyone to agree with that. They’ll ask how you can establish a
proper ethic without divine directives. And how you can enforce it.”
“We use the best of human judgment—just as we’ve been doing for the last few million
years. Humanistic philosophies have already come up with good principles for ethical
behavior. Judging an act by its consequences, for one—something the divine directive
system rarely takes into account. We’ll hone our own wisdom. It’ll be a lot more productive
than opening the pages of some ancient book and pointing in abject submission to words that
are supposed to be true for all times and all circumstances. That’s a surrender of all our
faculties. We might as well close up shop and put our brains out to pasture.”
And yet I wondered just how long it would take to retire those books which had proven
so stubbornly enduring. Perhaps for evolution as much as for God, a day was as a thousand
years. In the end, it did not matter to either of them.
“It’s also dangerous.”
Shauna had spoken after only a brief pause, but my mind had wandered. “What is?”
“Dangerous to rely on the words of an ancient book. Who’s going to interpret them, or
ensure that they’re properly applied? Who’s going to decide if they still make sense?”
“Dangerous is right. One line in the Old Testament was the cause of hundreds of
thousands of women’s deaths in Europe from the 13th to the 18th centuries: ‘Thou shalt not
suffer a witch to live.’ It’s somewhere in Exodus. Then Jesus was supposed to have said,
‘Compel them to come in,’ as part of a parable about inviting people to be part of the
kingdom of God. The Dominicans took this as a proof-text justifying the Inquisition.
Between the two we have the medieval equivalent of the Holocaust. Such are the perils of
the mindless application of sacred writings.”
“What about that line the fundamentalists are always quoting against homosexuals?”
“Leviticus 18:22. It’s become a mantra. ‘Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as one lieth
with womankind; it is an abomination.’ ”
Shauna actually stopped. I couldn’t decide if she sounded offended, or was merely
exercising her ready wit. “If that’s the word of God, he must be speaking only to men. It
obviously can’t apply to women, or else he’d be forbidding heterosexual relations to the
female sex.” Then she added with an impish grin, “On the other hand, I suppose the
‘abomination’ could be a reference to men.”
I ignored her last bit of cheek. “The whole passage is directed toward men. It’s about
God’s requirements for holiness. I guess the recent attitude that women were not legally
persons and not capable of moral decision-making extended back to biblical times and even
into heaven itself.”
We resumed walking. Shauna said, “How convenient for the homophobes that God
expressed himself so bluntly on the matter.”
“Isn’t it? The trouble is, the same section of Leviticus also has other divine directives
which are not so convenient. Or so eagerly quoted.”

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“Such as?”
There’s one a couple of verses earlier: ‘You shall not have intercourse with a woman
during her period of menstruation.’ Why don’t the fundamentalists spend as much energy
championing this particular sexual proscription?”
“Why, indeed?”
“How often do you get paid at the lab?”
She looked at me curiously. “Every two weeks. Why?”
“Well, you should admonish your employer for contravening the law of God. A verse in
the next chapter of Leviticus says that ‘You should not keep back a hired man’s wages till
next morning.’ I don’t notice the bible addicts pushing for every-day paychecks.”
“The business community would blow a gasket.”
“And most of us break the law of God when we’re not running around naked.”
Shauna rolled her eyes as she looked sidelong at me. “All right, what’s that one about?
Or should I ask?”
I took my tongue out of my cheek to quote Leviticus 19:19: “ ‘You shall not put on a
garment woven with two kinds of material.’ ”
Shauna looked at me with open mouth. “Are you kidding? Is that what it says? I guess
we’ll have to go back to animal skins.”
“I suppose once the religious right gets into power and institutes their biblical law, they’ll
throw the likes of Calvin Klein and Yves St. Laurent in jail along with the gays and lesbians
for their ‘unnatural joinings’.”
“Or the makers of polyester. Now there’s an abomination!”
“It just shows you the folly of declaring any piece of writing true for all time, instead of
seeing it for what it is: something very human which reflects the realities and prejudices of
its period. But then, even those who declare the bible inerrant in every word are very
selective in their application of it. They also conveniently ignore the chief concern of
Leviticus: conducting ritual animal sacrifices to the Lord God, from pigeons to oxen. If God
can so clearly change his mind about—shall we say outgrow—his need for slaughtered flesh
and the odor of burnt offerings, might we not assume his capacity to become less
homophobic over the course of three millennia?”

From images of a crude stone altar to a Hebrew god, stinking with the burnt flesh and
smeared blood of countless millions of animals, a monstrous echo from a time of primitive
remoteness, our senses came up against an altar to a more modern deity, with its own assault
on the sensibilities. Just ahead lay the major thoroughfare dividing my piece of suburbia
from the city proper, a six lane boulevard of asphalt and concrete. Above it rose the din of
its fanatic creatures of scurrying metal, each carrying the fire and stench of sacrifice in its
own belly. Beyond it lay the highest god of modern living, the sprawling urban mall, and
many were the donations made to its priestly coffers. Of salvation, it offered its own diverse
kinds.
The mall itself followed the shape of a squat hexagon. In the broad open center lay the
amusement area where, from the theater lobby on the upper level, I had occasionally looked
out over children squealing on the elaborate network of slides. Was it only a coincidence

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that the mall god had arisen at that moment of the world’s conversion to secularism some
four decades earlier?
We trotted across the busy boulevard and started up the long pedestrian swatch which cut
its way through the parking lot, the outer court of the inner Temple. It suddenly occurred to
me to ask, “What should Rational Man and Rational Woman make of this monument to
consumerism?”
Shauna responded, “It’s places like this that drive people into survival cults in the
wilderness. I can almost sympathize.”
It was at that point I remembered the piece of paper in my shirt pocket. “Speaking of
cults—I forgot to tell you that David gave me another message from the Ascended Masters
that day at the university. I happen to have it on me. I should show it to you and see if you
have any impressions I may have missed.”
Beyond the foyer of the main entrance lay the stairway to the upper level theaters. Here,
current films and their starting times were advertised to catch the passerby’s notice. Since
Shauna had suggested a “sexy” movie, we picked the most promising of the three and found
that we faced a waiting time of 30 minutes. To fill the gap we sauntered over to the main
corridor and sat by a bubbling fountain in a silver ceramic pool. The sound of the water
spoke of sinister currents.
I took the piece of paper out of my pocket.
“ ‘Clue number two: Those who think themselves great men, and the rich and the strong,
shall call to the stones: Fall on us and hide us from the face of him who is seated on the
throne and from the wrath none can stand before.’ ”
Shauna shook her head sadly. “Why don’t they just get a life?”
“I suspect that a life is just what they’re searching for. It’s usually the disaffected who
start new movements. They’re already shut out from the mainstream establishment, either
by their social and economic position, or their innate instability. Even Christianity is
supposed to have begun as a religion of slaves and disenfranchised misfits—though that’s an
oversimplification. Paul moved in a fairly sophisticated circle of educated and intelligent
people. And yet there are certainly intimations of instability in his letters. Some think he
was a repressed homosexual. Non-practicing, of course. His faith was a way of dealing with
his inner conflicts, and he ended up discarding the Jewish Law, which prescribed the death
penalty for that kind of sexual orientation. He decided to rely on faith in Christ to give him
salvation.”
“So what’s bugging these Ascended Masters? Are they like the Waco group?”
“We have no way of telling. Koresh based his philosophy—and his own messiahship—
on Revelation as well. But then, most crackpot millenarians do. The Masters obviously
don’t like what the Age of Reason Foundation stands for. Whoever they are, they seem to
have found out early on about our anti-creationist intentions and Burton Patterson in
particular.”
“You mean through inside information?”
“That’s what David suspects. But until we can track down who and where they are, it’s
difficult to know what they’re intending—if anything. How does this latest message sound
to you?”
“Threatening.”

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“Yes, that’s my impression, though Revelation itself is one big psychotic threat. The
Masters changed the actual passage a little: from ‘great men’ to ‘those who think themselves
great men.’ And the original call is to ‘the mountains and the rocks’, not ‘stones’, which is a
different word in Greek. I’m not sure if there’s any significance in the change of word, but
almost all the translations I’ve seen use ‘rocks’; none uses ‘stones’. They’ve shortened the
quote itself, but not in any meaningful way that I can see.”
“What was the first clue like? I don’t remember it.”
“I’ve got it here, too.
“ ‘Clue number one: This is the revelation given by God to Jesus Christ. The hour of
fulfilment is near. Behold, every eye shall see him pierced, and all the peoples of the
world shall lament in remorse. So it shall be. Amen.’ ”
“That one sounds ominous, too.”
“David says he’s tempted to call the police about it. He thinks they’re definitely
threatening us.”
“Do you?”
“The references to ‘clues’ make it clear that they’re using the quotations to point to
something. I suspect if we get another one—and we probably will—David will alert the
authorities.”
“Maybe you should do it yourselves. Investigate, I mean. Can’t you find out where these
messages are coming from?”
“David’s working on it.”
Shauna was staring at the cascading water. “I would have thought Burton Patterson
would have connections for that. He seems to have ways of getting at anybody he wants.”
“I get the impression David isn’t too anxious to let Patterson in on this little irritant. But
you might have a good idea there.” Then her last comment sank in and I blurted, “What do
you mean? Has Patterson been in touch with you?”
Shauna looked up at me with an exaggerated expression of innocence. The light from the
fountain reflected its sparkle in her eye. “Who, me? Now why would some high and mighty
millionaire show an interest in someone like me?” She was playing off my involuntary
outburst of jealousy.
I gave her the answer she was looking for. “Because like all men, he couldn’t resist your
charm, wit and intelligence. Not to mention certain other attributes. And he’s just the sort
who would assume that you’d be swept away by his.”
“Hmm. Well, be that as it may, he called the other day just to extend an invitation that I
be at the hearing in Philadelphia. Apparently he’s planning some social occasion attached to
it and he wanted to be sure I would be there.”
I scowled. “And did he think I wouldn’t be inviting you myself? Anyway, that’s the first
I’ve heard of any ‘social occasion’. Are you sure he wasn’t referring to some candlelight
dinner for two?”
She thought for a moment. “Well, now that you mention it...”
She was teasing now, and with my hand trailing in the water beside us, I was sorely
tempted to perform a little retaliatory ablution.
“Don’t you dare.” I had forgotten she could read my mind. She leaned over to my ear.
“After we’ve seen this movie, we can go over to my place and you can get me as wet as you
want.”

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I pretended it might take some extra special recompense to make up for her dalliance—
even though most of that had been taking place in my own mind. I realized that my reaction
of jealousy was not because Shauna had ever given me reason to doubt our unofficial
commitment. It was the effect of Patterson himself. If the man could be so confident of the
intentions I was imputing to him, could even Shauna prove resistant? The attorney struck
me as one who had never given himself reason to doubt the success of any of his ventures or
expectations.

*****************************

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162

Chapter Twelve

My next meeting with David was coming up in less than a week’s time. After that, the
hearing in Philadelphia lay only three weeks away.
I needed to have the bulk of my Jesus research in the bag by then, at least in general
outline, so that I could approach my decision on whether to proceed with a novel. The
requirements of my position with the Age of Reason Foundation would become apparent
following the creationism hearing, and I could then see the scope of the work I would face
on all fronts. I had a feeling that life was about to become considerably more interesting—
and more demanding.
The siren call of the Gospels was beckoning, their creation of the figure of Jesus of
Nazareth who was to dominate Christian belief for 1900 years. What greater irony could be
found in all human experience than the likely conclusion that the most influential man in
history had in fact been a creation of the human mind?
Yet before I could cast my light on how this came about, I needed to draw out of the
shadows the figure of his predecessor, the spiritual Son who had existed and acted within
another creation of the human mind: the heavenly world that was perceived to lie beyond the
world of the senses, where the mythical activity of all gods and goddesses took place. As
Fisher had put it, the haunted dreams of the human brain had split the universe into many
parts, and at the same time had divided man from himself.
The other siren call which some part of me seemed to be hearing, and which the rest of
me, like Ulysses, had chained itself to resist, presented a dilemma. Could I solve the
obscurities and esoteric features of this end of my research without consulting Sylvia again?
That strange phone call the evening of the storm still unsettled me, not the least because it
had been so enigmatic. Somehow she was reaching out to me and I was resisting the urge to
respond. But what lay behind that mutual pull was still a mystery, and any overture toward
her again, even if made in the context of my research, could not fail to involve something
deeper. I did not sense—in myself, at least—that the motivation was a romantic one, though
the incident at her office certainly showed that sexual impulses could slip into the mix. I
was torn between understandable guilt in regard to my relationship with Shauna, and a
different feeling of guilt, as yet indefinable, if I persisted in shutting Sylvia out from
whatever she was seeking from me. That phone call was now some three weeks past. There
had been no further contact between us. Yet the whole affair, maddeningly unresolved, still
hovered over me and unsettled my insides. Sooner or later I was going to have to deal with
it.
For now, I would survey the current subject as best I could and take things from there.
It was back to the Muratorian Project for me. For the next two days I lived within its
teeming Topics Index, coming up for air to compare my findings with some of the more
obscure Jewish and Christian documents outside the New Testament which I had collected
from other sources. Another visit to the university Library—with no side trips to any
professorial offices—netted me an assortment of books on ancient philosophy and religion.
To some extent I was groping, if not in the dark, then in a twilight of inadequate
understanding, in my quest to lay bare the spiritual Christ of the earliest Christians.

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The layered universe my own culture had so recently inhabited had its roots in the ancient
conviction that reality was dispersed through layers of matter and spirit, of which the
material earth people walked on was only one tier, the basest one.
In the highest of those layers, one of pure spirit, dwelled the ultimate God: Plato’s
Absolute Being, the Jews’ God the Father, Philo’s One. Increasingly, he was being looked
upon as transcendent, unknowable, inaccessible. Below that lofty realm lay descending
layers of heaven, increasingly less pure. In some systems, there were seven of these spheres
in all, each governed by one of the heavenly bodies or planets, themselves regarded as divine
beings.
For the Jews especially, different ranks of angels dwelled in these spheres, and below
them, within the layer of air underneath the moon—called ‘the firmament’—lay the abode of
the demon spirits. This was the lowest level of the spiritual world, one which had more in
common with the world of matter it rested on than with God’s highest sphere. Satan was its
ruler. From his domain the demons harassed the earth itself and the men and women who
lived upon it.
Through these multiple layers of the spirit world, contact between earth and God was
impossible. Pure spirit could not touch base matter. To bridge the gap, a spiritual
intermediary, a subordinate divinity, was required.
That intermediary had taken many forms. It had been embodied in different concepts,
from the impersonal Logos, to personified Wisdom, to the idea of the Son. All of these
concepts had varying mythologies attached to them. For the earliest Christians, Christ the
Son was lord of the spiritual realm. By virtue of his death, he had placed all the forces
below the sphere of God, good and evil, under his rule and subjection. Such ideas were
expressed most clearly in Colossians and Ephesians.
In formulating my notes, I had been forced to generalize and dovetail different systems
and implications in the frustratingly sparse record of ancient world mythical thought. Some
Jewish documents suggested a more streamlined three-tiered universe; the strictly Platonic
systems reduced it to two overall divisions. The Gnostics, with their strange and elusive
blend of ideas Jewish and Hellenistic, had a riotously sectioned universe, with a multitude of
parts of the Godhead; and Gnosticism itself was split into countless sects, each with its own
twist on things.
Platonists envisioned a pronounced distinction between their upper and lower realities,
their worlds of spirit and flesh, while Jewish apocalyptic views saw things as more blended
and graded. Paul, in 2 Corinthians 12, could speak of being caught up in a vision and
revelation granted by the Lord ‘as far as the third heaven.’ But about his tiers of the spiritual
world and their nature he was not more specific.
Another important trend of thought lay in the idea that within the upper layers of heaven
resided spiritual equivalents of earthly things. These were heavenly counterparts to the
material manifestations below. Above lay Plato’s ideal forms. There too lay a heavenly
Jerusalem, a heavenly Temple; both figured in the Platonic-style comparisons found in the
Epistle to the Hebrews. War between human armies on earth was an extension of celestial
battles between ranks of Satan’s demons: so said the Ascension of Isaiah and others. The
demons had their own political organizations in their sub-lunar realm, just as governments
did on earth. All earthly ‘copies’ of higher realities enjoyed their existence and their
operation by virtue of their heavenly counterparts, which were primary and superior.

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Within this category of thought I had begun to form an impression which, as it turned out,
would be an essential element of my view of the earliest Jewish faith in a spiritual Christ.
For now, I simply called it the ‘paradigm’ feature.
One aspect of the overall relationship between heaven and earth was the idea that
heavenly figures, divine or angelic, could serve as counterparts to humans. Perhaps the
earliest version of this was the idea of the angelic champion. The archangel Michael was
regarded as the guiding angel of Israel, and some documents, such as the ‘Christian’
Shepherd of Hermas, even looked upon him as a savior figure. Each Christian community,
as shown by Revelation’s letters from Christ to the congregations of Asia Minor, had its own
angelic overseer, while evil nations had evil angels as their champions.
The most famous ‘paradigmatic’ champion in biblical literature was the ‘one like a son of
man’ in Daniel’s vision of the End-time. This figure, who in the writer’s mind may have
been an angel, represented the righteous elect of the Jews. When he received ‘sovereignty
and glory and kingly power’ from God, it symbolized that his earthly counterparts were
themselves destined to inherit this sovereignty and glory, and rule foreover over the nations
of the earth in God’s coming kingdom. Daniel’s ‘Son of Man’ would saturate much
sectarian thinking in the latter part of the first century, including the Gospels.
In one section of the apocalyptic document known as 1 Enoch, written by some Jewish
Enochian sect probably in the mid first century, the Messiah and Son of Man who waited in
heaven for the day of judgement was the champion and paradigm of his elect believers on
earth. Their righteousness was reflected in him, as the ultimate Righteous One. He himself
was also called the Elect One. His glory would be translated into their glory.
I was beginning to see that this sharing of characteristics and experiences between the
heavenly paradigm and his earthly counterparts was the key to understanding the earliest
conception of the spiritual Son as a savior figure. Similar to the language of the Greek
mysteries, the Christian believer assimilated him or herself to the divine figure of Christ.
Paul spoke of being united to Christ in his death and resurrection. What Christ himself had
experienced, his earthly counterparts had also known and would also achieve. Thus Christ,
in a mythical setting, had undergone humiliation, suffering and death, as the righteous Jews
had for centuries. But he had also been exalted to heaven, and this guaranteed that they too
would be exalted. The two counterparts moved in lockstep in a pattern of likeness.
As Paul put it in Romans 6:5: ‘For if we have become united with him in the likeness of
his death, certainly we shall be also in the likeness of his resurrection.’
As I had noted in conversation with Sylvia, such ideas had grown out of more ancient
views about a primordial past, found in primitive mythology around the world: that present
society, through rites and sacraments, tapped into and received the benefits from the gods’
original acts which had been performed during the sacred time at the beginning of things. In
the period of early Christianity such mythological views had assumed a more Platonic cast,
moving from a distant primordial past into God’s higher, timeless reality.
These philosophic principles were a fundamental expression of mystical religions in the
ancient world. Here was the common factor which linked Christianity with the mystery cults
and made the two systems branches of the same tree. While the former had its own
distinctive Jewish character, both were respective cultural expressions of a common and
widespread religious phenomenon of the age. For these ideas we had no counterpart today,
except in the surviving roots of Christian belief.

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By the third day, my mind was undergoing a swing between exhaustion and intoxication.
I fell into a pattern of catnaps followed by fresh plunges into my new esoteric world.
I needed to flesh out, so to speak, the actual mythical act which the spiritual Christ had
undergone as the heavenly paradigm of the cultic Christians. Somehow, at some time, he
had been crucified in the spiritual world, hung on its equivalent of a tree. Scripture had told
of this fact, with its perceived messianic references to piercing and nailing. In that mythical
realm he had been ‘of David’s seed’. Like the god Dionysos, he had been ‘born of woman’.
There was little doubt in my mind that this latter feature of the spiritual Christ, voiced by
Paul in Galatians 4:4, had been based on Isaiah 7:14, a verse which was to have an immense
effect on Christian doctrine. There it said that ‘a young woman—or virgin—is with child
and will bear a son...’ Isaiah had meant nothing more than that before this unspecified child,
one living in his own present, was to grow up, certain contemporary events would take
place. Everything lay entirely in his own historical period. Later interpreters, however, were
to turn Isaiah on his head and make him a prophet of the far future, presaging not only the
advent of the Messiah himself but his virgin birth. Before that, cultists like Paul would read
passages such as this and view them as a window onto the nature of the mythical Christ, one
who in some way could be a desendant of David and born under the Law. Hebrews, too, had
concluded from a reading of scripture that ‘out of Judah has sprung the Lord of us,’ though it
mentioned no woman. But then, every savior god and goddess of the day had its national
lineage.
The phrase in Galatians 4:4, that ‘God sent his son...’, might have been describing Jesus’
incarnation, and had always been taken as such. But a closer look showed that this was not
the case. Verse 6 specified that it was the ‘spirit’ of his Son which God had sent; and it was
God alone, not Jesus, whom Paul pointed to as the active agent in redeeming and making the
believer an ‘heir’. Thus, Jesus ‘born of woman, born under the Law’ could still be located in
a mythical context.
In fact, this idea of ‘sending’, or ‘coming’, was a common expression in the epistles. A
fresh analysis of the texts was suggesting that it meant only that the present was a time of
revelation of Christ by God, the Son’s spirit coming into the world.
I knew that one type of phrase above all needed explaining within the context of myth.
This phrase involved the word ‘flesh’. Paul and others frequently used the term kata sarka,
according to the flesh. But what exactly did these cryptic words mean?
I had encountered C.K.Barrett’s rendering of the phrases kata sarka and kata pneuma in
Romans 1 as ‘in the sphere of the flesh’ and ‘in the sphere of the spirit’. This at least gave
such terms something of a concrete image, though still uncertain. What they suggested was
a Platonic-type contrast between a lower, earthly world of matter and its environs, and the
higher world of pure spirit where God’s heaven was located. Jesus had operated in both
spheres.
En sarki, in flesh, was another of these stereotyped phrases. The hymn in 1 Timothy 3:16
declared Christ ‘manifested in flesh’ (and, incidentally, seen only by angels). 1 Peter told of
Christ being put to death ‘in flesh’. Colossians spoke of Christ’s death ‘in the body of his
flesh’, while a couple of passages in other epistles referred to the ‘blood’ of his sacrifice.

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The first premise I adopted for myself was that if Platonic philosophy said that the higher
world possessed ideal prototypes of earthly copies, and if the layered universe concept
prevalent in Jewish thought saw earthly things as possessing counterparts in the spirit layers
of heaven, then there should be no prohibition against seeing all these human-like features
given to Christ as elements of his nature as a heavenly being, in his role as a paradigmatic
counterpart. They did not have to refer to human and material elements of flesh, blood or
body. They did not require a life on earth.
With one qualification. Nothing resembling matter could exist in God’s highest abode,
the level of pure spirit. Neither could the experience of suffering and death take place in that
holiest realm, certainly not by a divinity. Thus the usage of such terms spoke of their
temporary nature. Christ the Son had assumed these features in order to perform his
redemptive acts. They were a deliberate putting on of the garments of spiritual flesh.
It also meant that the savior deity, whether Christ or the various mystery gods who had
performed their own redemptive acts, had to have descended to a lower sphere where such
things were possible. Where human-like features and the very human experience of
suffering could be taken on. This fitted the concept of the layered universe, which
descended through ever degenerating levels of the spirit world until one reached the demon
infested sub-lunar level just above the earth.
And in fact, this motif of descent ran riot throughout Jewish, Christian and pagan
writings. I came across it at every turn. The christological hymns were built on the descent-
ascent pattern. Pagan mythology contained echoes of a Descending-Ascending Redeemer.
The emperor Julian, writing in the 4th century, described Attis’ descent to the lowest spirit
level prior to matter. Jewish and Gnostic documents spoke of the Son descending through
the layers of heaven. All viewed this as a ‘humbling’ action on the part of the deity, an
obedience to the wishes of the highest God.
Other pieces of the puzzle fell into place. The writer of Hebrews, in 10:5, presented
verses from Psalm 40 (in the Septuagint wording) as the voice of Christ speaking:

‘At his coming into the world, Christ says this to God:
“Sacrifices and offerings thou hast not desired,
but thou hast prepared a body for me...
I have come, O God, to do thy will...” ’

The present tense of the writer’s verb—‘says’—pointed to his view that Christ resided in
the sacred writings, in the ‘timeless present of the scriptural record,’ as one scholar had put
it. This was not a reference to any historical past or moment of incarnation. The writer of
Hebrews gave us no such thing. For him, Christ lived and worked in the timeless present of
the mythical realm to which scripture, as in Psalm 40, provided a window. Within that
realm, so the Psalm revealed, Christ had ‘come into the world’ and taken on a ‘body’, for the
purpose of serving as a sacrifice which would supplant once and for all the traditional animal
sacrifices of the Temple cult. Such concepts, then, could exist within the spiritual realm.
The entire epistle focused on Christ’s sacrifice in heaven, and one verse, 8:4, all but spelled
it out that he had never been on earth.
Another puzzle piece was also a frequently recurring motif. Christ took on only the
‘likeness’ of a man. Not—the implication seemed to be—the full, actual nature of a human

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being. The hymn in Philippians, which most scholars regarded as earlier than Paul, spoke
quite emphatically and repetitively of this limited transformation:

‘...he emptied himself, taking the form of a slave,


becoming in the likeness of men,
in appearance being found as a man...’

Hebrews 2:14 had Christ sharing men’s blood and flesh in a manner ‘near to’ or ‘similar’
to theirs. I found an even more illuminating example of this, along with other illustrations of
the whole question, in the Ascension of Isaiah. Once again, its mythic tale told of Christ
descending for sacrifice to the lower spirit realms where forms and experiences were close to
those of earth itself, resembling the very nature of humanity’s own. This document was
destined to provide a host of key insights.
The final piece of the puzzle was the clincher. Still pursuing the word ‘flesh’, I looked up
sarx in the definitive Theological Dictionary of the New Testament. In this exhaustive essay
I learned that angels could take on the trappings of humanity, that the demonic spirit powers
belonged to the realm of sarx, of flesh. It thus appeared that any god descending from the
highest heaven to undergo suffering and sacrifice as a redeeming act on behalf of humanity,
to take on the spiritual equivalent of ‘flesh’ and shed his ‘blood’, need come no further than
those lower celestial spheres, to be crucified by the demon spirits who lived there and
controlled them.
Such blood and flesh were close enough to the real thing that Christ had genuinely
suffered. Such sacrificed blood was sufficient to provide the necessary salvific force for
God’s redemptive purposes. This, then, seemed to be the meaning of the term ‘flesh’ as
used by the earliest Christian writers. Such things had formed the great mystery unveiled to
Paul in God’s ‘revelation’ of the secret of Christ.
Crucifixion by the demon spirits. A preposterous idea? To the 20th century mind,
perhaps. From the point of view of ancient mythology, it would hardly have raised an
eyebrow. In any case, I realized, Paul himself had informed us that this was precisely what
had happened. From my earlier research, I knew most scholars accepted that this idea lay
behind Paul’s statement in 1 Corinthians 2:8, that the ‘rulers of this age’, the demon spirits
who lived in the firmament and governed the world’s present sorry fate, had unwittingly
‘crucified the Lord of glory.’ This was a deed which would lead to their own divinely
planned destruction. A swirl of debate and interpretation surrounded this passage. It was so
crucial to my conclusions that I knew I would have to investigate it in depth.
And that, I finally realized with my conscious mind, would necessitate a visit to Sylvia.
That, and the one passage I had located in the New Testament epistles which seemed to
contain a direct reference to the timeless moment, the time beyond time, when Christ’s
redeeming act had taken place. I needed a mind more adept at ancient Greek than my own to
confirm it.
The story of the self-sacrificing deity, God’s own son, who had descended from the upper
reaches of heaven to take on ‘flesh’ and be crucified in the world of myth, was complete and
fully integrated in the thinking of the earliest phase of Christianity. The story could be found
in the non-Gospel documents of the movement’s first century, alongside a universal void

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regarding anything to do with an historical Jesus. Some of it, I was to learn, lay in the
earliest roots of the Gospel of John. And its details had been garnered from scripture.
The whole atmosphere of the Christian story fitted the same conceptual world as that of
the mystery cults with their myths. The Greeks, too, could spin tales about their deities, born
in caves, slain by other divinities, sleeping and dining and speaking, and none of it was
regarded as taking place in history or on earth itself. In fact, the more sophisticated pagan
philosophers, such as Plutarch and the fourth century Sallustius, viewed the cultic myths as
allegories representing eternal cosmic processes in a timeless higher reality, not isolated
events, although I considered it doubtful that the average devotees of the mysteries could
view things quite so esoterically. Even to them, however, the bull dispatched by Mithras
was not historical; the blood it spilled which vitalized the earth was metaphysical and
mythical. No one ever searched the soil of Asia Minor hoping to unearth the genitals
severed from the Great Mother’s consort Attis.
To which, it suddenly struck me, one could find an exact parallel in Paul and first century
Christianity: the utter disinterest everyone showed in the places and relics of Jesus’ own
activities.

It was Wednesday morning, two days before my meeting with David and the others.
After a refreshing night’s sleep there seemed little point in putting off the inevitable. I called
the University and was connected to Sylvia’s office. The voice which came on the line was
a recorded one.
“I am not in the office for regular hours during the month of June. If you wish, you may
leave a message, or if the matter is urgent you may call me at home. My number is...”
I grabbed a pencil and jotted down the number. It seemed a little odd that a single
woman would so readily provide her home telephone number to anyone who might call her
office, but perhaps it was part of Sylvia’s quirky nature. On the other hand, it did occur to
me that after our last conversation over the phone, and knowing that she would be largely
unavailable at her office for some time, she might have indulged in this quirk for my own
benefit, in the off chance that I would try to contact her.
And just what kind of fantasy was I indulging in?
Now that the moment had arrived, I procrastinated. For the next few hours I busied
myself with straightening up the house. Since Shauna’s last visit on Saturday I had let the
mundane requirements of living slide, and the place was a bit of a mess. Dishes needed
washing and beds needed making, and it was amazing how all available spaces on the
horizontal plane could attract sundry filler materials. Then I needed to tidy up my own
planes.
It was late afternoon when I called Sylvia’s home number. I had no idea where her
residence was located, though the telephone exchange indicated somewhere in the opposite
end of the city. After two rings, she answered.
“This is Sylvia Lawrence.”
This rather direct way of answering the phone took me aback and I all but lost the poise I
had so carefully prepared. “Oh—yes, Sylvia, it’s you....This is Kevin Quinter. I hope I
haven’t caught you in the middle of preparing supper.”

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There was just the faintest catch in her voice. “No. No, I eat rather irregularly. Just
when I feel like it. It’s probably a bad habit, I guess. No, you haven’t disturbed me.”
“Are you still marking exam papers—grading essays on Thucydides, perhaps?”
The reference to our initial conversation at her office seemed to settle her. “Oh, those are
all done. There weren’t many original ideas on any of the ancient historians, much to my
disappointment.” Her laugh was a little nervous. “I’m sure you could outshine all of
them—my students, I mean.”
“Well, I’ve had years of practical experience, you know. And when you’re studying
history to make money, it’s a marvellous incentive.”
“I must read one of your novels. Perhaps this summer. Yes, I will definitely do that.”
“Actually, Sylvia, I would settle for a little more help on the one I’m working on now.
I’ve come up against a way of looking at Jesus which involves some ancient mythical ideas,
and I’m afraid my inadequate knowledge of things is a bit of a hindrance. I was wondering
if you might have a little time to give me some advice.”
“Oh, I’d be delighted.” She seemed genuinely thrilled. “I’m not very busy these days.
Would you like me to come over—or, I mean, perhaps you need to have your books and
things handy...” Her precipitate offer had flustered her.
It had also taken myself by surprise. There was no way I could feel comfortable having
Sylvia at my house, given Shauna’s recent penchant for unannounced visits. “Oh—no,
there’s nothing here I really need. Perhaps your own reference books would be more
helpful, in fact. We could meet at your office, if that’s convenient for you.”
There was a brief pause, and only later did I come to an assumption as to what mental
calculations might have been going on during it. When she spoke, Sylvia’s voice was quite
calm. “Oh, my office is so stuffy at this time of year. No air conditioning, you know. I have
very good reference books at home. Perhaps I could extend an invitation to visit me here. It
would be much more comfortable.”
“I suppose that would...sound nice—be nice. I don’t want to put you to any trouble.” I
had the feeling that, wisely or not, I had just cast some dice, only I couldn’t see what
numbers had come up.
“It won’t be any trouble at all. It’ll be exciting to be in on the creative process, watch a
new book taking shape.”
I laughed. “Well, it’s still in a germinal stage. I haven’t yet written a single word of this
book. But I must confess the research is proving rather stimulating. Lots of surprises.”
“Would you like to come tonight? I’m sure I’ll be hungry again by then and I could
prepare a nice snack.” Her voice was still calm and controlled. It was my own that was
sounding a little agitated.
“Oh, it doesn’t need to be that urgent.” On the other hand, there was no reason to delay
things. “But—I could, actually. What else is a Wednesday night for?” I had no idea what I
meant by that.
“Good.” I could hear the smile in her voice. “Will you be bringing Jesus with you?”
I was not sure how to interpret her note of humor. The remark was odd. “Oh, he’ll be
along for the ride, that’s for sure. I’m not certain if we’ll be able to get him to say anything.
In fact, if you can draw him out, it would be very helpful.”
“I’ll do my best. How about eight o’clock, then?” She gave me her address.

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Over the next three hours I showered, shaved, and spent some time deciding how to look
casual. I also seemed to spend a considerable amount of energy trying not to think about
what I might be getting myself into.
Sylvia’s place did indeed lie on the other side of the city, an older section than my own.
Her street was tree-lined, old enough to have a quaint air, but not quite old enough to be run
down. She lived on the upper floor of a duplex. The building had been handsome in its
heyday, though now it showed signs of age. She had her own side entrance.
She came down to the door to answer my ring. She, too, was casually dressed and her
manner was relaxed. I had brought two books along. She insisted on taking them from me
as we went up the stairs to her apartment.
She tapped on the top one. “I don’t have this myself. It’s pretty specialized.”
“The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha? It’s a Library copy. And that’s only volume two.”
“Your research is taking you into esoteric corners, I see.”
“No stone unturned, as they say.”
She showed me inside. Her apartment was spacious, heavy with adornments and much
furniture. Like her office, lines were strong and everything was colorful, but there was a
noticeable lack of unity to it all. I could see that no interior designer had been responsible
for this decor.
She set the books down on a long coffee table in the main room. It already bore several
books of her own, along with a few cups and plates and related paraphernalia, as yet empty.
Flanking the table on two sides stood a heavy two-piece chesterfield set arranged at a right
angle. It was rust colored and somewhat rumpled.
“I brought out a few books I thought you might need. Most of them I keep in one of the
bedrooms—really a study. That’s where I do most of my work for class. Can I get you
something to drink? I have some white wine.”
I hesitated. “Oh. Well, only half a glass. I don’t want to drug the old brain cells. Might
forget the difference between a genitive and an accusative.”
At rest, Sylvia’s face was not overly pretty. There were too many odd angles. But her
smile seemed to rearrange these, and the effect was definitely pleasing. It gave her a
brightness one wanted to get close to. She was wearing a light pullover sweater, suitable for
an early June evening and loose enough to soften the outlines of her body. With a roomy
knee-length skirt it made her look...comfortable.
“I’ll remember one and you can remember the other. Then we can put the two together.”
She disappeared into the kitchen and emerged a moment later with two glasses and a
wine bottle. I noticed that she had not taken the liberty of placing them on the table before
my arrival.
“What’s your preference,” she asked, as I took a glass and she poured until it was a little
more than half full, “genitives or accusatives?”
“Oh, dear. I’m afraid my mastery of Greek leaves a lot to be desired. It’s only recently I
took it up again after too many years away from it. Then again—” I gave my head a little
toss— “maybe not that many years.”
She filled her own glass to a higher level. “I envy the subtleties of an inflected language
like Greek. Give a noun a different case ending and you’ve got a slightly different meaning.
Or maybe a lot different. Then again, the preposition you use will have its own effect.”
I agreed that prepositions could certainly be intriguing.

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Sylvia moved around the table and sat herself on the long section of the couch, flanking
the wall. She curled one leg up underneath her. Despite the general awkwardness which
always seemed to accompany her, it was a sensual motion.
“Why don’t you sit down?”
Instead of making a gesture, the hand holding the glass brought it to her lips. I could
have followed her and sat on the same part of the couch, but I knew this would have seemed
too forward. I did the more natural thing and sat on the short section which jutted out into
one end of the room. This put me facing her at an angle.
I took a sip of the wine. It was a little too sweet for my taste. “I find it fascinating that
sometimes the whole interpretation of a passage can depend on what case or what tense is
being used. So many of the New Testament epistles are really quite informal pieces of
writing. Most of them are only letters, after all. Nobody thought of crafting these things for
the ages, let alone for holy scripture. Some sentences can even verge on the unintelligible.
Yet a whole doctrine may hinge on such a sentence.”
“Isn’t that what makes life interesting?”
It was my turn for an involuntary smile. Sylvia had hit a nail heavy with irony squarely
on its head. The entire contemporary witness to earliest Christianity lay in a handful of
posted letters, some dictated, no doubt, on the spur of the moment and with a lot left unsaid.
Those casual words had been studied, dissected, interpreted over the centuries, forced into
meanings they never had, enshrined as inspired messages from a deity. Now they were
coming under the scrutiny of more rational inquiry, and things like genitives and accusatives
were tipping 2000 year dogmas into the dust. Such ambiguities had more than made the life
of the last two millennia interesting, they had created its very fabric. Their fresh
understanding in the new atmosphere of the late 20th century was already promising to make
my own and many other lives equally interesting—in ways not all would welcome.
“Sylvia, you couldn’t be more right.”
But her comment had conveyed a certain naivete, and I wondered once again what
reaction she would have at the prospect of Jesus of Nazareth’s evaporation into the mists of
ancient mythology. I had debated on the way over whether I would reveal the full extent of
my conclusions to her, or simply work around them. I had no idea about this woman’s
background, although her involvement with the Age of Reason Foundation surely attested to
the present mind of a non-believer. But human sensibilities were a funny thing. I had
decided to play it safe. Besides, there was a personal consideration. I didn’t want to risk
giving her the initial impression that I was some kind of crackpot. If nothing else, I would
reveal my hand judiciously.
She looked at me in expectation. “So why don’t you tell me what advice you need. You
have me very intrigued.”
I took a deep breath. “OK. I see you have a Greek-English New Testament there all
waiting. Why don’t you open it to Paul’s letter, 2 Timothy. Actually, it’s not by Paul, just
some early second century writer pretending to be him.”
She set her wine glass down and reached for the book. “It’s been years since I had
occasion to read many of these things. Every once in a while I look up something in the
Gospels, just for my own interest.” She smiled at me a little self-consciously. “Not that I’m
still a believer, of course. That was a while ago. But I guess some of the things Jesus said
can still speak to people, whether they believe he was the Son of God or not.”

172

“Perhaps so,” I said noncommittally. “He could certainly be regarded as a great ethical
teacher. What sort of things did you have in mind?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Telling us to love one another was hardly original to him, I suppose.
But I think he was the first to say ‘turn the other cheek’, that sort of thing. Nobody had ever
laid such a great emphasis on forgiveness. That’s very important, wouldn’t you say?”
Sylvia’s voice had become softer and it gave her an air of vulnerability. She had brought
the book to a position in front of her on the table and was slowly turning the pages, as
though for the sensation of them between her fingers as much as searching out the passage I
had indicated.
“Uh, yes, I suppose it is,” I said in answer to her question. “Although perhaps that sort of
sentiment was in the air at the time. It was a renewal period, and quite religious. Jews
especially wanted to persuade God to come and change things—rescue them from their own
and the world’s miseries.”
“Jesus probably gave them a lot of hope that that would happen.” Her eyes, looking at
me directly, were moist and candid, almost child-like. Once again, I felt that strong pull
toward her, as I had at certain moments on our previous meetings.
“I’m sure he did.” I looked down at my glass, staring at the refraction of the light through
the wine. “I’m sure he still does. It may well be the secret of his longevity.”
She turned back to the book. “You said 2 Timothy, right? Here it is.”
“Why don’t you read chapter 1, verses 9 and 10? Preferably in English. Though you do
have a melodious way of reading Greek, as I recall.”
When Sylvia looked up and smiled I realized that any reference to our previous meeting
could have volatile consequences. “Well, perhaps later,” she murmured, and turned to
search out the bidden passage. “Here we are. It’s in the middle of a sentence...
‘...God, the one who saved us and called us with a holy calling...not by virtue of our
deeds but according to his own purpose and grace...which was given to us in Christ
Jesus before the beginning of time...but now has been revealed through the appearance
of our Savior Christ Jesus...who has abolished death and brought life and immortality
to light through the gospel...’ ”
She glanced over to the Greek side of the page. “Yes, it’s one of those long-winded
sentences Greek is famous for. And that’s only part of it! I don’t think I’ve ever looked
closely at this one.”
“I’m sure few Christians have. At best it has a pretty obscure way of putting things. But
maybe you can tell me if I’m reading it right.”
I leaned forward to point to certain phrases in the text and to see them more clearly. Such
a passage couldn’t be and hadn’t been committed to memory. I suddenly realized that this
arrangement wouldn’t work. I would have to move over beside her. For one awkward
moment we both came to the same conclusion, though neither of us said anything. With as
much aplomb as I could muster, I stood up and skirted the corner of the table. Sylvia shifted
to one side to make room for me—just. When I sat down, my shoulder was all but grazing
her own.
“Now here,” I said, pointing, “it seems to say that it’s God who does the saving. I
thought that was an odd way of putting it, rather than saying more directly that Jesus himself
saved us. Grammatically, that’s correct, isn’t it? Sometimes translators have a habit of
reading their own ideas into things.”

173

She looked at the Greek. “Yes, the genitive participle ‘having saved’ modifies God.”
“Now, as I see it, both those phrases, the one about something given to us in Christ Jesus
before the beginning of time, and the next one, about something revealed through the
appearance of the Savior: they both refer back to the word ‘grace’, the grace of God.”
“That’s right.”
“So wouldn’t you say that those two phrases refer to two different things at two different
times? God’s grace was given ‘before the beginning of time’, whatever that means, and in
the present time that grace has been revealed.” I was choosing my words carefully. “It’s
almost as though he’s saying that Jesus’ act, which gave us God’s grace, or made it possible,
was performed at this ‘beginning of time’ location, and then today—there’s a very definite
‘now’ in there—is the moment when we all learn about it. The grace gets revealed, or comes
into effect.”
Sylvia looked intently from one text to the other. “Yes...technically speaking. But you
see, here it says that it gets revealed ‘through the appearance of our savior.’ Like Jesus
himself is revealing it.”
“But that’s still an odd way of putting things. Why say that the grace was given to us
before Jesus appeared on earth to reveal it? It seems to put Jesus’ act before his appearance.
I mean, why wouldn’t he have said that God’s grace was given when Jesus appeared on earth
and got crucified? Something like that.”
When she didn’t respond, I added, “And also—this word ‘appearance’. It’s epiphaneia,
as I recall.”
“Very good.” Then she gave me a little nudge with her shoulder. “You just looked.”
“No, I didn’t, honestly. I looked it up very carefully yesterday. Strictly speaking, doesn’t
that word—in the verb form—mean ‘to show or reveal oneself’, in the sense of giving
evidence of your presence? When it’s used of a god it simply means he manifested the fact
that he was there. I read that the Greeks used this word about their gods when speaking of
religious experiences in the cults, or visions in the temples. It hardly meant physical
incarnation in those circumstances.”
“No, of course not.”
“So really, that phrase is using two ‘revelation’ words, phaneroo and epiphaneia. It’s
really saying, ‘God’s grace has now been revealed through the revelation of the Savior,
Christ Jesus.’ Through Jesus revealing himself...or perhaps God revealing Jesus.”
She looked again. “Technically, perhaps. But that’s hardly the meaning, surely.”
“Well, it’s certainly a curious way of putting things, I agree. But look what he says right
after. ‘...the Savior...who has abolished death and brought life and immortality to light
through the gospel.’ That’s also very odd. I mean, you’d think he’d say that Jesus abolished
death through his own death and resurrection. Instead Jesus does it ‘through the gospel’, as
though it’s the preaching of the gospel that has provided these things in the present time, not
Jesus’ redeeming acts themselves. In fact, he says these things were ‘brought to light’,
another revelation word, as though they’d been hidden or unknown for some time. Jesus in
the present seems to be linked only with the gospel being preached about him, not with his
actual sacrifice.”
“Maybe he’s talking about Jesus’ own gospel, the one he preached about himself. Telling
people about the meaning of his death. Didn’t Jesus say ‘I am the resurrection and the life?’

174

“I don’t know if he did. But that can’t be what it means here, because in the very next
verse the writer identifies this ‘gospel’ as the one ‘I was appointed to herald and preach,’
meaning Paul, since he’s pretending to be Paul.”
Sylvia’s finger fussed for a few seconds over the English passage, then the Greek. She
gave a little gesture of resignation. “Well, I guess that’s what the words say, strictly
speaking. I just noticed, too, that the business of abolishing death and bringing things to
light could even be referring back to God, not Jesus. These two genitive participles parallel
the earlier one. It’s a ways back, though that’s not too unusual in Greek.”
I peered at the text. “Yes, I hadn’t noticed that.” Such an interpretation would fit the
habit all these writers had of focusing on God as the agent of everything that happened,
especially salvation. “So Jesus wouldn’t be seen as doing anything in the present time
except get revealed.”
“Maybe this writer was just being convoluted.”
“Maybe so.”
I took a breath, then another. The pressure of being circumspect about my analysis of the
epistle was proving taxing, to which was added the effect of Sylvia’s physical presence so
near beside me. There was no doubt that she herself was being stimulated by the close
contact, and her inner feelings were being communicated to me in their own subtle ways. I
had to push on.
“But the phrase I really wanted to ask your advice on was that ‘before the beginning of
time’. That’s when God’s grace was given, somehow through Jesus. ‘In Christ Jesus’ is a
kind of technical phrase meaning ‘by means of him’, or ‘through him’, I gather. So he
would seem to be saying that whatever Jesus did, he did it ‘before the beginning of time’.”
Carefully or otherwise, I was having difficulty not presenting things in an explicit
fashion.
Sylvia read from the Greek. “ ‘Pro chronon aionion.’ ‘Before times eternal’, literally.
That’s obscure, I must say.”
“Well, all the commentators I consulted seem to agree that no one is sure just what that
phrase means. Almost every translation puts it a little differently.”
“I’m not surprised. But the ancients’ idea of ‘eternal’ was not as developed as our own.
They didn’t really have the concept of infinity as we know it. So I would say that chronon
aionion simply implies all possible recorded time, since the world began.”
“Yes, I’ve seen that interpretation. So if we stick ‘pro’ in front of it—”
“It would mean ‘before’ all this time.”
“Or perhaps beyond it? Or ‘outside’ it? Would a Platonist put it that way, if he wanted
to refer to a higher reality? Where time was eternal. Like in the realm of God?”
Sylvia let her breath out and looked at me sideways. “I’d need some time to investigate
that one, Kevin.” She gave me another playful nudge. “But not eternal time.”
My roll of the dice was becoming more clear. Too clear, in fact. Sylvia beside me was a
presence I could no longer shut out. Her warmth and her odors had begun to provoke my
senses, and the sweater was more than suggesting its own revelations, for she had a habit of
tugging it down into her lap as she talked—no doubt unconsciously.
“Oh, I don’t want to put you to a lot of work. I just needed a general opinion, and you’ve
given me that.”

175

“Actually, I seem to recall that aionios tended to be used to describe God’s eternal
realities, which are different from those of normal time. But you know, this was hardly an
age when technical ideas were well organized and there were universally accepted ways of
defining them. A lot would be left up to the individual writer or school. If a famous
philosopher put it one way, he’d usually be copied. Otherwise, you did the best you could.”
“Well, that gives me something to go on.”
Sylvia looked as though she were about to say something, then changed her mind. “I’m
getting hungry. Did you have supper yourself? I hope you saved room for a little bite. I
have some cheese and cold cuts.”
I gave my stomach a check and pronounced it in agreement, since I had eaten only lightly
through the day. Sylvia rose and within moments had two large plates before us, an
assortment of crackers bearing pieces of deli meats and wedges of cheese, obviously
prepared beforehand. I attacked them as conservatively as possible. The message to keep
myself in check, at least on the surface, was imposing itself on all my appetites.
“And please have some more wine, if you want,” she urged, as she returned to her place
beside me. “Or have you lost track of your genitives yet?” Even though she was reaching
for a sliver of corned beef on a cracker, I could detect the sparkle in the side of her eye.
“Not at all,” I said with a straight face. “We’ve just dealt with two of them quite
efficiently.” This woman was an intriguing mixture of innocence and seductiveness, as
though two identities co-existed in the same body. They seemed to shift from one to the
other at their own will. One moment she could be playful and enticing, the next moment
reserved and thoughtful. Both, I had to admit, I found extremely engaging.
“Yes, we did, didn’t we? But—” The thoughtful self asked, “What do you think this
phrase signifies, pro chronon aionion? What do you think he was talking about?”
“Well....Sometimes it’s difficult to know what any writer has in mind in this field. But it
seems to me that the verb ‘was given’ implies something rather definite which took place
through Jesus at that point outside time or before its beginning. I mean, he could have used
‘was promised’ or something similar if he had only meant that God had a plan in mind. In
fact, the idea of God’s promises was a common one, though they’re usually associated with
Abraham in history, not before the creation of the world.”
I decided to risk a little more. “I’ve found that this kind of idea runs all through the early
Christian documents. The epistle writers like to present things as though Jesus’ death took
place in some spiritual realm. Almost like the mythical setting of the savior god stories.”
She paused between mouthfuls. “Why would they do that?”
“That’s a good question. The other thing is that, except for one interpolation, they never
talk about Pilate, or the Romans, or the Jews, as being responsible for Jesus’ death.”
She looked puzzled, almost worried. “Who was, then?”
I gestured to the book in front of us. “Why don’t you look up 1 Corinthians 2:8? Perhaps
you can tell me.”
She pushed the rest of the cracker into her mouth and brought the book onto her lap. In a
moment we had Paul’s defence of Christian wisdom to the Corinthians before us. I took
another cracker of my own and pointed. “Start at verse 7.”
Sylvia read: “ ‘We speak of God’s secret wisdom, a wisdom hidden and predestined
before the ages for our glory. None of the rulers of this age has known it, for if they had,
they would not have crucified the Lord of glory.’ ”

176

“What does the Greek have for ‘the rulers of this age’?”
“ ‘Ton archonton tou aionos toutou’.”
“What would you say the ‘archons’ is a reference to in this context? Keeping in mind the
term ‘this age’.”
“Well, the word can mean the rulers in power, kings and governors, let’s say. Aionos is
kind of broad, the present age of the world. Like our word ‘epoch’, pretty long. Actually, in
an apocalyptic type context it would usually refer to all recorded history, since the next ‘age’
is the one after the Parousia, when God’s kingdom is established.”
“And in that context, the religious one, who are the ‘rulers of this age’, generally
speaking?”
She pursed her mouth. “I see what you mean. They’re usually thought of as the demon
spirits. They were supposed to control the world and be responsible for all the evil in it.
Their power would be destroyed at the end of the present age.”
“And doesn’t the usual way of referring to these spirits use words like ‘rulers’ and
‘powers and authorities’? Ephesians talks about them in a couple of places quite clearly,
with the same language as Paul uses in 1 Corinthians. Origen assumed that Paul was talking
about evil spiritual beings, and so did the Gnostic Marcion. Ignatius used ‘archon’ in an
angelic sense.”
“Maybe Paul was being metaphorical. He could be thinking of the spirits that were
supposed to lie behind the earthly rulers. That was a current idea.”
“But is he? Since he never refers to any human agency in Jesus’ death, how can we tell?
Most commentators I’ve seen admit that Paul is referring here to the demon spirits who
inhabit the celestial spheres. Ephesians takes direct aim at them. ‘Our fight is not against
human foes, but cosmic powers.’ No metaphors there. And when we get to the Gospels and
rulers like Pilate, any heavenly dimension supposedly lying behind them completely
disappears.”
Sylvia reached for another cracker, though she attacked this one with a little less gusto, it
seemed. “Paul must know about Pilate even if he doesn’t mention him.”
“Does he? Look at Colossians—if that’s by Paul.” This passage, 2:15, I could recite
from memory. “ ‘On the cross he discarded the cosmic powers and authorities like a
garment; he made a public spectacle of them and led them as captives in his triumphal
procession.’ That hardly sounds like a scene on Calvary. To hear the New Testament
epistles describe it, Jesus’ crucifixion didn’t even take place on earth. Only in some kind of
spiritual sphere at the hands of demon spirits.”
Sylvia’s thoughtful side seemed to take a further step toward despondency. “That
wouldn’t do, would it? I mean, if Jesus didn’t die on the cross, it wouldn’t be the same
thing. Who would do the forgiving? Jesus died to forgive sins, didn’t he?” She caught
herself. “I know that’s not really the case—in reality. But that’s what people believe.
That’s what they need.” Her voice was almost plaintive.
She was looking down at the open book in her lap, at the words of Paul lying on pages
hallowed by time and devotion, as though they now bore the faint odor of betrayal. I
watched her intently. Laying a hand on her arm, I asked quietly, “Is that important to you,
Sylvia?”
“No, of course not. I mean, not personally. I can just sympathize with those who think
that way.”

177

She looked at my hand touching her arm. I was afraid to withdraw it, and she placed her
other hand on mine. “Perhaps you should be careful about what you write, Kevin.” She
looked up again at my eyes, and her own were surprisingly emotional. “I’m not sure what
you have in mind, but people can be hurt.”
“I’m just trying to uncover the truth, Sylvia. And make an entertaining story out of it.”
With my last words I tried to lighten the somber cloud that seemed to be hanging over us.
The effect was successful, but in an unintended direction. Sylvia gave me a sideways
flirtatious smile and began to stroke the back of my hand. “There are other forms of
entertainment besides writing novels.”
I did my best not to react. “Yes, I’m familiar with them.” She had shifted from one
identity to the other again, from sad innocent to coy seductress, almost without blinking. I
had no idea what I was going to do—or wanted to do. At the moment, my own opposing
identities were struggling for supremacy. “But I didn’t come over to take advantage of you.”
She bristled just slightly at this, though her hand continued to move on mine. “I’m in
control of myself, Kevin. I’m not going to accuse you of anything. I’m not a child
anymore.”
All this struck me as something of a non sequitur, but my main preoccupation at the
moment was with the vivid awareness that the person beside me craving some form of
intimacy was anything but a child. She had crossed her leg and rolled her hips a little
sideways toward me, so that the book slid off her lap and wedged between us. I had the
image of it serving as a shield to prevent an even more intimate contact. Her body beneath
sweater and skirt seemed warm and full. It cried out to me.
What answer would I give? I needed a reprieve.
“If you’re not a child, Sylvia, you shouldn’t be hurt by the ideas I have in mind. Adults
have to put away the things of the child when the time comes, isn’t that what they say?”
She looked at me blankly, not connecting my meaning to her own recent words. I took
the opportunity to unobtrusively remove my hand from her arm, which took it away from her
own. “You said people could be hurt. What about you, Sylvia? Would you be hurt if you
had to face the possibility that the story of Jesus is just a myth? That there never was any
such man?”
She stared at me in a kind of horrified wonder, sitting straight upright. “Is that what you
think? That’s—impossible.”
“The evidence seems overwhelming.”
“Why—because Paul talks about Jesus being crucified by demons?” There was no scorn
in her voice, but the note of pained incredulity came through clearly.
“Oh, there’s much more than that.” But this was not the time to lay out a list of cold,
technical arguments. Somehow I was going to have to deal primarily with whatever
emotional reasons underlay Sylvia’s distressed reaction to the idea.
“You know ancient myth better than most, Sylvia. All about savior gods and layered
universes. Why should it come as a surprise that Christianity could have started with a
spiritual savior of its own? A Jewish version.” Perhaps I could impress her with one
striking piece of evidence, one I had planned to discuss with her. “Here, look at this.”
I reached for one of the books I had brought, the one she had remarked on. “Do you
know a document called The Ascension of Isaiah?”
“No.” She had turned calm, at least outwardly.

178

“It comes from around the end of the first century. It’s composite: later Christian parts
added to earlier Jewish parts. The second half of the document tells about Isaiah being lifted
up to heaven and receiving a vision about the redeeming Son of God—what he is going to
do. The trouble is, part of this vision was written by Christians before they knew of any
historical Jesus. They have Isaiah foreseeing the salvation of a righteous elect as a
consequence of the Son who will descend into a lower realm, be killed and rise again. He
doesn’t atone for sin, so it’s just a guarantee of exaltation thing. That’s a more primitive
outlook than Paul’s, even though it was probably written later.” I didn’t take the time to
explain that to her.
“Now listen to how an angel describes this future descent by the Son into the lower
world. There are seven heavens, by the way, plus a firmament between the earth and the first
heaven. This is where Satan and his demon angels live. They fight among themselves, just
as nations do on earth. Above that, the seven layers of heaven contain different ranks of
angels until one reaches God at the top. But I’m sure you’re familiar with that kind of
thinking.” She made no motion.
“In the seventh heaven Isaiah is given a vision of the Son’s journey down and what will
happen to him. In the course of this descent, he is going to be transformed—” I read from
chapter 8, verse 12— “ ‘until he resembles your appearance and your likeness.’ Note that
this is only a likeness to humanity; not, it would seem, an actual man. Keep that in mind.
That’s a common motif in the earlier writings.”
Sylvia sat quietly beside me, but alert. Her hands were in her lap. I had the book open so
that she could see it, but I could tell she was making no real offort to read the words on the
page.
“Now, here in chapter 9 is the vision of the descent:
‘The Lord will descend into the world in the last days, he who is to be called Christ after
he has descended and become like you, and they will think that he is flesh and a man.
And the god of that world will stretch out his hand against the Son, and they will lay their
hands upon him and hang him upon a tree, not knowing who he is. And thus his descent,
as you will see, will be concealed from the heavens, so that it will not be known who he
is. And when he has plundered the angel of death, he will rise on the third day and will
remain in the world for 545 days. And then many of the righteous will ascend with him.’
Can you see anything in here which even hints at a familiarity with the Gospel story? And if
Christ is only thought to be flesh and a man, surely that implies that he isn’t. When he gets
down to the lowest level, who crucifies him? It’s ‘the god of that world’, meaning Satan, the
one who rules the firmament. He and his forces ‘lay their hands upon him and hang him on
a tree.’ They’re the ones who don’t know who he is, because he changes his appearance as
he descends through each level of heaven until he resembles humans. Then after he’s dealt
with Satan he rises, waits 545 days and finally brings up the righteous dead with him.
Where’s the life of Jesus? Where’s his ministry, his teachings? Where’s the trial and
crucifixion by Pilate? Who would compose a vision of Christ’s incarnation and simply
ignore all this?”
Sylvia treated the question as rhetorical and said nothing.
“I’m sure you can see the parallel to Paul’s 1 Corinthians reference about the rulers of
this age crucifying the Lord of glory.”
This time she spoke in a small tight voice, “I suppose so.”

179

I glanced down at the book again. “A little later, God gives directions to the Son about
what he is supposed to do in the lower world, and it’s all about judging and conquering the
demon spirits and the gods of death and raising the righteous dead from Shoel, the Jewish
Hades. Salvation for the elect. That’s the extent of the mission God sets for him. He
doesn’t have a word to say about the life described by the Gospels.”
“So there’s no forgiveness of sin, you say.” There was a certain sadness in her voice.
“Who would want to bother with a Christ like that?”
“It’s all about paradigms, which I won’t go into. But there’s something else in this
document that should interest you.” I gave her a little smile as though trying to cheer her up.
“As an historian. Seeing how ideas evolve. It’s quite fascinating.” I still didn’t know what I
was dealing with here, why Sylvia Lawrence, non-believer, member of the Age of Reason
Foundation, should be so disconsolate at the evaporation of a living—and forgiving—Jesus
of Nazareth.
“At a later stage of this document someone has inserted a crude account of a life on earth,
the bare bones of a Gospel story; most of it’s a Nativity scene quite unlike Matthew or Luke.
It has to be later because out of three classes of surviving manuscripts, only one contains this
passage, and it doesn’t make sense that the others would cut it out. Besides, it’s an obvious
insertion; you can see the seams clearly.” I flipped to chapter 11, verses 2 to 22.
“Jesus is born in Mary and Joseph’s home in Bethlehem, to everyone’s surprise. Then he
grows up to perform great signs and miracles in the land of Israel. He gets crucified by ‘the
ruler’—whoever he is; there’s no mention of Pilate—descends to Shoel, then rises from the
dead. There’s little pieces that seem tacked on, indicating that even this section was
progressively doctored. Right in this one document we can see the evolution from a spiritual
Christ operating in a supernatural setting, involved only with angels and demon spirits, to a
physical Christ living a life in an earthly setting among humans. No reference yet to
teachings, though. And no sacrifice for the forgiveness of sins.”
Sylvia was looking at the book, but she was not seeing the words. “Perhaps the solution
is: don’t commit sins,” she said neutrally. “Especially if there’s no one to forgive them.”
She looked up with sad, artless eyes. I sensed in their quivering depths that something in her
wanted desperately to come out. Perhaps if I probed carefully—
“I think we’re not as sinful as some people would like us to believe. Certainly not
enough to have a god come to earth to be tortured and murdered for us. What could we
possibly do to require such a thing for our forgiveness?”
She looked down again, at her hands resting in her lap. She began to pull on the tip of
one thumb. “You might be surprised. Some things can’t be forgiven by anything less.
Now, if you’re right, we don’t even have that.”
“I should think almost anything could be forgiven. If one was repentant enough. And
stopped doing whatever it was.”
I closed the book and set it back on the table. The room was becoming dimmer, as
twilight descended outside. Only a single lamp at the far end of the couch cast a soft light
over the room.
“But suppose you did something over and over again. Even though you tried not to.
Even though you knew you were hurting someone.”

180

Sylvia’s voice was getting smaller, more distant. The silence around us suddenly became
a presence in the twilight. As though the gods of forgiveness were indeed listening. Or were
they accusing?
I turned toward her solicitously, but I did not touch her. “Sylvia, that’s the kind of
thinking that religion instils. First they make you feel weak, helpless, an innate sinner.
Their catalogue of sins is so great and encompasses so much which is only natural human
expression that you can’t help but feel you’re unredeemable, an habitual sinner who can
never break their pattern of evil.”
Her eyes remained downcast. “You don’t know,” she murmured.
“I do know. I know that if you listen to them, you’ll always need them. You always have
to keep running to them, putting your life, and your soul, in their hands. The irony is, they’re
the ones who need. They need you. You’re the source of their power.”
“Who?”
“Priests, of course. Priests and prophets of gods from time immemorial. It’s their
greatest weapon, their only hold over you—sin and guilt. And fear of divine punishment
only they can avert....Sylvia? What is it?”
She had looked up at me at the mention of priests. Her eyes had quickly become glazed,
staring.
“That’s not true. He was a good man. And I ruined him.”
Something in Sylvia was hanging by a thread. I did not know whether to try to support it
or snap it. I waited a few seconds, long heavy seconds while she continued to stare, almost
unseeing.
Considering that I had never had children, I was surprised that I could sound so paternal.
“Sylvia, what could you possibly do that would ruin a man? A priest—” The deduction had
been inevitable.
The transformation was startling. Or it would have been, if surprise hadn’t been
submerged in a welter of other reactions at what Sylvia did next. Her eyes lost their stare
and softened. A curtain of sultriness descended over her face, now flushed and glowing.
Her voice was all hushed sensuality.
“I’ll show you.”
She moved as lithely as a cat, for all her height and fullness. In one motion she managed
to straddle my lap and push me back against the couch, while at the same time lifting her
skirt above her hips. Involuntarily I turned my head aside, and her mouth came in contact
with my ear.
“I know you want me, Kevin. I know you can’t help yourself.”
“Sylvia— I don’t think—”
Her body from groin to chest began to move against me. After a moment she relaxed the
pressure and tugged the sweater up until it cleared her breasts. By that time, it was clear to
me that her outer clothing was all she was wearing. Her seduction, or the fantasy of it, had
been premeditated.
“Sylvia,” I blurted, “I don’t think this is a good idea.” My body thought otherwise, but I
felt sure she was expressing something which came from beyond our immediate situation.
My head was still turned, and she was kissing me on the cheek. “I know you can’t help
yourself, Kevin,” she said again. “I tried not to tempt you, I tried to hide myself. It’s not
your fault. It’s mine.”

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So many of the things she was saying tonight seemed to involve inherent contradictions.
As though wires between reality and perception—or was it memory?—were being crossed.
I could not hold my head to the side much longer, and not only for reasons of discomfort.
I turned forward and let her find my mouth. She kissed me with a hungry passion, making
little sounds which seemed halfway between arousal and despair. My hands of their own
volition began to wander over her back, the sides of her breasts. They wanted to move
down, craving heat and moisture. I knew if this continued much longer, I would be lost.
“Sylvia...you are a beautiful woman...more beautiful than you realize.” I had to turn my
head again. “But we can’t make love. Sometimes things aren’t right.”
Her pelvis was moving in brazen rhythm against me. I knew she could feel my body’s
response. “It’s all right, Kevin. You’ll see. Take what you want. We can always be
forgiven.”
My mind forced itself to take control, to think. “Is that what he told you? Sylvia, is that
what the priest told you?”
Her agitation changed quality. The quickness of her breath took on a hint of panic, of
sobbing. Against my ear she began to reiterate in a hoarse whisper, “I will never be
forgiven...I will never be forgiven...” The cadence fell into rhythm with her body’s wanton
motions. I was beginning to feel her wetness.
I turned and took her head between my hands, holding her face near mine. I spoke
sharply. “Sylvia, what have you done that needs forgiving?”
She stopped her movements and looked at me. She began to sob. “I ruined his life. I
ruined his career. They had to send him away. First he said that Jesus would forgive me.
Then he said that I would never be forgiven if I told them.”
“Forgive you for what? For telling them what?” I could detect a wetness on her cheeks.
Her eyes in the soft shadows were flushed, frightened, grieving.
“For seducing him. Over and over. Every time I went to ask for forgiveness from Jesus,
I did it again. Even if I didn’t intend to.”
I moved my hands down to her shoulders.
“What do you mean? Are you saying you lost control of yourself?” I added silently: like
now? She placed her hands against my chest. There was confusion in her eyes, and she
sniffled. “No, not exactly. It’s just that I was too—sexual. I made him want me too much.
He couldn’t help himself. It was my fault.”
I looked at her carefully. I would let each layer peel off as it came.
“What exactly did you do?”
She misunderstood me. “We had intercourse. Or, I put my mouth on him. First it was in
the church basement, next to the meeting room. Then in the rectory. Once it was in the
bathroom off the sacristy. I—he lifted my skirt and I sat on him...like this.”
It crossed my mind that I should lower her sweater, but her arms were in the way.
I tried to speak reassuringly. “Sylvia, why should it have been all your fault? Adults are
responsible for themselves. He just as much as you. He knew he was breaking his vows.”
Her breath was becoming shallower. Short gasps followed by longer pauses. From
passion and agitation, her face took on a hollow anguish. “I made him break his vows so
many times. He said Jesus would forgive us, but I know he was hurting. And it destroyed
him when they found out.” She lifted a hand to brush at her cheek. “It was such a disgrace.
Especially with—someone like me.”

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Her face was close. I brushed at her hair, the wetness of her cheek. “What do you mean?
Were you married, or something?”
Her eyes widened in a kind of child-like surprise. Her glance skitted off mine. “Oh, no.”
It was a small sound.
I looked at her intently, and a cold tingle began to spread down my back.
“Sylvia?” I cupped my hand against her chin and gently turned her face until she was
looking at me again. I asked her quietly, “Sylvia—how old were you?”
The gods were listening, too. But they already knew the answer.
She stared at the end of my nose, eyes red in a face that had lost all expression.
“Eleven and twelve.”
For a long moment I couldn’t breathe. I watched a tear reach the edge of her lip. I
wanted to kiss it away. But would I be kissing the adult or the child? I wiped it with my
finger.
“Sylvia. He was using you. You were only a little girl.”
Her voice was heavy with emotion, but at the same time there was a note of release. The
words eased their way past the broken dam. “I was overdeveloped for my age. I was—
feeling things.”
“Every child does. That was no excuse. He not only used you, he made you feel
responsible. He raped your body and your mind.”
A little of the agitation returned. “He said he couldn’t help himself. That I was giving
off seductive messages because I had a sinful, lascivious streak in me.”
I stroked the sides of her face, pushing back the wayward strands of hair. I made a further
deduction. “And he told you that Jesus could forgive you—but only through him.”
The little gasps had stopped. She was breathing more deeply and evenly. “Yes. I was
not to go to confession to anyone but him. Because he could intercede with Jesus better than
anyone else.” The tear-matted cheeks seemed to sag. “Sometimes after confession he would
take me downstairs and we would—do it again. We always prayed for forgiveness
afterwards.”
I pulled her to me and nestled her head against the side of my neck. “How did it end?
How was he found out?”
“A woman from the parish came in on us one day. He went into a panic. He started
screaming at me and accusing me.”
I placed my hands lightly on her back. The skin was sticky and cool. “It wasn’t your
fault, Sylvia. He was in a position of trust. He was the adult and you were the child. Surely
they didn’t put any blame on you.”
She began to sob again. “The bishop took him away from the parish. My father never
spoke to me nicely until the day he died. My mother still hugged me, but she always looked
hurt. Before he left, Father Cameron told them that I was a seductive little whore.”
After a moment, she pulled upright and looked down at herself. “I guess he was right.”
She brought her sweater down and moved awkwardly off my lap. Tugging self
consciously at the skirt, she perched herself on the edge of the couch. The world was quiet.
“I haven’t any energy left for an apology, Kevin, I’m sorry.”
“Sylvia, you have nothing to apologize for, then or now.” I came upright beside her.
“But you need to talk to someone about this, someone who can help you. You’ve carried all
this guilt and shame for too long. You’ve been subconsciously acting things out.”

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I asked hesitantly, “Have you never told anyone? Outside your family?”
She sniffed and took a tissue from a box on the table. “I tried to tell a friend once. A
female friend. She didn’t want to hear about it. I think she never respected me as much after
that.”
I took her hand and she squeezed it greedily. It was a different type of craving. “Sylvia, I
respect you. You are one of the nicest persons I’ve ever met. You’re intelligent, you have a
clever mind. You’ve accomplished good things in your life.” With my other hand I gestured
to our books on the table and joked, “Some people call it stuffy, dull stuff, but we know
better, don’t we?”
I gave her hand a playful little shake, and she gave me a sniffle of a laugh in return. I
added more seriously, “They might all be better off if they understood a little more about
that stuffy stuff.”
She looked at me squarely, eyes puffy but relaxed, and managed the suggestion of a
smile. “Thank-you, Kevin.” Her voice was soft, with a note of fatigue.
There were so many emotions running through my own body. Anger, anger at that dim
distant figure who had so compromised her life, anger at the system which had made it
possible. Sympathy and solicitation. Love. But love was a complex of elements, and who
had ever sorted it all out? I wanted to stroke her and even make love to her, could that have
healed her. But these were not the right circumstances. There were too many raw edges it
would brush up against, irritate. I would settle for the love of acceptance, of comfort, of
being there for her.
My eyes had wandered a little, heavy with my own thoughts, and she must have believed
I was feeling uncomfortable. Looking anxious, she placed her other hand over the one
holding hers. “Please don’t go, Kevin. I wish—”
“I’ll tell you what,” I hastened to say. “It’s only ten o’clock. I can stay for a while. But
you look exhausted. Perhaps you’d like to rest. I know a nice way of doing that.”
There was a cushion resting on the other seat. I reached for it, then settled myself against
the back where I sat, my arm against the rumpled arm of the couch. In the angle between
this and my lap I placed the cushion. Sylvia watched me with an artless anticipation.
I patted the seat beside me. “Kneel here.” She did so and I gently pulled her across me,
so that her legs were stretched out along the couch and her upper body lay at an angle across
mine, facing me, part of its weight on the cushion. She gave a little sound of euphoria and
our arms went around each other in an easy embrace. Her head settled to my shoulder. I let
my hands rest on her back, without stroking.
After a few moments of listening to her breathe softly, I said, “I’m glad you told me about
that, Sylvia. You can’t keep things like that bottled up inside.”
“There was never anyone to tell. The few men I was involved with—I was afraid to say
anything about it. I was sure they would never have forgiven me.”
“Sylvia, you don’t need forgiving. The blame was his. He dishonored himself and his
position.”
“Then why do I feel that I need this great weight lifted off me?”
“Forgiveness is the wrong word, Sylvia. You need to become free. Free of all that guilt
and sense of responsibility. He put them there, to serve his own ends. He had no
consideration for you. And probably no understanding of what it was going to do to you. Or
maybe he just didn’t care.”

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“And why should anyone care about me now?”


I breathed with her, realizing I would have to tread prudently. I could not promise things
I would not be in a position to deliver. “Because you are worthy of being cared about.
That’s what you have to start feeling. I care about you, and David cares about you. I’m sure
the rest of your colleagues do. Even if they knew—which they don’t have to. You just have
to learn to care about yourself.”
Her head seemed to be getting heavier, and I brought up one hand to cradle the back of
her neck. This warm, feeling, incredibly complex human being in my arms was an
overwhelming creation, a mystery of the universe. For all our evolving understanding,
would we ever plumb its subtle depths, the wonders and sad fallibilities which lay within
ourselves? Rational Man and Woman was only one small portion of this bewildering
organism, though I had to believe that it was a critical one. We needed every guiding
instrument at our disposal, cast upon the sea of this mysterious voyage we were all embarked
upon, its horizons but dimly perceived and its destination enigmatic.
I found that I was stroking her back gently.
I spoke softly. “We don’t need Jesus to forgive us, or any other deity in some spirit world
outside our own. We can forgive ourselves and each other. And if someone places himself
beyond forgiveness, then it’s up to him to come back within those boundaries and ask for it.
We don’t need to take all the best parts we possess, our potential for good, our own innate
capacity for wisdom, and place them outside ourselves, embody them in some idealized,
superhuman entity in heaven and leave only the dross to claim as our own. Then we turn
around and say that the strains of such divine attributes we can detect in ourselves are not
derived from within, but from that glorified external embodiment. We are only the crude
and unworthy reflection of a higher perfection we can never hope to attain. That, too, has
always been the message of the priests.”
Sylvia stirred in my arms, but made no sound.
“When we’re free of all these debilitating dogmas we’ve been saddled with, we can mold
ourselves as we wish. We’ll find a source of strength inside, our own sense of self-worth.
You can’t undo what happened to you, Sylvia. But you can learn to overcome it and leave it
behind. I’ll try to do whatever I can to help you do that.”
I smiled down at her. “Besides, who else do I have to talk to about those stuffy old Greek
historians?”
Her eyes were closed. The lids lay still and peaceful. I realized she had fallen asleep.

While Sylvia slept, I had only my own thoughts to keep me company. I had gained an
answer to the question I had long asked myself: what had drawn me to this woman?
Somehow I was able to sense and relate to the great imposition her childhood experience had
placed upon her. Her rape had been literal and traumatic. I had passed through the same
medieval world in a less graphic fashion, but perhaps my own experiences had been no less a
submission, a stifling of potential. We all needed to emerge from the same prison, breathe a
freer air. Perhaps 2000 years was enough. Perhaps, at long last, the great myth had run its
course and would have to be retired to the dustbin of history. Could I help it along?
When Sylvia awoke almost an hour later, I had all but fallen asleep myself. Her first
reaction was embarrassment, and she raised herself from my lap, though I thought I could
detect a certain reluctance to do so.

185

After repeating some of my reassurances, as well as my urgings about getting assistance


for her problems, I told her that I should be getting home.
“But I want you to feel free to call me if you need some advice, or if you just have to talk
to someone. These days I’m usually in.” I gestured to the books on the table. “Trying to
make some kind of sense out of all this.”
Sylvia made no further comment about my conclusions in regard to Jesus. We both stood
up and I retrieved my books from the table. Her eyes were heavy, but they gave her a
beguiling look, and with all that had happened between us, and the hidden things she had
laid bare to me, I knew that in her presence temptation would always rear its head. Had it
not been for Shauna—
It seemed to me that Sylvia also sensed the blocked potential. Still, there was no
resentment in her voice when she said, “Thank-you, Kevin. I’ll try not to impose too much
on you. You have other commitments, I’m sure. Your lady friend is very fortunate.”
I simply smiled. It crossed my mind that I was probably going to have to reveal the
situation to Shauna—discreetly. And very gingerly.
I said, “You’ll get in touch with someone about things. And let me know. Promise?”
We were at her door. “Yes, I will.”
She kissed me on the cheek. I saw myself down the stairs and out into the cool midnight
air. I drove away under a crystal clear heaven whose layers had evaporated into an infinity
of space. Their legions of angels and spirits had been forced to find domicile elsewhere.

*****************************

Chapter Thirteen

There were five at the Friday meeting plus two who arrived in my briefcase. We gathered
in the familiar seminar room at the University, but today there would be no repairing to
Philosophers’ Walk. A partially overcast sky hung on as the remnant of an overnight rain
and it dampened the lure of the outdoors, though it might have been forecasting the
developments that were to follow the meeting.
Except for Phyllis, the complement of the earlier gathering was present again today:
myself, David, Patterson and Weiss. The fifth member was a quiet young man in his early
twenties named James Franklin, an undergraduate in David’s faculty and an officer in the
student union. He had also joined the Age of Reason Foundation, and his computer skills
had proven an invaluable asset to the core group around David. One of his specific tasks,
and the reason why he was present on that day, I was to find out only at the end of our
session.
Burton Patterson was the first to take the floor. I was expecting some dry recap of
preparations for the hearing in Philadelphia. Instead, our formidable civil liberties attorney
had an unabashed gleam in his eye.
“Gentlemen, it looks as though the hearing is actually going to proceed.”
David was taken aback by this. “You mean you were expecting it wouldn’t?”

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“In situations like this, our creationist friends have been known to back down at the last
minute, especially in view of their poor track record in past attempts. I half expected they
would this time.”
I could see the note of relief in David’s face at the rescue of the Age of Reason
Foundation from unexpected collapse into obscurity. Then he looked worried. “But there’s
almost three weeks to go. How do you know it won’t still happen?”
Patterson smiled the smile of the champion who has just learned that his inevitable
victory is going to be a worthy one. “Because the state of Pennsylvania has just switched its
chief attorney. The merits of creationism as a science are going to be argued by Mr. Chester
Wylie. Mr. Wylie is from Maryland, and he is not your dyed-in-the-wool fundamentalist.
Nor would he have accepted to run the case on the basis of some simplistically-minded
‘every word of Genesis is literally true’ position. The problem is, I know that the Moral
Rebirth Coalition was behind the latest push to get creationism into the classroom. It was
their backroom boys who were behind the choice of Georgia and Pennsylvania as a new
testing ground, and I can only assume they’ve been in on the switch of legal counsel. I’m
really not quite sure what to make of it, but it promises to be interesting. With Wylie in,
there’s no question of them backing out now.”
I asked, “I gather your inside information hasn’t extended to learning just what their
specific strategy is going to be?” The thought was a natural one, but I knew it was also a
subtle dig at the man whom I now assumed had some elaborately planned designs on Shauna
involving a private lovenest in Philadelphia after court was adjourned for the day.
Or maybe not so subtle. My suspicious brain read a wealth of inuendo into Patterson’s
rejoinder and accompanying smile. “Don’t worry, Mr. Quinter. I’m working on a lot of
things. Doors can be opened in three weeks, even well protected ones.”
I said cavalierly, “I’m sure we’re all as confident as yourself, Mr. Patterson. And no
doubt you’ve already laid plans for a victory party, or something of that nature, once the
hearing follows its inevitable course.”
David must have sensed some subtle sparring going on, or at least my perception of such,
for he jumped in. “The agenda committee’s handling anything of that nature, Kevin. We’ve
got a reception on the list, mostly to capitalize on the media attention the hearing’s going to
get, but it’s still in the planning stage. Anyway, that’s one of the things we’re here to
discuss—media publicity and how to handle it. Or rather, engineer it, if possible.”
I decided I’d better settle down. Patterson’s phone call to Shauna about the reception
may have been no more than an expression of the man’s natural bravado. For now, I could
hardly accuse him of a planned seduction on such a flimsy basis.
David was saying, “We need to present the issue of creationism vs. evolution in some
kind of combination with the overall principles that the Age of Reason Foundation stands
for. We want to make the event seem part of a larger picture, so that in reporting on the
hearing itself, the Foundation and its ideas will automatically be drawn in.”
And that was where I came in. Over the next half hour I trotted out ideas I had been
playing around with, at the center of which lay the two other guests to the meeting that day:
Rational Man and Rational Woman. On the whole, they received a warm welcome—by
David, an enthusiastic one. Patterson himself seemed to turn them over in his mind,
examining them from a number of angles. He ended up giving them cautious approval as
motifs that could be developed. If I could read the man, he was trying to balance two initial

187

responses. One regarded the figure of Rational Man, if too vividly presented, as a possible
competitor for the limelight. The second, on the other hand, might solve the first: a natural
association would be of himself as the embodiment of Rational Man. I had the impression
the second interpretation had won out.
Weiss volunteered that the concept might be best conveyed with the aid of a logo, which
would then lead naturally to an explanation of the joint figure. This produced an animated
discussion of the whole concept. Franklin spoke up for the first time to suggest that the
statue of The Thinker had over the years become associated with the freethought movement
but that it was now out of date and conceivably, in this politically correct era, sexist.
Moreover, we all agreed that the statue’s stance by its very nature did not allow it to say
anything, let alone take action. Weiss pointed out that the International Humanist logo of a
stylized human figure was smart and catchy, but abstract. It, too, couldn’t be made to do or
say anything. Rational Man and Woman, however, could take on whatever life we might
choose to give them.
David was so keen about the possibilities in the double logo that he resolved to look at
once into commissioning some suggestions for artistic representation. “We could unveil it at
the reception.”
Patterson, however, had his doubts that a project of this kind could be gotten off the
ground so soon. And I had to agree with him.
He said, “We can’t shoot the bolt, so to speak, before all the details of the idea are in
place. Your Rational Man and Woman need to be fleshed out. And anything involving
visual representation always takes time. But I agree, we could certainly float the concept at
the time of the hearing. See what response it raises.”
“I’d like to try the idea out on Phyllis,” David said enthusiastically.
We all gave him a surprised look, and he turned sheepish. David’s use of the name had
definitely rung with overtones of familiarity.
“Yes, well, I met with her for dinner the other day, and she’s already drafted an article for
the Times on the Foundation’s involvement with the creationist hearing. I think she’s going
to be very much on our side.”
I couldn’t resist a good-natured dig which also sported a second prong in a different
direction. “Well, it looks as though someone else has been working on some inside
channels. Did you get the door open far enough to see a draft of this article?” Patterson
showed a keen interest in my question as well.
David played along. “Now, gentlemen, that would have been unethical. And I wouldn’t
want her to think of me as manipulative.”
“That will come,” Patterson said matter-of-factly. “When it does, let me know
immediately what she’s writing about us. If it promises to create a problem and there’s still
a day or two before the piece is due to appear in print, I’ll pull a few strings at the Times.”
When we all looked at him somewhat astonished, he said, “We’re engaged in a war,
gentlemen. Do you think our fundamentalist opponents are going to play by rules? We have
to meet fanaticism with our own brand of the same thing.”
“I’m not sure I can agree with that philosophy,” David murmured. Patterson made no
comment, but the remark seemed to serve as the signal for the meeting’s adjournment. The
attorney stood up.

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“I think we’ve covered enough today,” he said. “We’ll all be in touch one way or another
as the hearing gets closer. The real work will come afterwards. That’s when we have to
play the thing for all it’s worth. I hope no one has too much planned for the month of July—
personal or otherwise.”
Any number of retorts offered themselves, but I wisely decided to let them lie. After a
brisk round of leave-taking, Patterson strode from the room.
David apparently felt the need for some sort of apology, though I was not sure if it was on
Patterson’s behalf or his own. “I guess we have a bit of a tiger by the tail in Burton, but I’m
sure his assets outweigh his handicaps.”
“Let’s hope so,” Weiss muttered, standing up. “I’ll be off, too. Other duties call, I’m
afraid.” With a wave, he went out the door.
David sighed. I said to cheer him up, “No organization is without its personality
conflicts. I’m sure you’re right about Patterson.” I joked, “We’ll just have to keep him on a
tighter leash.”
David made a wry grimace. “Whose leash is on whom?”
He turned to the young man who sat a little bemused on the other side of the oblong table.
“Now this chap is someone we don’t need to put a leash on. Even though he’s turned out to
be a first-rate tracking dog.” He paused for effect. “We now know who and where the
Ascended Masters are.”
I turned to James Franklin with an expression of amazement. “Really? How did you
accomplish that?”
“I tracked their detour route by asking around the Web for advice on how to use one
myself. Then it was a fluke. When I told the people they’d been using I wanted to send a
message to the Ascended Masters they pointed out that I would be routing it back to myself.
They didn’t notice that it wasn’t from exactly the same outlet.”
My expression revealed my lack of comprehension.
David enlightened me in hushed, dramatic tones. “In other words, Kevin, the Ascended
Masters have been e-mailing us from this University.”
I sat back in my chair, genuinely flabbergasted. “You’ve got a group like that here at the
University?”
“Not exactly,” answered Franklin. “What we’ve got here is a chapter of the Campus
Crusade for Christ. It’s their account the Masters have been using. Obviously, they had
connections with someone in the Crusade. With a bit of detective work I found out that this
someone joined a group late last year who’ve rented a farmhouse about 30 miles outside the
city.”
“Another Waco operation?” I exclaimed. “I hadn’t heard of anything like that in this
area.”
“It hasn’t yet reached those proportions,” David said. “There seem to be only a handful
of people actually living there.”
“And they’re all men,” added Franklin. “The group is only open to males, apparently.”
“Shades of Qumran,” I grunted.
“Of what?” asked David.
“The people who wrote the Dead Sea Scrolls. Or at least that’s where they holed up—a
place by the Dead Sea in Israel. They were a Jewish apocalyptic sect, probably Essenes, who
withdrew to the desert in protest against the way the Temple in Jerusalem was being run.

189

They were going strong during the supposed time of Christ. Very ascetic, totally disavowing
women, and waiting for the end of the world in a final great war between the Sons of Light
and the Sons of Darkness. Sectarian lunacy at its best. When the Romans overran the
country during the Jewish War they hid a bunch of their writings in caves, where they
weren’t discovered for almost 2000 years.”
“Don’t some theories make Jesus an Essene?” asked David.
“Not reputable ones. Some scholars like to see Essene influence on Jesus, perhaps
through John the Baptist, but the only Christian writings that seem to contain anything
related to Qumran ideas are the epistles and Gospel of John. Even John the Baptist’s
connection to the Essene sect now seems unlikely.”
“Well, I don’t know if the Masters are writing any scrolls, but they’re still sending us
messages about their own end of the world.” David reached into his briefcase. “Here’s clue
number three. Four days ago. It helped James track them down. I’d like us to decide what
we should do about this. Just between the three of us.”
“You haven’t told Patterson?”
“Not yet. But if I’m going to alert the authorities—especially now that we know where
they’re coming from—I guess I’ll have to bring him in on it.”
I took the piece of paper from David.
“ ‘Clue number three: And the fourth poured his bowl on those sons; and it was allowed
to burn them with its flames. But they only cursed the name of God, and refused to
repent.’
“Revelation, chapter 16, I think. One of the seven angels pouring out the bowls of God’s
wrath on the earth.” I reached into my own briefcase. “Is Rational Man allowed to be
psychic? I must have had a premonition of some kind, because I brought a New Testament
along.”
“Maybe you subconsciously realized it was time for another clue,” David offered with a
smile. “I think we can live with the subconscious. Lots of scientific evidence to support it.”
“Here we are: Revelation 16:8.” I read, “ ‘The fourth poured his bowl on the sun...’ Now
that’s quite a change. From ‘sun’ to ‘son’. Hardly an inadvertent misunderstanding, one
would think. Or a deliberate word play in interpretation. If it is, it would rule out any of the
Masters being familiar with Greek. The words are not homonyms the way they are in
English.”
Franklin volunteered, “What about the Sons of Light and the Sons of Darkness you
mentioned?”
“Good observation, James,” David remarked.
“Yes,” I agreed. “Though there’s nothing in Revelation about ideas like that. Nor is
there any connection between John the Prophet who wrote Revelation and Qumran. At least,
not that anyone’s uncovered. They come from widely different geographical areas. But I
suppose there’s no reason to think that the Masters had to limit themselves to Revelation for
inspiration. They may have adopted Qumran-type terms to signify the forces of good and
evil in their own minds.”
“Then why not the complete term?” asked Franklin.
“Because it isn’t in the Revelation text?” David suggested.
“Possibly. There are also little snips made from the original text, but I can’t see that
they’re significant.”

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“So what are we dealing with here?” David asked in worried tones. “Are these loonies
simply pointing us to prophecies of some impending apocalypse we’re all going to be caught
up in? Or do they have one in mind for us in particular?”
“It’s possible they’re interpreting these passages as some divinely appointed destiny for
groups like ourselves. Atomistic biblical interpretation has always been the hallmark of
extremist sects. They’ll make the words say what they want them to say.”
“But why the ‘clues’?”
I shook my head in frustration. “Don’t know. They seem to be pointing to something.
But is it a concrete threat? There’s no way to tell.” I turned to Franklin. “Is it feasible to
talk to any of these guys?”
David grunted. “They’ll hardly let you in on their conspiracy, if they’ve got one.”
Franklin waggled his finger. “No, but they just might be willing to talk about themselves.
This sort of fanatic can never resist a chance to sound off. Especially to a skeptic.”
I considered a moment. “Have they ever received any publicity that you know of?”
“I don’t think so. They seem to be a very new group.”
I tapped my chin, then scratched it. “I think I’ll take a little drive out into the country
tomorrow. Why don’t you give me the location of the schoolhouse? Who knows, I might
just find myself stopping and having a chat.”
“Are you serious?” David was looking at me in mild wonder.
“Why not? I know you’re worried about these messages and your impulse is to go to the
authorities. But I would be afraid that somehow it might backfire on us. We don’t want to
give the press any reason to ridicule the Age of Reason Foundation before it even gets off
the ground. We don’t have enough to go on yet. Let me try and sound them out. We’ve got
nothing to lose.”
David saw my point and gave my proposal grudging approval. Franklin checked some
notes he had with him and gave me the information I needed. The dregs of the meeting
broke up and David and I made our way to the parking lot.
“Tell me something,” he said, as we reached my car. “When you were talking about the
Essenes, you said that they were doing their thing in the ‘supposed time of Christ’. What did
you mean by that?”
“Yes, I did say that, didn’t I?” I looked off beyond the lower expanse of the campus and
toward the city skyline, now gleaming in the light of a newly-emerging sun. From this
vantage point I felt very much a part of the vibrant, ever-enlightening air of the late 20th
century. But was there any suitable time or setting for broaching such a momentous idea?
“I’ll tell you what. Give me another week or so on my research, and we’ll get together
and discuss some interesting observations which the Foundation may or may not want to use.
In fact, we might even bring Phyllis in on this, if she’s available.” There was just a touch of
slyness in my sideways glance at him. “Would you have any influence there?”
“I might. I’ll sound her out on Sunday, when I see her next.”
“Ahh...”
“But you won’t give me any more to go on than that?”
“Just tell her she won’t be bored, I guarantee. Nor will you.”
And at that we left it. I promised to call him in 24 hours to let him know what had
transpired in my country jaunt the next day.

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The schoolhouse was nestled on a V-shaped property formed by a fork in a winding


county road. Red brick and generally faded, it came from an era of more openly Christian
education, for it bore a rusted metal cross mounted over the church-like wooden doors.
Some recent renovations, nothing too extensive, were in evidence. The yard behind the
building sported a couple of pitched tents.
I parked the car at the edge of the roadway near the side gate. Two young men were
working in a garden in the yard, and one took notice of me when I stepped onto the grass. I
adopted an air of no great urgency. I looked about at the schoolhouse and its grounds as
though these were of interest to me as much as anything else.
The young man came up on the other side of the fence near the gate. He was tall and
somewhat gangly, but with no visible manifestations of the wild-eyed prophet, let alone a
would-be terrorist. His face and hands were smudged. “Can I help you?”
“Well, perhaps you can. I’ve been given to understand that this property has been
acquired by a religious group. I’m a freelance writer on religious issues—among other
things—and I thought I’d come out and see if there was a story behind it.” Since yesterday I
had gone over the possible approaches I could take, and this seemed the most promising. I
would begin neutrally and press things from there as the situation developed.
“And where did you hear that?”
I gave him an easy smile. “Oh, writers like myself don’t tend to reveal sources, you
know. We wouldn’t enjoy confidences for very long. But there’s nothing sinister about it.
There are a lot of groups forming this close to the end of the millennium. It’s a social
phenomenon, and readers like to be informed on such things. Even get an inside track.”
“We don’t consider ourselves to be part of a phenomenon.” There was no overt
animosity in the young man’s response, but I had definitely made contact with a sectarian
mentality.
“Well, yes, I realize things look differently when you’re on the inside. We all like to
think we’ve plugged into the actual truth, I guess.” When he made no response, I asked,
“Are you part of the ‘Rapture’ movement?”
He made a scoffing sound. “That’s nonsense. No one’s going to be lifted up to heaven in
a new body. God and the Lamb will establish their 1000-year kingdom here on earth.”
“Ah, your ideas are more millenarian, I see. I take it you get a lot of your predictions
from Revelation. Isn’t that where the Lamb comes in?”
“Yes, it is.” There was a note of wariness in the eyes, but I could tell that Franklin was
right. Such people did feel an urge to proclaim their beliefs.
“And what about the false Messiah? Where does he come in? I understand that’s the
going concept in millenarian expectations these days.” I tried to avoid any false note of
sympathy for such views, but also any obvious scorn for them either.
“More nonsense. That’s a complete misunderstanding of scripture. The Antichrist will
be recognized for what he is, and people who follow him will not be deceived in any way.
We’re not part of the ‘going concept’.” The neutral tone had given way to a more edged
delivery, though the control was still being maintained. He was, after all, talking to a
complete stranger.
Don’t push too fast, I told myself.

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I looked around at the setting. The day was warm and sunny. “You’ve got a nice spot
here. Far enough out to be rustic, but not too far that you can’t get in to enjoy the night life.”
I winked.
His smile was condescending. “We don’t go in for that sort of thing.”
“Ah! Cut off from the wicked world, you mean. Well, sometimes I feel the need for that
myself. It can get a bit overwhelming. TV, telephones, the Internet. As well as other things
best left unsaid.” I glanced overhead. “I can see telephone lines, so I guess you’re not
completely cut off. Are you online as well?”
“Not here—I mean, no.”
“I see. Well, listen. How would you feel about me doing a little article about your
group? What do you call yourselves? Someone said they thought it was Reborn...something
or other.” I couldn’t show too acute a knowledge, and I felt that this could not help but
provoke a response.
But only after a little hesitation. “We’re called the Ascended Masters.” It was almost as
though he expected me to laugh, and as it was, the title did strike me for the first time as
something profoundly and hilariously pretentious. I kept my reaction from reaching my face
only with difficulty.
“And that means?”
“It means that we’ve already achieved salvation. We ascended to a new status with the
acceptance of Christ’s resurrection. Those of us who perceive the truth, of course.”
“I suppose that would be referring to a special truth known only to yourselves.” That
came out tinged with overtones more snide than I had intended. We both knew that this was
exactly what it referred to, but I could tell that the young man took offence, perhaps at the
implication of ridicule.
It turned out not to matter. I hadn’t noticed that the other gardener had disappeared inside
the house. Now he and an older man emerged from a side door and moved with alacrity
toward the two of us conversing over the fence.
“Is there something I can do for you?” He seemed concerned, a man closer to my own
age, with greying temples and a notably stern countenance, acquired no doubt from a steady
diet of poring over the meaning of works like Revelation. I knew without being told that this
was the head of the Ascended Masters.
I repeated the story I had given the gardener, who had now withdrawn to one side in
deferential fashion. When I threw in some of the information I had gained from him, the
older man threw a scowl in his direction.
“Jeffrey has been with us only a short time. He may not have given you the right
impression. But you’re the first to seek any kind of information about us.” The scowl
remained in place. “We’re not interested in public attention.”
That I doubted. “I see.” I decided that devious approaches would not work with this
man. Some straightforward prodding might be in order. “And just what are the Ascended
Masters interested in?”
“What we’re interested in will soon be evident, since events are already unfolding as
foretold. We’re here to fill our role. And reap God’s reward.” I had the impression his
righteous manner of speaking was as much for the benefit of the two acolytes beside him as
for myself. I would have liked to get him alone.

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“Are you telling me you expect events to unfold in the manner described in Revelation? I
wouldn’t have thought anyone these days could accept such predictions literally.” This time
I did not trouble to disguise a degree of contempt in my voice.
The man seemed unfazed. “The prophecies are flexible. They were designed to apply to
each generation. When God finally decides which generation is worthy to enjoy the
implementation of his plans, those prophecies will be seen to apply accordingly.”
Now there was a new twist, perhaps a clever one. Its subtlety might appeal to those who
still possessed a modicum of intelligence, for it disposed of the problem of Revelation’s
outdated nature and the vast delay in the fulfillment of its predictions.
My next question was based on an impression about ancient sects which had emerged in
my recent reading. “And I take it that your work, whatever it is, has been designed to
convince God that this generation is indeed worthy?”
The head of the Masters gave me a penetrating look, as though he wasn’t quite sure what
to make of me, but rather thought I might be dangerous. “We believe God is open to
suggestion. Holy Scripture indicates as much. The ancients knew that when you know
God’s secret name he has to listen to you. We say that when you know God’s will, he has to
act. If we can convince him that now is the time to implement his long intended purposes,
what greater task could anyone devote his life to?”
I made a gesture toward the old schoolhouse. “And you expect a handful of sectarian
zealots in one little corner of the United States are going to force God’s hand? You think
you’re finally going to persuade him to schedule the Second Coming?” By this time I was
simply trying to provoke the man into some revealing outburst, whether about the group’s
intentions toward the Age of Reason Foundation, or anything else.
“We have a larger network than you might think. And all of it is in the service of the
truth.”
‘The truth.” I looked skyward. “How fortunate that you possess such an elusive quantity.
But I’d be curious to know what your views are on those who do not hold your brand of the
truth. What should be done with them?”
“They, too, will serve God’s purposes. Their fate has already been laid out in the sacred
writings, provided you know how to decipher it.” The man was maintaining his righteous
manner, though something in his eyes suggested that he may not have been as much of a fool
as his words would indicate. Did every would-be Messiah save some secret part of himself
as a refuge for sanity? It crossed my mind that the complete and unalloyed fanatic could
never make an effective leader. That quality was best reserved for the ground troops.
“Ah, yes. The inerrancy of the bible is so often dependent on the particular interpretation
one places on it. A convenient approach.”
I looked at the two young men standing to either side of him, both listening with widened
eyes. I wondered what elements in their experiences, their personalities, had led them to this
spot at this juncture in their lives. “And you believe that this is part of God’s purpose as
well? To alienate young men like these from their families, as I have no doubt they have
been? Or to create a world for them in which competing sets of beliefs alienate people from
other people, whole societies from other societies? Is that what your truth accomplishes?”
“It is not my truth. It is God’s truth.”
Despite my attempts to remain calm, an anger was rising from wells sunk deep.
“Absolute Truth! The flaming sword of every sectarian group that thinks it has a direct line

194

to the mind of God! And where is this truth leading us? To the ruin of minds like these. To
the fragmentation of society into “we” versus “them”, the elect and the damned, where the
primary preoccupation is the condemnation and even the destruction of the non-believer. Is
that why God created the world, to pour out bowls of wrath and fire on the vast majority of
it, as Revelation would have us believe?” I was still in sufficient possession of my faculties
to try to steer him toward a telltale response regarding the messages to the Foundation.
Unfortunately, he was not. Throwing me a look filled with malevolence, he said, “Come,
Jeffrey, Steven. We have better things to do than stand here and listen to one of Satan’s
deceivers. I do believe he was sent to tempt us.”
I threw the last vestiges of my self-control after their retreating figures. “Yes, Jeffrey;
yes, Steven. Go with him! Follow his truth! Ignorance and superstition! That’s what he’s
offering you. What better way to spend your lives? What better road to happiness and
success? I wish you well!” They disappeared inside the schoolhouse.
Well, that was that. I had blown it. Probably it had been inevitable. Reason and religion:
never the twain shall meet. The ultimate division which slices the flesh of the human
organism. No medicine had yet been devised to heal the split.
As I skirted the front of my car to return to the driver’s side, I saw an old open mailbox
on a post near the gate. The corner of an envelope was just visible inside. Apparently no
one had emptied the box today. I acted on impulse. Three strides brought me to the thing
and I reached inside. It took two seconds to pull out the letter, register the name on it, and
shove it back. I didn’t bother glancing toward the house.
Another five seconds and I was into the car and driving away. Nothing in the rear view
mirror indicated that my intrusion had been witnessed. I was still reproaching myself.
Could I have handled the encounter any differently? Neither side had a monopoly on
emotion or self-righteous dudgeon.
Well, I had a name. Robert Cherkasian. The envelope had had a rural route address on
it, but no reference to the Ascended Masters. And a return address of somewhere in Phila
delphia had registered on me peripherally. Philadelphia. What were the chances of that
being a coincidence?
Once again I berated myself. Why had I not taken the time to make a fuller note of where
the letter had come from?
Had I found out anything concrete? Although it seemed likely that this Cherkasian was
the one responsible for the e-mail messages to the Foundation, I still had no idea what he
intended by them. He had spoken of persuading God to implement the predictions of
Revelation. That such prophecies could have their own evolving meaning for each
generation, including today. The piercing, the falling stones, the bowl of fire. Was the
twisted logic simply to remind God that occasions existed to fulfill such End-time
prophecies? Did those occasions relate to the Age of Reason Foundation and its plans for
Philadelphia? Perhaps the ‘clues’ were the Masters’ little piece of humor pointing us toward
that apocalyptic potential.
The hot pavement was making the tires sing. Or perhaps it was a more sinister sound.
My sensitized, adrenalin-shot brain was making the summer landscape shimmer with newly
perceived forces. The scene around me became a world populated with spirits, meta
physical powers, strange disturbances not previously suspected. They hovered in the air,
watching, threatening. Where before I had seen an atmosphere permeated only by the

195

modern rational demons of pollution, radioactivity, acid rain, I now perceived one
impregnated with the spirit of vengeance, psychotic voices from the past, dire influences that
induced fanaticism, aberrant behavior, turning child against parent, parent against educator,
community against community. With the approach of the millennium these forces were
churning themselves into an even greater frenzy. Christianity had come full circle. From
obscure beginnings in a sectarian conviction that the transformation of the world was at
hand, it had travelled 2000 years to return to its roots: Raptures, false and true Messiahs, a
fire and brimstone destruction in the fevered visions of Revelation.

As soon as I got in I gave David a call. I could tell he’d been waiting by the phone.
“Do you know anyone named Robert Cherkasian?”
“No.”
“How about a Jeffrey or a Steven? Did James Franklin mention the name of the fellow at
the Campus Crusade group?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I think it was Jeffrey something.”
I relayed to him all that I could of my conversation with the local Masters. David asked
for certain things word for word, as close as I could remember them.
“So you think they might be just trying to put the Ascended Masters’ equivalent of a hex
on us. I mean, since they don’t really have their finger on the apocalyptic button, it’s all just
a lot of empty threats, wouldn’t you say?”
“My first instinct would be to say yes. But with people like that, you never know. They
don’t think like you or me. If their expectations are frustrated, who knows how they might
react?”
I could almost hear David’s silent wail over the phone. “So what do I do? Do I talk to
the police, or what? Do I tell Burton?”
“Well, our own police won’t do much good if the reaction is going to happen in
Philadelphia. I still feel we have to tread carefully. But why don’t you make some discreet
inquiries with the FBI and see if they have anything on this group, especially any branch
located in Philadelphia? Break the ice with someone. They may have a current interest in
millenarian groups. They may take it from there. As for Burton, well, you’ll have to use
your own judgment on that.”
David sighed. “I’ll sleep on it. It doesn’t sound like anything earth-shattering will
happen overnight. Your suggestion may be the best. And Kevin—thanks. For jumping into
the lions’ den.”
“Pfah! Not much of a den. One ageing lion, two pussycats.”
“Let’s just hope they’ve got no hidden claws.”

*****************************

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196

Chapter Fourteen

Q.
On that single letter, I would come to realize, hung the modern liberal picture of Jesus of
Nazareth.
A letter representing a document we no longer possessed, crumbled and lost into the
sands of first century Palestine. Its ghost shimmered from the pages of Matthew and Luke,
its echo could be heard behind the words of Mark.
With no attributed teachings to be found anywhere in the New Testament epistles, the
ethical teacher in Gospel scenes like the Sermon on the Mount in Matthew, or Jesus’ journey
to Jerusalem in Luke, was largely a product of Q. The silence in the epistles on any conflict
of Jesus with the Jewish establishment had been filled to a great extent by the controversy
stories lifted from Q. The Jesus of Paul and other first century letter writers, who never
breathed a word about any miracles performed by their divine Christ, had gone on to emerge
as a wonder-worker and exorcist first on the lost pages of Q.
The essence of the historical Jesus, the man who had walked the sands of Palestine and
made such an impact on all around him, the picture on which so much faith depended and
from which so much modern scholarship now derived its living, rested upon a mummy
resurrected from the reliquaries built by Matthew and Luke and removed from the wrappings
of their theological and sociological portrayal of Jesus.
Yet how much of the original Q was unearthable from these later reincarnations?
Research on Q was perhaps the most active and vital department within New Testament
scholarship as the 20th century approached its close. The last 10 or 15 years of study had
established beyond any reasonable doubt that much of the document used by Matthew and
Luke could be reconstructed with a fair degree of accuracy out of their common passages
which had not been derived from Mark; that the document (probably different editions of
that document) from which the two evangelists had independently drawn was the end result
of a lengthy history of its own; and that this history had passed through three major stages of
evolution and likely numerous minor ones.
But uncovering what lay at Q’s murky beginnings, and the nature of its older material
prior to each stage of revision, was something, I suspected, which scholars boasted more
confidence in than was deserved.
Using a variety of sources both on paper and on the Web, I spent three days listing and
categorizing all the units of Q that could be identified from the two later Synoptic Gospels.
As for Mark, his relationship to Q was a thorny one. Most scholars seemed to agree that he
reflected Q-type material, that he had drawn on traditions about a presumed historical figure
which came from the community that produced the Q document. But they were driven to
conclude that Mark had not possessed the written work accessible to Matthew and Luke.
None of the great teachings which the later writers took from Q were present in Mark. And
no scholar had come up with a reasonable explanation why the first evangelist, if he had had
a copy of Q in front of him, would have ignored so thoroughly the teachings of Jesus, as well
as so much detail about Jesus in controversy with the Pharisees.
It was a problem I had no delusions of solving myself.

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From Matthew and Luke, therefore, Q had been resurrected.


Q was the product of a Jewish community or circle which had arisen in Galilee around
the middle of the first century to preach the coming Kingdom of God. This document did
not tell a narrative story, though a few of its units offered an anecdote or an unfolding
encounter, such as the dialogue between Jesus and John the Baptist, or the Temptation Story.
Rather, the vast bulk of the Q material was made up of individual sayings and
pronouncements. These tended to be grouped together in clusters, linked because they
possessed a common key term (called a ‘catchword’) or because they related to a common
theme. It was obvious that Q had not reflected any pattern in Jesus’ teachings, but rather had
organized its sayings according to a couple of principles of common content.
Matthew had done the fullest job of revamping the Q material. He had collected
numerous pieces from throughout his copy of Q and assembled them into the great Sermon
on the Mount, a sermon few now believed had been delivered on one occasion by Jesus
sitting on a hillside somewhere in Galilee.
Luke’s use of Q had been less disruptive. His sequence was considered the more original
because, among other things, it made no sense that he would have broken up so much of the
Sermon and distributed its parts haphazardly throughout his Gospel. The pattern created by
extracting the Q material from Luke and laying it out suggested that this was largely the way
it appeared in the source Luke used. Thus, scholars had adopted the system of referring to
the Q units according to the chapter and verse numbers where they were found in Luke.
Jesus’ lament over Jerusalem, for example, was identified as Q 13:34-35, because it
appeared in Luke 13:34-35.
Rarely was there an exact agreement of words between Matthew and Luke. But this
could be put down to little changes one or the other evangelist, or both, had made to fit their
own writing styles, or perhaps to align a piece of material with their own views and editorial
purposes. After all, these sorts of changes were visible in how they had adapted Markan
passages to their Gospels. Establishing the original Q wording was often an uncertain and
speculative task. Occasionally, a wider divergence might call into question whether
something actually came from Q, or whether the two writers might have been drawing on
some other source, perhaps an oral one. The same type of general similarity in a few of
Mark’s passages, when compared to Matthew and Luke’s Q material, led some scholars to
postulate that Mark too had drawn on selected Q units.
By now, Q, in its broad outlines and even many of its finer details, had emerged into the
light of day, but other details, as well as the evolutionary process it had passed through, still
lay in degrees of shadow and uncertain speculation. One thing was clear: Q had been
written, from its beginning, in Greek.

Q was made up of 60 to 100-odd units—depending on the scholar doing the breakdown.


The pattern derived from Luke provided a picture of the document’s evolution, and by
extension, the evolution of the community which produced it.
Three broad stages had been identified.
Several clusters of sayings throughout Q possessed a common atmosphere, style and
purpose. As a group, these sayings on ethics and discipleship were closely related to the
genre of Jewish wisdom collections, such as the Old Testament Book of Proverbs. There
were Graeco-Roman equivalents as well. Such collections offered instructions about life

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and how to behave in the current social situation. This group of sayings was judged to be the
earliest layer of Q, and scholars called it Q1.
For the most part, these sayings were now regarded by liberal scholarship as the best
authentic record of the teaching of Jesus of Nazareth. The Q community, it was said, had
preserved and adopted them for its own use in preaching the Kingdom. They included the
most prized of the Gospel ethics, none less than the lines in Luke/Q 6:27-28:
‘Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you; bless those who curse you, pray for
those who abuse you. To him who strikes you on the cheek, offer the other also; and
from him who takes away your cloak do not withhold your coat as well.’
Others involved pithy, often humor-tinged admonitions: not to hide one’s light under a
bushel, to ask and seek and knock and the desired response would come one’s way, parables
about the Kingdom of God. And, of course, the Beatitudes.
Beside such innovative and enlightened maxims, however, stood other clusters of sayings
as radically different as night from day. Q 10:13-14 put these sentiments in Jesus’ mouth:
‘Woe to you, Chorazin! Woe to you, Bethsaida! For if the mighty works done in you had
been done in Tyre and Sidon, they would have repented long ago, sitting in sackcloth and
ashes....And you, Capernaum, will you be exalted to heaven? You shall be brought down
to hell!’
This lashing out against the Galilean cities which had not responded to the community’s
preaching, together with pronouncements and controversy stories illustrating a clash with the
Pharisees, were part of a ‘prophetic’ or apocalyptic layer which scholars called Q2. They
judged these sayings to represent a later stage in the community’s history, a reaction to the
hostility and rejection it had received from the Jewish establishment. The theme of punitive
judgment against the unbeliever had become paramount. The figure of the Son of Man
entered for the first time, one who would arrive at the End-time to judge the world in fire.
Here, too, appeared John the Baptist, a forerunner to the Q preachers, prophecying a great
retribution at the hands of a coming one who would ‘baptize with fire’.
Whether any of the sayings of Q2 had been spoken by Jesus was much debated. Many
judged that these later issues of contention had been read back into Jesus’ time. The stark
contrast with the teachings of Q1 also called their genuineness into question. The addition
of these ‘prophetic’ sayings to the earlier ‘wisdom’ collection constituted a major revision of
the Q document.
The third stage of Q was harder to pin down. To some it was simply a matter of
embellishment after the traumatic events of the Jewish War. This later stage saw the
stirrings of biography, even divinity for Jesus, elements which had not been present in the Q
sayings before. These could be seen in the Temptation Story in which Satan sought to
ensnare the Son of God with the promise of power, or the saying about the Son who knows
the Father.
Other scholars saw more. There were signs that older material had been reworked at the
Q3 stage; for example, in the dialogue between Jesus and John of Luke 7. But exactly how
much recasting of earlier layers had occurred was difficult to judge. Such recasting had been
governed by the leap made since Q2: that Jesus, from a human Galilean sage, had become in
the Q community’s mind a divine being: from child and envoy of Wisdom, he had evolved
to the Son of the Father himself.

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And at some time after whatever revisions had taken place in Q3, the evangelists
Matthew and Luke each got their hands on different editions of it and incorporated it into
their revisions of Mark’s Gospel. Less clearly, Mark himself had presumably borrowed
some of its ideas or the ideas that lay behind it, even if no hard copy of Q had rested on his
writing table.

It was early on Tuesday evening when I sat down with my lists and my notes thus far to
try to make sense of Q in light of the conclusion I had already reached: namely, that there
had been no historical Jesus.
Since all of the New Testament record outside the Gospels pointed so clearly in that
direction, how could I explain the evolution of Q into a sayings collection attributed to a
human Jesus who had lived and taught in Galilee and Judea?
One startling thing had to be taken into account in evaluating Q: at no stage could any
reference to Jesus’ death, let alone a resurrection, be discerned. Scholars admitted this.
From the earliest days of Q research a century ago, this absence had been a source of great
worry and perplexity.
Older explanations for the silence had long since been rejected. Today, the most
prominent explanation fell within the context of the newest trend in scholarly thinking about
Christianity’s beginnings. This was designed to take into account the great diversity of
community and belief to be found in the early Christian record.
This scenario suggested that Jesus had given rise, at various times and locations in his
career—including after his death—to several movements which responded to him in very
different ways. The Q community was one of those ‘responses’, a group forming in Galilee
in reaction to the teaching sage who had worked in their midst. It regarded him as entirely
human. This community, so the theory went, was unaffected by any fate Jesus may have
subsequently suffered in Jerusalem. It remained impervious throughout most of its history to
any influence from those cultic circles, such as Paul’s, which had immediately turned Jesus
into a cosmic divinity and abandoned all interest in his earthly life and deeds.
Such a scenario of wildly diverse reaction to one humble Jewish preacher appeared to me
to be highly suspect. It turned early Christianity into a movement which had been absurdly
schizophrenic. The contrast between Paul and Q could not have been starker. What Paul
had made of Jesus, Q knew nothing about. What Q had remembered of Jesus, Paul showed
no knowledge of—or interest in, as the scenario would style it. Scholars postulating such a
theory also struggled with the question of when and how such a lofty transformation of Jesus
into a divinity would have taken place.
In addition to these contrasting responses, there had been further divergent views and
appropriations of Jesus floating about, some divine, some human.
Hebrews’ sacrificial High Priest moved entirely in some Platonic higher-world setting.
The Didache spoke of a non-suffering intermediary ‘servant’ in heaven. The Odes of
Solomon and early Gnostic documents had varying presentations of a Christ as a spiritual
part of the Godhead, acting on the world. The Gospel of John, it seemed, had originally
possessed a Jesus who saved by revealing God; and he was eventually equated with the
Greek Logos.

200

On top of all this, certain elements of the Gospels, because they seemed to possess their
own distinctive characteristics, were being labelled as the product of even further groups
who had selectively adopted aspects of Jesus’ career, such as his miracles, or a certain class
of pronouncement stories. They had turned these into guiding principles for their own group
life. Like Q, such ‘Jesus people’ were regarded as having made no use of Jesus’ death and
resurrection. Like Q, there was no interest in Jesus as a redeeming agent, whether through a
sacrifice for sin or anything else.
Apart from the innately bizarre quality of this kind of scenario, it contained at least one
unexplained problem and one fundamental fallacy—or so it seemed to me.
The problem? The conversion of Paul. The elevation of Jesus to divinity was regarded
as something which had to have developed over time, since it contravened the Jewish spirit
so blasphemously. And it probably had to take place under Gentile influence, in Diaspora
centers like Antioch. Yet Paul had been converted to Christ within 2 to 5 years of Jesus’
supposed death. And in Jerusalem to boot. Who in this center of Judaism, while Jesus’
corpse was scarcely cold, had gone against all that Jews held dear and turned a human man
into God, attaching all sorts of Hellenistic mythology to him? Had Paul, a Jew born and
bred, simply swallowed it whole? Or had he not believed in Jesus as the Son of God right
from the start? Had he later been persuaded to it by nameless Gentiles, perhaps in Antioch,
and then fudged the whole picture in his letters? And how to explain why such Gentiles
themselves, people who had never personally experienced Jesus and had no history of
turning human beings into cosmic divinities, would do such a thing to a humble Jewish
preacher, even regarding him as having been raised from the dead?
The fallacy? It lay in the fact that the scenario was all an extrapolation backwards.
Scholars derived these varying ‘responses’ from a later amalgamation of the separate diverse
elements, from the supposed reconvergence of the original diverging strands: namely, the
Gospels. To arrive at Jesus the teacher required stripping away the layers of an evolving Q.
Predicating a series of communities which preserved the miracles and various other elements
of Jesus’ ministry, required speculative assumptions about the pre-Gospel histories of these
ingredients which Mark and others had incorporated into their narratives. No document
recorded the initial phenomenon, the breakup of Jesus into his component parts. And our
earliest record, the letters of Paul, gave not an inkling of these other responses to the human
man who for Paul had passed entirely into the realm of divinity. Not a hint could be found
of these ‘Jesus people’ which were presumably flourishing and going their own way
somewhere outside the boundaries of Paul’s world.
Had they all existed in a series of alternate universes?
If we were to let the chronology of the documentary evidence govern our thinking, the
earliest manifestation of Jesus was as a divine, spiritual Christ, with whom no life or
ministry on earth was associated. Only later, along with further diverse expressions of the
spiritual Son, did the evidence show the development of a human figure who had lived in
Palestine at the time of Herod and Pontius Pilate, had taught and performed miracles, died
and rose from a grave in the neighborhood of earthly Jerusalem.

What, then, to make of Q?


What to make of those elements within it which eventually, and almost single-handedly,
created the picture of a teaching, apocalyptic-preaching, miracle-working Jesus?

201

More than once I had come across the claim that the recently unearthed Gospel of
Thomas, part of a buried cache of Gnostic documents found in Egypt, was an independent
witness to Jesus the teacher. Many of its sayings mirrored those of Q, and could even
represent the more primitive versions. But since a literary relationship of some form was
clear between the two documents, another explanation was equally possible, and some
scholars leaned in this direction.
Q as we had it, and the Gospel of Thomas—which represented a second century text—
were both diverging end results of a common beginning. The trajectory which produced the
Gospel of Thomas had split off at an early stage from that of Q and undergone its own
development. It was possible that if one could strip away the evolutionary accretion of
Thomas—probably an impossible task since there was so little to work with—one would
arrive at the same starting point as that of the Q document.
And just what was that starting point?
Rather than proceed from the unchallenged assumption that Jesus had existed and that Q
must in some way reflect him—which was the approach of modern scholarship—could the
stages of Q development be analyzed so that they did not have to lead back to an historical
preacher in Galilee who had proclaimed the poor blessed and the meek as inheritors of the
earth?

Midnight to 2 AM.
Using a print-out from the Muratorian Index, I indulged in several readings of the layer of
sayings which formed Q1.
‘Blessed are the poor, for theirs is the Kingdom of God...
‘If you love only those who love you, what credit is that to you?...Treat others as you
would like them to treat you...
‘Can one blind man be guide to another? Will they not both fall into the ditch?...
‘Do not carry purse or bag, and travel barefoot; exchange no greetings on the road...
‘Think of the ravens: they neither sow nor reap; they have no storehouse or barn; yet
God feeds them...Your father knows that you need these things...
‘Sell your possessions and give in charity. Store up your wealth in heaven where no
thief can get it...for where your wealth is, there will be your heart as well...’
And so on.
A curious collection of sayings for a Jewish preacher. In all of Q1 there was scarcely a
specifically Jewish idea to be found. One reference to Solomon. No mention of the
Pharisees, or any other Jewish officials or institutions. Scattered references to the Kingdom
of God, but in a non-apocalyptic sense and with none of the usual Jewish associations. An
absence of all prophetic atmosphere.
The only passage showing even a semblance of a built-up dialogue was also the only Q1
unit containing the name ‘Jesus’.
Very curious indeed.
And yet this was supposed to be the authentic voice of Jesus of Nazareth. To me, it was
decidedly cosmopolitan, even Hellenistic in flavor. In fact...

202

4 AM.
My instinct had been correct.
Certain scholars for about a decade now had been pointing out an intriguing and startling
observation about the sayings in Q1. These ‘wisdom’ aphorisms bore a strong resemblance
to the spirit and style of a type of Hellenistic preaching movement of the time.
The Cynics. I knew they had rung a bell.
I checked my own sources on Graeco-Roman philosophy. Half-remembered research of
past years bore them out. During the first century, wandering Cynic preachers had tramped
the cities and byways of the empire, urging people to adopt a certain lifestyle, an outlook on
the world which was both religious and social. They claimed to be following the teaching
and way of life of Diogenes of Sinope, the founder of the Cynic philosophy.
He whose light had been blocked by Alexander the Great, so went the popular anecdote.
They were gadflies, convinced that society was too authoritarian, too inegalitarian, too
hypocritical. They were a kind of ‘in your face’ protester, motivated by the feeling that some
divine power was directing them to shake up society.
Like Q, they too spoke of a benevolent God the Father. Epictetus, a Stoic philosopher
who adopted Cynic traditions and preached to the poor and humble masses, was recorded to
have said: ‘All men have always and everywhere a Father who cares for them.’
Dio of Prusa urged people to trust in providence, for ‘Consider the beasts yonder, and the
birds, how much freer from trouble they live than man...’
The Cynics, too, had their Beatitudes. Blessed is the person, said Epictetus, who enjoyed
the proper relationship with the deity.
And what of Jesus’ most distinctive teaching: Love your enemies, turn the other cheek?
Seneca in the mid first century reported this piece of counterculture Cynic philosophy:
‘Allow any man that desires to insult you and work you wrong; but if only virtue dwells in
you, you will suffer nothing. If you wish to be happy, if you would wish in good faith to be
a good man, let one person or another despise you.’ Epictetus reported favorably on the
Cynic aspiration to brotherly love, remarking on their view that ‘when one is being flogged
like an ass, he must love the men who flog him.’
Here were more than distant echoes of the Sermon on the Mount. Here were teachings
cut from the same cloth.
The Cynics and popular philosophy even had the concept of a Kingdom of God, though
with no apocalyptic associations. Rather, the phrase was a symbol for the stance toward the
world which the Cynics were advocating. The one who ruled over his or her passions was a
‘king’ in a new domain, living in a different, natural order under special divine rule.
This, it seemed to me, was the very atmosphere conveyed by the references to the
Kingdom in Q1.
As for Q’s ‘rules of the road’, the practice of Cynic preachers in their wanderings about
the empire were virtually identical. For both, the divine call necessitated a total break with
family and possessions. This probably explained the meaning of Q 14:27, that a disciple had
to ‘take up his cross’ and follow the Master. Commentators generally regarded this not as
reference to Jesus’ own cross—something Q gave absolutely no attention to—but a Cynic-
Stoic proverb. Bultmann thought it might have been used by the Jewish Zealots as well. It
signified full submission to a calling of hardship and dedication.

203

There had been other telling observations as well.


Not only were the sentiments of Q1 similar to the Cynic philosophy, but the way some of
them were presented fitted the image of the Cynic chreia. This was a little anecdote about a
teacher, consisting of an objection and a response. A famous story about Diogenes took this
chreic shape:
‘Diogenes was asked why he begged from a statue. He answered, “So that I will get
practice in being refused.” ’
To which one could compare Q’s anecdote:
‘A man invited to follow Jesus said, “Let me go and bury my father first.” But Jesus
said: “Leave the dead to bury their dead.” ’
Pronouncement stories of this type could also be found in the second layer of Q.
If taken entirely out of context, Q1 could easily be mistaken for a Cynic product. The
passing reference to Solomon and a couple of other tinges of Jewish provenance, the
inclusion of the name Jesus in one set of sayings, these could be bits of overlay in a process
of adaptation.
Mistaken for a Cynic product. But would it be a mistake?
This was my last thought as I fell into bed.

Wednesday, 3 PM.
Hmm. So Burton Mack, among others, was now casting Jesus as a Cynic-style sage.
Why was I not surprised? Q1 was strongly Cynic-flavored. Yet it had to be Q’s early
record of the preaching Jesus. Ergo—
Of course, this necessitated placing Jesus in a strongly Hellenistic environment. The
Cynic style of his preaching must have been absorbed from such influences. Mack,
therefore, did his best to portray the Galilee of the early first century as a strongly
cosmopolitan region. Here Jews were of independent mind and could absorb foreign ideas
without difficulty.
Perhaps such a picture was not an inaccurate one. After all, Q1 had apparently surfaced
in Galilee.
Mack was also forced to cast Jesus’ concerns as having little to do with the Jewish social
world, for the sayings of Q1 showed no preoccupation with specifically Jewish issues or
institutions. The great conflict with the Pharisees would emerge only in Q2.
Did this make sense?
A body of material formed the bedrock of the Q document. It had figured, in some way,
in the beginnings of a preaching movement in Galilee. Yet it was essentially non-Jewish in
character, so close as to be almost indistinguishable from Cynic philosophy.
Moreover, the wide range of its concerns, the telling and innovative nature of its
observations, suggested that it was the product of a movement, not a lone individual. It
reflected the outlook of a school, a lifestyle followed by many. Its expression in finely-tuned
aphorisms and anecdotes had been developed and honed over time. The whole thing hardly
struck one as the sudden invention of a single mind.
And yet, as a candidate for that unlikely mind, scholars were now pointing to the very
Jewish Jesus of Nazareth, the Jesus of the Gospels.
How likely was it that such a Jesus went back to these incongruous roots?

204

Was it not more likely that the later Jesus was a composite product of many ingredients,
picked and adapted from here and there? Instead of the breakup of Jesus into a multiplicity
of ‘responses’ to him, the earliest roots of the Jesus figure lay in independent sets of sayings,
ethical teachings, wisdom collections. His miracles were inspired by the wonder-working
prophets and wandering philosophers of the time, modelled on the biblical stories of feeding
miracles, healings and raisings from the dead. The controversy stories and encounters with
opponents reflected the experiences of missionaries of all stamps, in their conflict with the
establishment, both Jewish and pagan.
It was all the flotsam and jetsam of an acutely religious period of philosophizing and
proselytizing. One of these pieces of flotsam had been the Cynic-style aphorisms at the heart
of Q. Through one avenue and another, all of these independent pieces were to come
together, joining with the savior god of Paul to create a hodge-podge picture, often
inconsistent and contradictory.

6 PM.
Re-reading Q1 for the tenth time at least.
The one unit which contained the name ‘Jesus’ was actually a string of three chreic
anecdotes. In each one, Jesus responded to something said to him. The first of these read:
‘When a man said to him, “I will follow you wherever you go,” Jesus answered, “Foxes
have dens and birds their nests; but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.” ’
Here, scholars acknowledged that this particular ‘Son of Man’ did not, in the saying’s
original form, refer to the apocalyptic figure but to ‘man’ in general. It should not be
capitalized. The saying was probably a popular proverb of the time.
If one compared the Q1 sayings with their equivalents in the Gospel of Thomas, one
found in virtually every case of the latter only the skeletal attribution, ‘Jesus said’. Here,
too, the name of Jesus could have been added at some later stage of that document’s history.
Tellingly, the Gospel of Thomas contained the saying about foxes and birds and the son of
man, but it was not connected to the other chreic anecdotes (which did not appear at all).
This indicated that at the earliest stage of Q, the foxes saying had also stood alone. As well,
the Thomas version was introduced only by the standard ‘Jesus said’, not by anyone else’s
words; it was not a response to anything. Q’s version was clearly a later reworking.
All this strengthened my growing conviction that Jesus as the speaker, in all three chreic
anecdotes, was a later overlay. Originally, there had been no ‘Jesus’ in any of the Q1
sayings.
And nowhere in Q1 was there any narrative element, nothing which could be placed
within a life or ministry. There were no set-up lines for the sayings, no contexts.
A scientific, dispassionate evaluation of the earliest layer of Q would have to conclude
that this collection of sayings had been adopted by a Jewish circle or community who first
began to preach the Kingdom of God, somewhere in the environs of Galilee toward the
middle of the first century CE. The collection came from either a non-Jewish source, or
from Jews who were highly hellenized and immersed in Cynic traditions. At the time of
adoption, or else subsequently, it may have undergone subtle Judaizing changes as the
sayings found a new home in a Jewish prophetic milieu, but in general Q1 preserved its
Cynic character. The sayings were regarded as a suitable ethic for those who preached and
awaited the arrival of God’s Kingdom.

205

How ironic.
The core of the teachings of Jesus, the ethical foundation of the Christian religion. It was
beginning to look as though ultimately this had not even been the product of a Jewish way of
thinking, but of a Greek philosophical movement.
The path of the history of ideas could be a tortured and unexpected one.
Peeling away the buried layers of Q and declaring that at their very heart lay the authentic
voice of Jesus was clearly an exercise in preconception, arriving at a conclusion because one
had begun from a starting point which could not be surrendered no matter what was
uncovered. No one would have thought to insist that Solomon was the true author of
Proverbs and Ecclesiastes simply because later tradition ascribed these anonymous
collections of wisdom material to him.
But what of the other pieces of the Q puzzle? If one moved outward from that central
core, could the rest of the Q evidence point to an evolving process: the development of a
human Jesus who had not been there at the beginning, who did not lie at Q’s ground zero?
What might an examination of Q2 indicate?
Another long night lay ahead of me.

8 PM.
Shauna on the telephone. A jolt. It reminded me that there was a 20th century world out
there.
I had not spoken to her since the weekend. I had not seen her for almost a week before
that. She brought this to my attention.
“Has it been that long? I guess time is moving at a different pace over here. I’ve been
rather heavily into something, I’m sorry. It shouldn’t be too much longer.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“How about this weekend? We’ll do something.”
“Do you think you’ll be back to earth by then?”
“I’ll make a special trip.”
Her pause suggested she was trying to decide whether to be amused. “For someone who
never existed, this guy’s got a pretty good hold on you.”
I had no answer to that. “I’ll call you tomorrow night.”
As it turned out, I didn’t.

11 PM.
There was a fire in the belly of Q2.
‘This is a wicked generation. It demands a sign, and the only sign that will be given to it
is the sign of Jonah...
‘Woe to you Pharisees...You are like graves over which men may walk without knowing
it...
‘Do you suppose I have come to establish peace on earth? No, I have come to bring
division...
‘What hypocrites you are! How is it you cannot interpret this fateful hour?
‘There will be wailing and gnashing of teeth, when you see Abraham, Isaac and Jacob
and all the prophets in the Kingdom of God and yourselves thrown out.’
‘Where the corpse is, there the vultures will gather...’

206

A rejected message. The Q preachers had been scoffed at. Doors had been slammed in
their faces.
Those fire-breathing sentiments could easily be understood as the response of the Q
community to rejection. No attribution to a Jesus figure was needed. Perhaps only later
would this reaction be seen as that of one specific man, an heroic figure located at the sect’s
beginnings. At such a time, some of the sayings might have undergone alteration to place
them in his mouth.
Did any of the sayings of Q2 betray the presence of such a figure in the community’s
past?
In fact, I found a few that betrayed his absence.
Luke/Q 16:16: ‘Until John, it was the law and the prophets; since then, there is the good
news of the Kingdom of God, and everyone forces his way in.’
Matthew’s version, in 11:23, read, ‘From the days of John the Baptist until now...’
Q scholars regarded Matthew as closer to the Q original, though both evangelists had
adapted the saying to their own purposes and contexts. But the underlying implication
seemed undeniable.
When the saying first formed, the community was looking back over its history. The
implied time scale was much too great to make it an authentic saying of Jesus, commenting
on a year or two of his own ministry. This was Q’s picture of the past, a past of years,
perhaps decades.
Before the preaching of John the Baptist, now looked upon as a forerunner or mentor to
the community’s work, the study of scripture formed the prevailing activity and source of
inspiration. But a new movement was perceived to have arisen at the time of John: the
preaching of the coming Kingdom of God, and it had inaugurated an era of contention.
But there was something wrong here.
Why wouldn’t Jesus himself have been seen in this role? Surely the sect would regard
his ministry as the turning point from the old to the new. The saying would surely have
formed around him.
Q2’s picture of its past lacked a Jesus at the most critical point where he would be
expected to appear: at the movement’s beginning.
A similar void jumped off the page when I read Luke 11:49:
‘This is why the Wisdom of God said, “I will send them prophets and messengers; and
some of these they will persecute and kill,” so that the blood of all the prophets, shed
from the foundation of the world, will have to be answered for by this generation...’
But how could such a saying have formulated with no mention of Jesus? Surely he, the
Son of God, was the most important of those whom Wisdom had sent.
Moreover, I could see an even more profound omission. This saying reflected Q2’s
strong emotional focus on the great myth of the time among sectarian groups, that the Jewish
leaders had a long history of killing God’s prophets and messengers. And yet nowhere in Q
was there even an allusion to the persecution and killing of the greatest of these: Jesus
himself.
The Q community saw itself as the culmination of that long line of God’s persecuted
messengers. Had it possessed any knowledge of a similar fate suffered by its presumed
founder at the hands of the political establishment in Jerusalem, such a fate could not fail to
be incorporated into this theme.

207

Might someone object that it couldn’t be worked in because the sayings were presented as
delivered by Jesus—before the event of his death took place? A similar objection might be
raised in regard to the saying about John inaugurating the new era.
And yet the evangelists had gotten around this type of problem quite neatly. They simply
had Jesus make prophecies, or allusions to his future. Parables like the Tenants of the
Vineyard could contain a clear reference to the murder of the Son of God. The Q compilers
had done none of this.
No, the killing of Jesus would have been a central concern to Q2, and it would have
shown up in passages like Luke/Q 11:49f.
Such a conclusion effectively destroyed modern scholarly scenarios that communities like
Q reacted to Jesus in specifically limited and isolated ways. In the case of Q, with its focus
on the killing of messengers from God, this postulated exclusion of all interest in Jesus’ own
death defied every law of common sense. The blinders worn by Q were a modern scholarly
invention. It seemed equally impossible that the Q preaching circle would have remained
impervious to the developing cults around them which focused on that very death as a
redeeming act.

4 AM.
It was beginning to look as though I would see another dawn.
But I could not let go of that saying about Wisdom in Luke/Q 11:49.
‘That is why the Wisdom of God said...’
Matthew had rendered this a direct saying of Jesus: ‘I send you prophets, sages and
teachers...’ Scholars judged the Lukan version to reflect the original, for there was no reason
why Luke would have created the reference to the Wisdom of God and placed such a saying
into her mouth.
Had Luke left open here, perhaps inadvertently, a revealing chink in the wall which both
evangelists had thrown up in front of the true nature of Q?
It certainly looked as though some sayings at the Q2 level had been attributed to Wisdom.
Could she have been regarded as the source of the community’s pronouncements? Instead
of a ‘Jesus said’, perhaps it was ‘Wisdom said’.
Wisdom. That personified, communicating aspect of God. She who had played such an
persuasive role in Jewish thinking, calling men to knowledge of the Deity, his wishes and
intentions. The Q preachers were her spokespersons, her envoys. Her children.
Had this outlook begun even with the first layer of Cynic sayings?
When adopted and adapted by a new Jewish movement preaching the Kingdom, perhaps
they had been presented as the voice of Wisdom speaking. Or at least as inspired by her.
This was the common way of thinking within the entire genre of wisdom collections of the
time, a genre which the earliest layer of Q belonged to.
And if Wisdom’s words lay at the genesis of the Q community, why not Wisdom herself
as the perceived ‘founder’? The inspirational force and channel from God.
That chink left open by Luke may have revealed the entire early landscape of Q, a
landscape empty of any Jesus figure at all, peopled by a preaching movement inspired from
heaven and working under Wisdom’s direction. As she had done throughout Israel’s past,
Wisdom had sent this culminating wave of messengers to proclaim God’s salvation, and as
in the past, they had received hostility, rejection, and even death.

208

Dawn was indeed breaking when I decided that my brain could function no further
without sleep. Even though I was itching to perform an experiment based on an observation
I had already made about the Q1 sayings.
Could I find any indication of an original context for the Q sayings, something common
between Matthew and Luke, which would show the clear presence of Jesus, especially at the
earlier levels?
It would have to wait.

Thursday, noon.
The figure of Wisdom had haunted too few hours of fitful sleep. Perhaps she had been
itching herself to break free from the evangelists’ confines, emerge from behind the curtain.
She was prodding me to get on with it.
I began by confirming my observations about Q1.
This wisdom saying lay at the core of Luke/Q 17:5-6: ‘If you had faith no bigger than a
mustard-seed, you could say to this sycamore tree, “Be rooted up and replanted in the sea,”
and it would obey you.’
Matthew 17:20 used the same saying, with minor changes: ‘If you have faith no bigger
than a mustard-seed, you will say to this mountain, “Move from here to there,” and it will
move.’
Had Q presented this saying in any context involving Jesus?
Evidently not, for Luke had placed it in Jesus’ mouth in response to a request by the
Apostles to ‘Increase our faith,’ a scene which took place during Jesus’ long journey toward
Jerusalem. Matthew, on the other hand, gave the saying to Jesus as his explanation for why
the disciples had not been able to cast a devil out of an epileptic boy. And his scene took
place in Galilee immediately after the Transfiguration.
Clearly, the saying had come to Q unattached to any context in a ministry of Jesus.
The same, amazingly, could be said of the Lord’s Prayer.
This was arguably the most important and enduring thing Jesus ever spoke. Yet not even
this had come to Q attached to a specific setting in Jesus’ career. Matthew included it in the
Sermon on the Mount, delivered to vast, attentive crowds. Luke offered it during the
journey to Jerusalem, a private communication at the request of the disciples who asked,
‘Lord, teach us how to pray.’
If not even the Lord’s Prayer had passed through oral transmisson attached to a context in
which Jesus taught it, how could any context or narrative setting in the Gospels be trusted?
All the sayings of Q1 showed the same lack of contexts. And what of Q2?

5 PM.
Scraps of warmed leftovers accompanied my survey of the Q2 sayings. I would not have
been surprised to find that the obsessive study of scripture was an unsung path to weight
loss.
‘Woe to you, Chorazin...Bethsaida...’
Had those Galilean cities, I wondered, preserved the occasion of Jesus’ anathemas any
better than the Christian tradition itself? Luke placed it in the context of the commissioning
and sending out of 72 disciples. Matthew 11:20 added it to the dialogue between Jesus and
John the Baptist.

209

It would seem that in Q they had stook naked, the words unattached to any occasion, not
even—for there was no sign of such a thing—to the name of Jesus.
There was a saying in Luke 22:28-30 that the faithful followers of Jesus would ‘sit on
thrones judging the twelve tribes of Israel.’ Apparently the Apostles who received this
assurance had not transmitted it in the context in which they heard it. For it appeared during
the Last Supper in Luke, during Jesus’ passage into Judea in Matthew. Both were anchored
to preceding words which were entirely different.
Narration or dialogue involving apostles, Pharisees or onlookers, used by Matthew and
Luke to keep a chain of sayings going as an unfolding scene, were never remotely alike
between the two evangelists. Clearly, Q had provided no narrative or contextual settings for
any of these individual or clusters of sayings. Not even little set-up lines, such as “Jesus said
to his disciples” could be found. Matthew and Luke had had to invent them all.
This situation held true for all sayings which could reliably be regarded as coming from
either Q1 or Q2. The evangelists had worked with a skeletal raw material of core words.
Yet why would such sayings, particularly the ones considered to be authentic, have been
consistently preserved and transmitted with nothing to identify even an attribution to Jesus?
And why would the Q compilers themselves, especially at the earliest levels when they
would have been closer to Jesus’ memory, not have developed contexts of their own which
involved even his name?

8 PM.
And so I was left with two or three extended units in all of Q where common contextual
elements between Matthew and Luke indicated that a Jesus had finally been introduced into
the Q material.
Q3 had arrived.
Perhaps the most important of these was the dialogue between Jesus and John.
John the Baptist.
What role had he filled in the Q community’s thinking? Had it been an evolving one?
What had John originally proclaimed? Most Q scholars recognized that there were layers of
Baptist material in Q.
This was how Luke introduced him in 3:7 to 17, a passage usually assigned to Q2,
although Luke had made Markan insertions as well:
‘Crowds of people came out to be baptized by John, and he said to them: “You vipers’
brood! Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come? Then prove your repentance by
its fruits....I baptize you with water; but there is one to come who is mightier than I. I am
not worthy to untie the thong of his sandals. He will baptize with the Holy Spirit and
with fire. His shovel is ready in his hands, to clear the threshing floor and gather the
wheat into the granary, but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.” ’
Did John ever preach this way? Probably impossible to say. But there was no doubt that
this was the way the Q preachers sounded during the Q2 stage, and they represented John as
having done the same.
But who, in their minds, was this ‘one to come’? If Jesus, it was a pretty stark picture of
him. Here was no teacher of wisdom, no formulator of the ‘turn the other cheek’ aphorisms
and light-hearted advice of Q1. This was a powerful End-time figure who would show no
mercy and winnow the good from the bad, consigning the latter to hellfire.

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That the Q community at this stage envisioned John as forecasting their own presumed
founder figure with these words was almost impossible to accept.
A comparison of Luke and Matthew indicated that no reference to Jesus had stood in the
Q passage which introduced John. The account of the baptism of Jesus by John at the
Jordan was unknown to Q. Rather, we owed that scene to Mark.
Mark, in presenting John at the opening of his Gospel, had none of the Baptist’s
fulminating words found in Q. Instead, Mark quoted Isaiah—or rather, misquoted him—
pointing to John as a voice crying in the wilderness to prepare a way for the Lord. Still,
Mark’s John had made a forecast of one to follow:
‘After me comes one who is mightier than I, the thong of whose sandals I am not
worthy to stoop and untie. I have baptized you with water, but he will baptize you
with the Holy Spirit.’
The question was, did Mark derive such words from a knowledge of Q or contact with the
community’s traditions? Did he eliminate all the fire and End-time implications because he
was now equating John’s prophecy with a human Jesus of Nazareth who was about to join
John by the Jordan? To Mark, the original Q material would have seemed inappropriate. As
indeed it did to us.
If not the human Jesus, who was John presented as forecasting in this Q passage?
Obviously, it was the figure who represented another major motif in the community’s
preaching at the Q2 stage: the Son of Man.
‘The Son of Man is coming at an hour you do not expect,’ said Luke/Q 12:40.
‘As it was in the days of Noah, so will it be in the days of the Son of Man,’ warned the Q
preachers, as recorded in Q 17:26.
There was no suggestion in this type of saying that such a figure was to be equated with
some human founder Jesus. The ‘sign given to this generation’ in Q 11:30 was the
preaching of the Son of Man, and every indication showed that this apocalyptic figure was
derived from an interpretation of the ‘one like a son of man’ who received power and glory
from God in the vision of Daniel 7.
The Q people who studied scripture may well have been the first to create this new figure
out of the Book of Daniel. They would be closely followed by the writers of that section of
1 Enoch known as the Similitudes, and later of 4 Ezra and, of course, the Gospels and
Revelation.
That reference by John to the sandals. Was it present in Q, or did Matthew and Luke get
it from Mark? But even if the sandals went back to the Q saying, they did not have to imply
a human figure. The Muratorian commentary pointed out that the idea of carrying or taking
off sandals was a common image of the time, used to illustrate the relationship between
master and slave. It alluded to the great gap that existed between lord and lowly one. The Q
writer could well have found it in keeping with the gulf John was declaring between himself
and the coming Son of Man.
In Q2, then, the Son of Man was a figure who stood on his own, an apocalyptic judge
prophecied by the Q preachers and, so it was said, by John. Obviously, it was only later that
he became identified with a founder Jesus. Most of these Son of Man sayings were then
simply placed in his mouth, creating the curious impression that Jesus was talking about
someone distinct from himself. Except in one or two places, Matthew and Luke had done
nothing to correct this impression.

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No wonder such perplexity existed today in the interpretation of the Son of Man! This
figure would also have attracted non-apocalyptic sayings, ones using the term ‘son of man’
as a reference not to any End-time figure but simply to ‘man’ in general, an occasional
practice in the Old Testament. The wisdom proverb in Q1 that ‘the son of man has nowhere
to lay his head’ would have been sucked into the Son of Man vortex at the Q3 stage and
turned into a reference to the Son of Man during the activities of his earthly ministry.
Mark in turn would have followed suit by converting general sayings like ‘man is Lord
even over the Sabbath.’ He had also created a raft of predictions by Jesus about the earthly
Son of Man’s impending death and resurrection, as well as his End-time arrival on the
clouds of heaven, an image influenced directly by Daniel 7.
It was even possible, it seemed to me, that with the Son of Man fad raging during the
time of the Gospels’ formation, Christian prophetic sayings as well as interpretations of
scripture which originally involved the Messiah would have been turned into references to
the Son of Man, since the two were now to be equated. This was why Mark could declare in
9:12 that scripture foretold the sufferings of the Son of Man when in fact no such references
could be found.
Since it was all a jerry-built affair, with no single organizing force pulling it into a
coherent unity, the Son of Man in the New Testament ended up as a mish-mash concoction
which continued to drive scholars crazy. They regularly declared the ‘problem’ insoluble. It
struck me as perhaps the biggest exegetical joke played in the inheritors of the early
Christian process.

11 PM.
So when did the Q John the Baptist acquire a knowledge of an historical Jesus?
This must have been at the Q3 stage, and a new passage was created to reflect it: the
dialogue between Jesus and John in Luke/Q 7:18-35.
I could see that there were notable differences in the way Matthew and Luke had each
adapted this Q unit, but there could be no doubt that in the editions of Q they both used, the
dialogue stood with its present implication.
There had been an historical Jesus who was the founder of the Q community.
The dialogue was concerned with establishing the relative roles of the two figures, Jesus
and John. By implication, most scholars assumed, the community was being forced to deal
with followers of the Baptist, now a few decades dead, who were in a position of rivalry with
the Q community itself. The dialogue served to establish Jesus’ superiority, and John’s role
as his herald.
In Q 7:18-35, John from prison sends his disciples to ask Jesus whether he is the expected
‘coming one’ or not. Jesus points to his miracles and tells those disciples to go back and
give John the answer. Jesus then declares to the people that John is more than a prophet, he
is Jesus’ own herald. He offers a parable condemning the people of this generation for
rejecting both John with his ascetic message and Jesus with his more liberal one. Yet both
approaches are valid, Q suggests, showing that ‘Wisdom is proven right by all her children.’
Every critical analysis I had consulted regarded this passage as composite, a pastiche built
up out of smaller, earlier units. It was a scene invented by a Q writer at a certain stage of
revision.
This was proven by a comparison with the Gospel of Thomas. There, saying No. 78 read:

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‘Jesus said, “Why have you come out into the desert? To see a reed shaken by the wind?
(Or) to see a man clothed in fine garments like your kings and great ones? Upon them
are the fine garments and they are unable to discern the truth.” ’
In Thomas there was no context or suggestion involving the Baptist. Here the implication
was that those addressed had come out to see Jesus. Originally, it may have referred to some
unnamed prophet or preacher—even a Cynic one.
The final sentence, a thoroughly Gnostic idea, was a later addition and showed that the
Gospel of Thomas, too, had undergone its own evolutionary accretions.
In Q3, this earlier saying (without Thomas’ addition) had been worked into the scene
between Jesus and John. The lines, addressed to the crowd in verse 24-25, now referred to
John in the context of Jesus’ declaration about him.
Could other parts of this dialogue be seen as built up from earlier discreet sayings?
What about John’s question and Jesus’ answer?
“Are you the coming one?” might originally have been a question put to the Q people:
Are these the last times? Can we expect the one who is to come—meaning the Messiah—or
will there be further delay? The community’s original response was to quote passages from
Isaiah, about the poor rejoicing, about the expected signs and wonders that would attend the
coming of God’s Kingdom: the healing of the blind, the deaf, the lame, the dumb. Yes, said
the earlier Q, the Kingdom was indeed coming, and it pointed to the preaching and healing
activities of the Q prophets.
In Q3 the words of Isaiah, with other miracles thrown in, were assigned to the new Jesus,
a reference to his own signs and wonders. This now provided the answer to John’s question.
Jesus’ evaluation of John to the people was also seen as a composite passage. And the
parable, whose original meaning could not be uncovered, had been brought in to serve a new
role, comparing Jesus with John the Baptist in their failed appeals to a stubborn generation.
Here, too, another Son of Man saying had been artificially formed.
Over a late night snack I reflected that, to the modern mind, this whole process was a
bizarre practice. To collect little snippets of sayings, proverbs, scriptural verses, and
construct out of them a scene, a dialogue, a little tale containing a moral or a theological
insight. And to present it as some kind of truth.
And yet this was one of the commonest literary practices of the period, seen not only in Q
but in the entire history of Christian writings, both canonical and apocryphal. Take prior
distinct units and recast them, assign them new referents and speakers, new meanings and
interpretation. Often the earlier settings and meanings of these units would be lost behind
the new creation. They might have borne little or no relationship to their reincarnations.
Obviously, the redactor could hardly have believed that he was creating something
factual; but the discreet units had possessed their own sanctity, their cores of truth. No
doubt, so the thinking went, they could be put together to create the reflection of a new truth,
new insights, new relevance for the current times and situation.
This idea, as the solution to the Gospels, I was to develop more fully before long. It
would come under the Jewish concept and practice of ‘midrash’.
The conclusion to this Q dialogue was illuminating:
‘And Wisdom is justified (proven right) by all her children.’
Matthew read: “And Wisdom is justified by her works.’

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Whichever reflected Q—and scholars were persuaded that it was Luke—this line was
clearly tacked on after living a previous life of its own. It pointed to my earlier deduction:
that personified Wisdom lay at the heart of the Q community’s origins. In its new setting,
the saying was used to describe Jesus and John, but earlier, I had no doubt, it referred to the
Q community itself. Its people had been Wisdom’s children, her spokespersons. Their
works had been her works.
Q, in its earliest stages, had been a preaching movement inspired by and founded in
Wisdom, not any historical Jesus.
And what of the new Jesus, emerging in Q3? What was his nature? Both Jesus and John
were presented in this dialogue as children of Wisdom. No qualitative difference was
envisioned between them.
One was superior to the other, John was the herald. But both were seen as human
preachers.
Jesus was not touted as the Son of God, something far beyond the status of any child of
Wisdom. At this stage of Q, he was a human founder of the movement. Although his
identification as the ‘coming one’ made him a messianic-style figure, Q nowhere used of
him the exalted term ‘Christ’, Anointed One, a name which had implications of kingship, a
name which others in very different circles were already using of their transcendent saving
deity.
When a founder Jesus was developed in the community’s mind, no patina of divinity was
yet laid on him. That would come only at the very last stage, reflected in the story of the
Temptation.

1 AM.
Once again, my part of the world had swung into deep night, carrying me along with it. I
was exhausted. I realized I had failed to call Shauna, as I had promised.
Surrounded by scraps and notes and jerry-built affairs of my own, I had arrived at an
intricate view of Q which threatened to explode my poor overworked head. Yet I had only
scratched the surface of the endlessly fascinating and labyrinthine details of this document-
by-proxy. One could spend a lifetime studying Q, and a few had.
But the outlines seemed clear. In those early layers, no attribution to a Jesus could be
uncovered. The wisdom sayings were probably designated as the words of Wisdom herself;
the prophetic pronouncements reflected the activities of the Q preachers, attributed to no
individual. No settings were offered.
At the great revision of the Q3 stage, a handful of units, like the dialogue between Jesus
and John, or the Beelzebub controversy in Luke/Q 11:14-23, were formed out of older
pieces. A couple of healing miracles that would have been ascribed to the Q prophets were
recast as those of Jesus. But the vast amount of previous material, perhaps with its order
rearranged, was allowed to stand as before, possibly with a simple heading identifying it as
the words of the new Jesus.
Minor internal changes would likely have been made, the use of personal pronouns now
that the words were placed in Jesus’ mouth, some incidental reworking to reflect his role.
The latest stage of the Gospel of Thomas showed just such a process. It would have offered
evangelists like Matthew and Luke even less to work with than did Q.

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I was left with one major riddle. The obvious, climactic question in Q’s pattern of
development.
Where had the community’s idea of a founder Jesus come from? How had such a figure
arisen in the Q mind if he had not been based on an actual historical man?
Perhaps I had another question as a corollary. Why had this figure been given the name
Jesus, which in other circles possessed the full significance of its Hebrew meaning: Savior?
There was no soteriology in Q. Q had not seen its child of Wisdom as a redeemer. Once
again that most arresting of Q’s features reared its head: the Jesus of Q had not undergone a
death and resurrection.
My whole body rebelled against any tackling of such questions tonight. It would have
been too great a threat to my sanity. Besides, there wasn’t much of the night left.
Sleep was the only available option, and it was a welcome one.

Breakfast came at noon. I debated calling Shauna at the lab, but I was not in the habit of
doing that, and she might have felt awkward talking to me in front of others. I would call
her that evening, I promised myself.
As it was, a phone call from David initiated a day’s delay in plunging into the final thorny
question of Q, and it probably preserved my sanity.
If the activities of the Ascended Masters could be said to promote anyone’s sanity.
“I followed your advice, Kevin, and got in touch with someone at the FBI. An agent in
Washington named Nelson Chown got back to me last night. Seems they do have a recently
established sub-department or other trying to keep track of millenarian groups around the
country. They’re trying to make sure no one goes off the deep end as the year 2000
approaches.”
“I wish them luck.”
“Your friend Robert Cherkasian is someone they’ve got in their files, but so far he hasn’t
created much of a stir. Several years ago he was involved with some televangelist outfit and
had a falling out with head office. He tried to set up his own ministry and sank a lot of
money into a new network, but it didn’t get off the ground. Chown thinks it was opposed
behind the scenes by his old organization. Either they didn’t want the competition, or they
felt he was too loose a cannon.”
“My money would be on both. His ideas were probably too far out for your average
fundamentalist ministry. Especially with millions riding on the airwaves.”
“Anyway, Cherkasian was in Philadelphia until recently, but he seems to have been
keeping a low profile.”
“Or staying underground.”
“Chown says no one from the bureau has really been paying him too much attention.”
“What about the Ascended Masters? What does he know about them?”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. It was a new one on him. That’s why he’s coming up
early next week. We’re getting together and he’s going to examine the e-mail messages and
take a run out to the schoolhouse to look things over. I said he could talk to you while he’s
here. I hope you don’t mind.”
“I guess not. And what about Patterson?”

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David cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I’m still sitting on that until I see Chown. My life is
complicated enough as it is right now, and I don’t need Burton in some kind of flap to add to
it. Especially when he finds out that I haven’t told him about any of this.”
“The flap is going to come sooner or later, my friend. The closer it happens to
Philadelphia the more disruptive to your overworked life it may turn out to be.”
David’s voice sounded rueful. “Yes, I know. But I guess I’m just hoping that someone
will snap their fingers and the whole thing will go away. I don’t ever want to hear the word
‘Revelation’ again.”
I laughed. “Then you’d better go off to the moon for the next four years.”
“I’m tempted.”
“Of course, by the time you get back you may find the Age of Reason Foundation being
run by the Ascended Masters. Cherkasian will have me writing pamphlets on creationism—
or drawing up membership lists for the 144,000 elect. Maybe he’ll have Patterson doing
community work: we’re going to need lots of hands going around engraving the mark of the
Lamb or the mark of the beast on everyone’s forehead. Got to sort things out for the Great
Day, you know.”
“OK, OK. The moon will have to wait. I’ll call you when Chown gets here and set up a
meeting.”
“Sleep tight. Try a copy of Revelation under your pillow.”
David answered me with a dial tone.

The call and the subject of the Ascended Masters had brought me back to the surface
from my subterranean explorations of Q, and I decided to shower and change. Besides, I
knew that an investigation of the great looming question would require some research in a
certain sociological area, namely the behavior of sects, how sectarian groups evolved.
Several things I had read these past few days had pointed in that direction. This would
necessitate a visit to the University Library, which I would have to make before it got too
late.
By 5 o’clock I was feeling considerably more human and clear of head. I was preparing
to leave the house when the doorbell rang. I had to laugh at myself as various images went
through my brain. Who was standing on the other side of the door? Robert Cherkasian?
Agent Chown? Perhaps it was John the Prophet, accompanied by one of his angels of
retribution.
When I opened the door to find Shauna on the porch, the first idea which crossed my
mind was that she was coming to tell me she was running away with Burton Patterson.
David wasn’t the only one whose life and brain were getting overworked.
“What’s the matter—have I grown a second head or something? Are you going to ask me
in?”
“Yes, of course. My mind was elsewhere.” Shauna moved past me and stepped inside.
“So I see.” She looked around the living room and beyond it into the study. “So I guess
it’s someone else who’s been living here for the last few days and left this mess behind.”
I sighed. “Something like that. I’m in the middle of a particularly difficult phase of my
research.”
“Yes, so you told me. But really, Kevin, you’ve got to come up for air sometime. You
really shouldn’t let it take such control of you. There are other things in life.”

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There was a definite note of exasperation in her voice which I had never heard before. I
tried to establish a cheerier mood.
“You’re right. I’m glad you’ve come to rescue me. I would have called you tonight
anyway. To do something on the weekend.” I was improvising. “But this is better. You
can come with me on a little errand, and then I’ll treat you to a meal somewhere.”
Shauna looked at me with a touch of skepticism. “What sort of errand were you about to
embark on?”
I beamed at her. “I was about to investigate the joy of sects.”
My pun, though properly enunciated, fell flat. “With whom? I must have missed the
invitation.”
I kissed her on the cheek. “Consider it reissued. C’mon. Just a quick trip to the Library.
I know what books I want and then we can investigate whatever you like. Did you come in
your car?”
“No, I came from work.”
“Good. Then I can do the driving for the evening. It’ll put me back on the straight and
narrow.”
“No, my dear. What you need is to broaden your road.”
“I’ll take the freeway.”
The University stopover was a little longer than promised. I knew the area I wanted, but
it took a little time to examine a range of material on the subject, both in the Religion and
Sociology sections. Fortunately, Shauna’s innate love for books kept her occupied while she
waited, and she drifted off into the stacks several times to browse and handle some of the
timeworn volumes the University possessed. Over supper at a Chinese Buffet, she talked
about some of the old books she had perused.
Afterwards we drove out to the Point overlooking the river. I had thought to rekindle a
romantic spirit under a twilit June moon. But I made the mistake of bringing her up to date
during the trip out on developments concerning the Ascended Masters, and our conversation
about the schoolhouse, Cherkasian and FBI agents stretched over the hour we were parked
there. I also read to her the e-mail which constituted clue number three, from a little
notebook I now carried with all my Ascended Masters messages and musings. I regarded it
as a good luck charm—or so I hoped. Carry the enemy in your pocket, and he has less
chance of sneaking up behind you.
“Well, I’m glad you’ve notified someone,” was Shauna’s reaction. “I really don’t like the
sound of bowls of fire poured out over those who refuse to repent.”
“Why—do you think they’re talking about me?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. You’re pretty unrepentant sometimes.”
“Ouch. What can I do to gain your forgiveness?”
We went back to Shauna’s place, a modest apartment unit in a pricey building,
conveniently located for walking to the lab on good-weather days. We had a snack of
leftover brownies, but the lovemaking which followed, though re-establishing some of the
closeness I knew we had lacked throughout the evening, had an element of reserve to it, a
loss of direction. Perhaps larger events were sweeping me up in their stormy course. It
might take a little time for our relationship to regain its former moorings. Then again, that
old, secure haven might no longer suffice. Instead of a halcyon spot, it may merely have
turned musty. We would have to reach a new harbor.

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*****************************

Chapter Fifteen

One of the profoundest and most far-reaching insights in the history of New Testament
scholarship had come during the 1970s. It would never have been possible if society as a
whole had not recently entered that brave new secular world—and carried the more
adventurous circles of biblical research along with it.
Previously, the interpretation of Christian origins had enjoyed a protected and rose-
colored status. The internal workings of the Christian movement, it was claimed, had not
been governed by the same forces which invested other religious and social groupings.
Christianity was not to be regarded as the product of its time, and more than one scholar had
made that bold declaration in print. If Paul or Luke issued a dictum on social behavior, if
they championed the rituals and practices of the Christian communities, such things had
developed within the Christian movement as a result of theological necessity, revealed
through the spirit from God or Jesus’ own teachings.
Theological correctness, it was assumed, was permanent and timeless, isolated from its
historical origins and ultimately proceeding from the will of God. Nothing in the personal
experiences of the great figures of early Christianity, such as Paul or the evangelists, would
have disturbed this inspired pursuit of the truth. The Christian movement as a whole had
evolved along a path of divine inevitability, uninfluenced by the day to day social and
political context around it.
When that snug and preposterous little balloon was finally pricked, it collapsed almost
immediately.
Overnight, scholars turned out books and articles showing that, in fact, the process
worked the other way around. Theological principles tended to be developed in order to
justify and legitimate community practice. The religious construct which a movement
evolved for itself served the primary purpose of filling its needs as a social group. The way
such a group viewed and interpreted its past was entirely determined by its life situation in
the present.
The study of Christianity as a sect, following the universal rules of sectarian behavior,
had finally arrived.
A sect was by nature a group which had set itself up in opposition to the rest of society.
Or it had been forced into that position because its reform agenda, its new interpretation of
current events, of society’s guiding principles, had not been accepted by the wider
establishment. In that situation of isolation and conflict, it had to justify its stance, its new
view of the world. And the first audience to which that justification was directed was itself;
only second was it aimed at the world at large.
The reaction of such a sectarian community followed consistent paths. One looked
backwards. Support for the present was sought by a reconstruction of the past. The
elements of current faith and teaching, current ritual and practice, were strengthened if it
could be shown that such things had been there from the beginning; that they had been

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established under divine auspices, in inspiring circumstances, and preferably by an heroic


founder figure with a pipeline to the deity. The more inspiring and glorified that past, the
greater would be the faith and determination of the present believers. This was especially
needed at a time of conflict, or during a later generation, when the fervor and loyalty of the
initial period might be flagging. In keeping with the broader tendencies of human societies
to seek meaning and stability for the present through myths of a sacred, determining past, the
sectarian group sought to sanctify its beliefs and practices by embodying them in their own
hallowed and unimpeachable precedents.
Another path looked outward, beyond the battlements. A strong self-defence was needed
for the sect in order to withstand attacks from a hostile environment. Theology was to a
great extent determined by that conflict. Again, the rejection the sect underwent was
sanctified by seeing it as the reflection of a similar rejection that had been experienced by the
founding members or glorified founder figure. Further strength could be gained by
portraying that figure as having forecast the present time of troubles and girding his
followers for it.
Finally, all these elements of sectarian response required a document in which to be
recorded. The account of the community’s formation, the story of its founder, his teachings
and his example, the events and roots upon which the sect’s theology was based: some or all
of these things set down in writing formed what was known as a ‘foundation document’.
Sociologists had shown that this was an almost universal phenomenon of sectarian
expression throughout history and around the world.

I was to spend the rest of the weekend and beyond reading several seminal works on this
subject, both by writers in the New Testament field and by the secular sociologists who had
preceded them and pointed the way. The Muratorian commentaries had also directed me to
a few recent studies of the Gospels from the sectarian point of view, especially in regard to
Matthew, Luke and John, with their picture of the ‘parting of the ways’ between the
Christian sect and the Jewish parent. I was amassing considerable material and insight for
my analysis of the Gospels. But although none as yet had applied these principles to the
question of the invention of the historical Jesus, I found that the same sectarian factors were
leading me to the answer I sought for Q.
Did Q1 represent a distinct sectarian phase? I found that hard to believe.
The sayings which made up these wise and subtle teachings showed no apocalyptic
atmosphere, no hint of violent conflict with an establishment. There was an utter absence of
focus on glorified beginnings or a founder figure. The Kingdom of God being proclaimed
was little more than that spoken of in popular Hellenistic philosophy. As Mack put it, the
Q1 Kingdom had the Cynic character of offering “an alternative community ethic and social
vision.”
And Q1’s presentation of God the Father fitted the widespread concepts of the time, those
which extended beyond the boundaries of Judaism.
But Q2. Now there was a case of classic sectarianism. Hostility and reaction. A circling
of the wagons. The transition from one to the other was almost unfathomable. It was
difficult to believe that the first phase of this sect in Galilee had actually operated for a time
under the atmosphere and principles embodied in the Q1 sayings. If hostility was to arise,
wouldn’t it have done so almost immediately?

219

My conclusion had to be that Q1 represented a foreign source, one which had flourished
in a non-Jewish milieu. It was even possible that this source had been an oral one. The
Jewish preachers of the new movement had encountered and adopted it, perhaps making
minor changes during assimilation, claiming it as the product of Wisdom. It would not have
been the first time that Jews had declared pagan writings, or the ideas contained in them, as
having an ultimate Jewish provenance.
But where was Q2’s focus on the past? Or the glorified founder? Here I saw a unique
kind of split. John the Baptist marked the inauguration of the new era of preaching. Q had
made him into a forerunner, if not an actual founder. He filled the role of validating present
teachings by locating them at the movement’s inception. He, too, had prophecied what the
Q community was now prophecying, especially the coming of the Son of Man.
But my instinct had already told me that the Q community right from the beginning had
possessed a proper and glorious founder, larger than life, one with a true pipeline to the
Deity. That had been Wisdom herself. With this personified communicating agent of God
in place, John the Baptist’s role would have been compromised. If one could read behind Q
7:35, he had been relegated to the status of ‘child of Wisdom’, just as all the members of the
Q community in the early stages regarded themselves.
Ultimately, however, even Wisdom possessed deficiencies as an ideal founder. If she had
not actually been on earth, but only inspired the community and transmitted its teachings
from heaven, she could not have performed actions which reflected and predetermined those
of the community. She had not herself engaged in controversy with the Jewish
establishment. Most important, she had not spoken the sect’s teachings in the flesh.
Or had she?
The first clear emergence of Q to our eyes was in the Gospel of Matthew. In his use of
the Q passages, Matthew showed a tendency to regard Jesus as the incarnation of Wisdom
herself. Had such an outlook already been present in the Q document he used? One perhaps
Luke did not pick up on because he had not the same interests? Several of the Q3 sayings
had obviously been recast from earlier Wisdom sayings. Jesus’ lament for Jerusalem in Q
13:34 was now thought to have originally been an oracle of Sophia/Wisdom; the hen was a
maternal image for a divine being:
‘O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, killing the prophets and stoning those who are sent to you!
How often I would have gathered your children together as a hen gathers her brood under
her wings and you would not! Behold, your house is forsaken...’
Luke had let slip that a Q2 oracle in the same vein, in 11:49, had been spoken by ‘the
Wisdom of God’. And the saying that only the Son knows the Father in Q 10:22 was a
reflection of the role of Wisdom, as God’s authorized intermediary.
In other words, Wisdom was turning into Jesus.
The first step would have been to imagine that Wisdom had appointed a representative,
one who had founded the community and spoken her sayings. He had been, as Q 7:35
revealed, her child. Scripture was full of the voice of Wisdom speaking ‘by the gate’. Her
myths, in various apocryphal writings, contained the idea that she had come to earth and
sought acceptance. Would a human embodiment of Wisdom not have been a natural
development in the Q mind?
And the sayings collection itself. Its very existence, over time, would have induced the
community to see it as having been spoken through a human mouth.

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The one thing the sectarian mentality required was precedence. The Q people saw
themselves as the latest in a long line of rejected prophets and messengers sent from God.
This child of Wisdom would serve as the one who had first undergone that rejection; who
had set the example for fortitude and defiance in its face. It was he who had first argued
with the Pharisees. It was he who had made the authoritative pronouncements of faith and
practice which continued to guide the community. And the miracles. There was no question
that the Q prophets, as preachers of the Kingdom, had claimed the performance of signs and
wonders, for every sectarian movement of the time had to possess that facility. These,
especially the healings, were the indispensable pointers to the Kingdom. To collect
traditions about such miracles and assign them, with due exaggeration, to a founder, would
enshrine them in the best possible light.
The Q community’s Jesus would have been a figure instantly recognizable. For he was
the glorified embodiment of the Q preachers themselves. This was why he would be neither
Christ nor redeemer. He did only what the Q people had done from the beginning, only
better. He opened the door for men and women’s entry into the new Kingdom.
Was it really possible for the Q community to believe that such a founder had existed?
To interpret the community’s evolving record in this way? After the great upheavals of the
Jewish War which disrupted Palestine from one end to the other, killing or displacing three-
quarters of the population and destroying so much, a denial of any new view of the past
could hardly be verified.
It was probably not even raised.
It occurred to me to wonder why John the Baptist could not have served as an heroic
founder. It almost seemed that Q2 had been priming him for just such a role. But perhaps
John was too familiar. Perhaps it was known that he had not been a wisdom teacher, that he
could not have spoken the Q1 sayings. And I suspected that by the time of Q3, a rival sect
existed which already claimed John as its founder. This situation might further have induced
the Q community to develop a founder of its own, one touted as superior to John. The
Baptist could now serve the secondary role of precursor and herald, one who fitted scriptural
expectation. Such a role would, incidentally, put the rivals in their place.
John the herald. Q2 had declared him as such. But of whom? Originally it had been of
the Son of Man. But had John the herald been another influence on the imagining of an
earthly Jesus? Perhaps in the aftermath of the Jewish War, those sandals John had referred
to were seen as belonging to human feet.
Q3, then, finally reached the stage where it could serve as a true ‘foundation document’
for a classic sect. All it lacked was an actual biography of the founder. That deficiency
would shortly be made up by the Gospels.
Were there precedents for a wholly invented founder figure? Mythical traditions in the
ancient world were full of them, and even a later Christian Gnostic sect, the Elchasaites, was
acknowledged to have probably begun much as I was postulating Q had. The Book of
Elchasai (meaning ‘Hidden Power’) contained the record of the sect’s inaugurating visions
and teachings, but it later came to be understood as the record written by a man Elchasai,
who had himself been the recipient of this knowledge from heaven. A more famous and
modern example of the process lay in the invention of William Tell as the founder of the
Swiss Confederation in the late Middle Ages. Tell did not put in an appearance until close
to 200 years after the event, and he was now known never to have existed. The readier

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acceptance of this fact was due no doubt to his nationalistic context, rather than a more
highly charged religious and sectarian one.

Once more I emerged into a bleary-eyed dawn—I calculated it to be Wednesday


morning—with one question unresolved. At the moment I could see no avenue to an answer
other than speculation.
Why had the Q founder been named Jesus?
Why did he appear with the same designation as the divine lord of the Christ cults and
other expressions of the spiritual Son dotting the early Christian landscape? After all, the Q
Jesus was not regarded as a savior, which was the meaning of the name itself.
Except perhaps in a general way, as the Q preachers themselves might be said to offer
salvation to those who responded to their message. Would this have been enough?
Or was the term by now so widespread among Jewish sectarian circles across the empire
that the offer simply couldn’t be refused? Yet this would imply that the Q community by
this time, perhaps in the decade or so following the Jewish War, was aware of the spiritual
Christ cults flourishing in the wider world, and thus of the higher significance of the name.
If so, did this impel that move toward divinity discernible in the final phases of Q3?
Another possibility. Could the latest stages of Q possibly post-date the earliest roots of
Mark, and had there been some crossover influence? Some scholars speculated that this may
have been the case, though it would require pulling the initial version of Mark to an earlier
date than I had decided upon.
But there was another possible explanation, and I knew I was going out on a limb for this
one.
Had Q3 in fact used the name Jesus at all?
Even if it nowhere appeared in the Q text, even if another designation had been used by
the Q3 redactors in passages like the dialogue between Jesus and John, Matthew and Luke
would have changed it to Jesus.
And as I fell into bed to sleep once more through the light of day, a further corollary
occurred to me. Since Matthew and Luke only took up Q to amalgamate it with Mark
probably no earlier than the end of the century, after the Q community’s demise or passage
on to other things, it was even possible that some intervening hand had already altered Q3’s
original designation for its founder to fit a deepening trend: the universality of the name
Jesus. It may have been at this later time that the crossover influence from a newly-written
Mark had occurred. Perhaps the altering hand was someone who saw the Q document as a
surviving record of the now humanized and historicized divine Christ of the Gospel of Mark.
In fact, had Matthew and Luke each inherited the two documents, Q and Mark, from a
common source? Had they arrived by the same post, so to speak? The idea made some
sense.
I stared at the lightening ceiling with drunken, heavy-lidded eyes. Did it make sense that
such wholesale revamping of a community’s material could be performed so blithely at turn
after turn?
Yet we could see it before our very eyes in the hatchet and recasting jobs which Matthew
and Luke performed on Mark and Q.
Not even the very words of the Lord had been sacrosanct. The evangelists had practiced
wholesale and blatant invention. In order to show, for example, that Jesus had risen bodily

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from the dead, Luke had concocted a scene in which Jesus showed the disciples his hands
and feet, let them handle his ‘flesh and bones’. To prove the reliability of the witness to the
resurrection, the evangelist had made up a ‘reliable’ anecdote to support it!
To the 20th century nose, the whole practice gave off an unsavory odor. Surely its
perpetrators had to regard it as shameless deception. And yet the evidence, from all
branches of Christianity for its first few hundred years, showed that this was the universal
way of doing things: rewrite, recast, invent without compunction sayings and dialogues,
deeds and miracles, whole scenes, whole Gospels, letters written by famous apostles of the
past, entire careers for those apostles, letters between Jesus and foreign kings, between
apostles and philosophers, between a Christianized Pilate and the emperor, birth stories,
genealogies, astronomical phenemona, scenes in heaven itself, not to mention fabricated
insertions into non-Christian writings.
The minds of these men had simply not functioned like ours. They followed none of the
modern principles of logic, of science, of integrity. Truth knew different criteria. Historical
honesty was subsumed and vanished under an allegiance to a higher religious truth and
necessity.
The Christian movement was founded on expectations of the immediate future which
were not conducive to reasoned, ordered behavior. It lacked any moderating central
influence or body, and the men involved in it were not noted as stable, sober-minded
individuals who followed academic rules. Ignatius of Antioch was a prime example of the
closed, fevered, monolithic mind of so many early Christians. The vituperation against
opponents expressed in all manner of documents showed that these could be volatile men,
driven by fanatical fervor and unscrupulous when it came to advocating their point of view.
When one believed one was in direct communication with the divine, in the pervasive
presence of malevolent, deceiving spirits operating on every level of life and the world,
opposed by heretics and unbelievers manipulated by Satan, when the concept that one’s own
particular views and personal visions could not possibly be wrong or subjective, one
operated on principles which were entirely different from the average modern scholar in the
field or the average reader of those ancient words. To attempt to analyze the system of
transmission and the development of tradition in early Christianity, oral or written, as though
it followed lines that were reasonable, honest, or in any way predictable from the vantage
point of minds such as ours lying 2000 years in the future and aeons away from its
psychological outlook, was to engage in the naivest of self-deceptions.
Scholars of the modern era made the vast mistake of thinking to impose their own sense
of order and reason on the Christian documents and movement as a whole. They had only
succeeded in creating sand castles which bore no relation to historical reality.
On that note, I fell into a deep and dream-infested sleep.

John’s trumpets were sounding. I was sliding into the great lake of fire. Shauna by its
shore could not reach me, for I had left her too far behind.
Cherkasian wallowed in his rejoicing, for those damned trumpets kept sounding.
Or ringing. Did angelic trumpets ring?
Like telephones?

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I rolled over in bed. The sun of a late afternoon, streaming through the bedroom window,
pierced eyelids that felt like molten lead. There was no question of me opening them. I
groped for the telephone on the side table.
What came out of my mouth when I got the receiver to my ear was unintelligible.
“Kevin? David. You sound terrible. Are you sick?”
“No,” I mumbled. “You’ve just awakened me out of a good night’s sleep.”
“At 5 PM?”
“You have to take your nights when you can get them. What’s up?”
“I’m at the office. With Nelson Chown. The FBI man? We were out to the schoolhouse
today. He’d like to talk to you this evening. Can you get yourself out of bed? Maybe you’d
like to have supper with us. Or breakfast, for you.”
“Right. Bacon and eggs. Just give me time to dunk my head in the bathtub. Where did
you have in mind?”
“This guy’s a man on the go type. How about Edna’s on River Road? He’ll probably
head back to Washington from there as soon as we’re finished.”
“OK. It’s 5, did you say? Make it 6:30.”
I stumbled out of bed vowing never to binge on scripture like that again. I was probably
going to have to join Fundamentalists Anonymous.

“There are more and more of these little communes springing up across the country.
They’re planning on waiting out the end of the millennium and most of them don’t cause any
trouble at all.”
Nelson Chown was a short, powerfully built man, and totally bald. Despite the Oriental
sounding name, he looked as American as apple pie. And that was what he was eating at the
moment. No main course. As for myself, since the supper menu hadn’t included bacon and
eggs, I settled for spaghetti and meat sauce, although the sauce was thinner than the ketchup
I had topped it with.
“Did you speak to Cherkasian?”
“Oh, no. Just a discreet surveillance. You can sense certain things from the look of a
place, especially the grounds. I’d say there’s no more than half a dozen living there. And
I’d bet that’s not the head honcho’s permanent residence.”
“Would you say they seem secretive? Like they’re trying to isolate themselves and keep
everyone out?”
Chown looked at me a little more intently. “You know something about this kind of
people? Actually, not overly. But that may come. Usually when a group acquires a place
like this they don’t make waves for a while, just sort of quietly get things organized. Then
the real walls go up and the declarations start—if that’s what they’re into.”
“Oh, that’s what they’re into all right. I guess you’ve seen their e-mail messages.”
“Yes, very interesting.”
David interjected, “Mr. Chown spent the afternoon checking them through channels
James would never have had access to. It turns out they didn’t all come from the same
point.”
“You mean the University?”
Chown’s fork attacked the final piece of his apple pie. “Yes. The first one, your
introductory love letter, came from Philadelphia. Clues 1 and 3 from the University. Clue

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No. 2 was also from Philly.” The one about the falling stones; I knew them all like my own
name by now.
“What do you make of that?”
“I don’t know. It might just be a case of where he happened to be at the time. But
something tells me that’s not the reason. In Philly the messages came from a terminal
located in a private home. I’ve learned that the house is owned by two men who’ve had ties
in the past with fringe groups. We’re doing a more thorough check on them right now.
Cherkasian’s own residence is listed in rural New Jersey, but there’s no reason why the
house in Philly couldn’t be his home away from home. So it would be convenient for him to
send messages from there. The two from here couldn’t be made from the schoolhouse. He
had to have somebody at the University do it. Why go to that trouble?”
“To make it more difficult to trace them?”
“Actually, the more people and terminals you use, the harder it is to cover your tracks. If
you’ve got a good detour system set up from one location, it makes better sense to send them
all from there.”
David asked. “That detour business. Does that mean these guys have got some kind of
network across the country?”
“Oh, no, they’re just some provider offering a shady service. There are a few of them
around. It’s not really illegal, just frowned on.”
“And what about the Ascended Masters? What kind of an organization is it?”
Chown pushed his plate away and made a wry gesture. “You know as much about them
as I do, Mr. Quinter. Probably Cherkasian’s own baby, I’d guess. They’re not on file
anywhere. So I want you to tell me as much as you remember about this man. You don’t
mind?” He gestured with a mini-tape recorder he had taken from his pocket.
I shrugged and proceeded to recount my visit to the schoolhouse of the week before, the
older man’s appearance and demeanor, the impressions I had received. “One thing I would
say, he’s not just a wild-eyed fanatic, though he’d probably spout scripture with the best of
them. But he struck me as a manipulator. He definitely had a control over those two kids.”
“Most self-styled Messiahs are like that.”
“What do you think he wants?” David piped up. He was still worried, and obviously still
agonizing over certain decisions. “Do you think he’s a danger?”
“From the little history we know of him, I’d say he’s trying to establish a power base for
himself. Attract a bit of attention at the same time. A while ago he was eased out—booted
out—from a televangelist organization with millenarian leanings, and he probably never
forgave them. Now he may be trying to establish his own profile, offer his own end-of-the
world message. Outdo the less crazies.”
“Even the lunatic fringe has its own establishment,” I muttered.
David persisted. “You haven’t answered my question.”
“Because I can’t, Mr. Porter. Probably the most you have to fear is some demonstrations
at your hearing in Philadelphia. When I get back to the office, I’m going to assign an agent
to take a periodic run out here over the next two weeks and see if anything seems to be
cooking at the schoolhouse. We can always do a little sweep if things looks suspicious. I’ll
also keep on top of the investigation in Philly. And if I can arrange my work schedule, I’ll
be at your hearing. I’ve heard a bit about Burton Patterson in the past and I’d love to see

225

him in action. Anyway, between now and then I’ll keep you abreast of every development.
Don’t worry, Mr. Porter.”
“Hmph,” I scoffed. “Tell water not to flow downhill.”
David clucked and rolled his eyes.
“By the way,” I asked, “has Cherkasian ever written anything that you know of?”
Again Chown looked at me with some respect. “You ask the right questions, Mr. Quinter.
Best way to see into a man’s mind, by what he’s written. Nothing’s surfaced so far, but it’s
one of the things I’ve got my eye peeled for.”

Nelson Chown left a few minutes later for a nighttime drive back to D.C. David and I
lingered over coffee.
“I’m not going to tell Burton.” David looked as though he had just made the hardest
decision of his life. “The hearing starts a week next Tuesday, and Burton will be going to
Philadelphia the middle of next week. He’ll have so much on his mind to prepare for things,
I’m not going to worry him over some possible demonstrations. He’s probably expecting
something like that anyway.”
“Or hoping for it. In the interests of attracting media attention for the Foundation, of
course.” Cherkasian wasn’t the only one seeking the limelight.
David, the decision made, set the whole question aside. He brightened. “Phyllis is
coming down a week Friday. Her article will hit the Times the day before. We’re going to
discuss the hearing on the weekend. She’ll be there too, you know. We’ll be going up on
Monday morning.”
I smiled. I was happy for him. “I hope your weekend will mix a bit of pleasure with the
business.”
“Yes. We’re not too far along, but— Anyway, maybe you and Shauna would like to get
together with us. Take a little breather before the big moment.”
“I suppose that would be possible. I’m sure Shauna would like to meet Phyllis.”
“They’ve both got a certain feisty quality about them.”
“Yes, I would say so.”
“Didn’t you mention something at our last meeting about letting myself and Phyllis in on
something to do with your research? I seem to recall you promised it would be intriguing.”
“Yes, I did. I’m not too sure Shauna will want to sit through it herself. I think she’s been
getting a little impatient with me lately over my obsessive studies. I admit they’ve got a bit
of a hold on me, though I’ve always tended to be like that in my research. It’s just that I’m
trying to get all the basics out of the way before the court case.”
“Clearing the decks?”
“Sort of. Anyway, if Shauna doesn’t want to sit in, maybe we can arrange it for a
separate time.”
“Sounds good to me. By the way, have you arranged your own trip to Philadelphia? You
know I’ve got some rooms reserved at the Holiday Inn for the Foundation. We can
accommodate maybe 12 or 15, depending on the mix.”
“Shauna and I are planning on taking the train Monday afternoon. She’s got the week off
as holidays.”
“She doesn’t mind spending them in a stuffy courtroom?”

226

“She has another two weeks planned for later in the summer. I mean, she doesn’t regard
the hearing in the same class as a trip to Hawaii, but I know she’s sufficiently intrigued. She
seemed keen on it when I first suggested it to her.”
“I’ll make a note to set aside a double for you.” The grin was followed by a grimace.
“I’m not that far with Phyllis—yet. I’ll have to play the thing by ear.”
My own ear needed a scratching. “Tell me something. What about Patterson? Is he
bringing any female companionship with him? Someone to share his nights with. Or even
that reception you were planning.”
David looked at me a bit blankly. “I really don’t know. Come to think of it, he hasn’t
mentioned anything like that specifically. He has his own accommodation—at the same
hotel. But if the party at his place was anything to judge by, he shouldn’t lack for a few
attractive females floating nearby.”
“Floating, yes. From their empty heads. But maybe he’s looking for a bit more than
that,” I mused somewhat sarcastically. “Now that he’s about to become a national
celebrity.”
“Let’s hope we all are.”

If Patterson’s big moment was coming up in two weeks’ time, I began to feel that my
own would arrive in a little less. I looked upon my impending presentation to David and
Phyllis as the first real test of how coherent a case I could present of my theory, and how
convincing I could make it. I hoped by then to have all the broad ingredients laid out. I
knew I couldn’t do more in the time remaining than make a general survey of the four
Gospels, but I already knew the kinds of things I was looking for. If or when the time came
to fashion an actual novel, further detailed research would have to be undertaken.
Of all the intricate multitude of pathways which crisscrossed the early Christian
landscape, the most important and most highly charged point of intersection was that spot on
the map at which the Gospel of Mark was created.
On some lost writing-table, in an edifice long since crumbled into the earth, at a
geographical location now unknown, perhaps within the space of a few years whose dates
could no longer be marked on the calendar of history, the most influential story ever penned
by human hands was set down on paper. Many paths had converged on that undertaking.
Many others branched out from its center to create the two-millennia-old culture and faith
which had shaped the Western world.
Yet so many elements of that event would be forever obscured, forever lost. Not a single
name of those who were involved in the enterprise would ever be known. If any of them
answered to the name ‘Mark’, it would only be by coincidence, for the Mark the later church
had in mind was definitely, all were now agreed, not the author.
Modern thinking located the Gospel of Mark in a largely Gentile community in northern
Palestine or southern Syria. The cities of Sidon and Tyre were favorite educated guesses.
The nature of the sectarian enclave which created the first narrative version of a life and
death for a human Jesus was an apocalyptic one. It expected an imminent and violent
overthrow of the present order and the establishment of the Kingdom of God. Jesus as the
Son of Man would arrive on the clouds of heaven to judge the world.

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As the parables and their commentary in Mark 4 indicated, only this select community in
which Mark worked had been granted the proper insight into the mysteries about the coming
Kingdom. In the Gospel story, that community was represented by the disciples. In fact,
Mark’s picture of the followers of Jesus would not have been based on any historical
traditions about the early apostles of Paul’s day, but rather was a literary invention to serve
symbolic and instructional purposes, aimed at the Gospel’s readers. Mark’s Jesus, and the
narrative world created for him, had nothing to do with history, but served as the foundation
document of the Markan community. All the features of this Gospel, in one way or another,
filled its sectarian needs and situation.
Yet Mark did not simply invent. Somehow he drew on Q or Q traditions, in ways not yet
understood. Perhaps a member or members of the Q circle in Galilee emigrated to the
coastal city where Mark was written, carrying some of their traditions with them, but no
written copy of the Q document, whatever its stage or condition at the time. As for other
Gospel ingredients, some scholars saw Mark’s collections of miracle tales and controversy
stories as adapted from outside sources, or as already existing in the Markan community;
others felt Mark developed them himself. Whoever the author, the miracles of Jesus were
closely modelled on miracle stories found in the Old Testament, such as those by Elijah and
Elisha in 1 and 2 Kings. They were also similar to wonder-working traditions existing in
pagan literature.
Mark had drawn, of course, on the Pauline type of Christ cult and its concept of Jesus as
the divine Son of God, crucified and resurrected in a mythical realm as some form of
sacrifice for sin, although the Gospel contained none of the theological language of Paul
himself. Most likely, the Markan community had grown up as a cultic entity. It would have
been similar to the one in Antioch which had launched Paul on his Gentile missions.
The great question in my mind was: did the author of Mark, in fashioning his Jesus story,
envision it as fact, or simply as a form of morality tale, an inspiring myth, a way of
embodying in metaphor the religious principles of the prior mythical phase of belief? When
it was first read to the congregation, was it labelled ‘history’? So many of the details of the
story came obviously from scripture, Mark’s other great source of inspiration and material;
its hearers would recognize this immediately. Would they have seen the scriptural passages
as predictions of historical events, or merely as pointers to higher religious truths?
I would probably never arrive at a definite answer to these questions.
Perhaps it had been the Q community’s development of a founder figure which gave
Mark the idea of placing his divine Jesus in history. However, I was beginning to suspect a
complex dialectic of influences crisscrossing between Mark and Q over time, rather than a
simple one way street. On the other hand, quite apart from any role played by Q, the very
dynamics of the cultic preaching movement, drawing more and more on scripture for its
picture of the mythical Christ, would have tended inevitably to draw Paul’s Christ to earth,
to interpret the scriptural pointers as historical. Did Paul’s ‘born of woman’, governed by
Isaiah 7:14, irresistibly lead to a human mother for Jesus and a specific name? Did those to
whom Paul and his fellow missionaries preached demand that their savior god plant his feet
on the ground? Sectarian needs would have been operating here as well.
When Q came along, with its ‘record’ of a preaching, miracle-working child of Wisdom,
it may have been the stone that tipped the wagon.

228

By the weekend my survey of the Gospels was well under way, but I had resolved not to
bury myself in study any more to the exclusion of all else. At the very least, Shauna would
finally disown me. And so on both Friday and Saturday evenings we hit the night spots—
which for us included the symphony and the theater. She seemed particularly fascinated by
the involvement of the FBI in the investigation of the Ascended Masters.
“Are they going to assign you all bodyguards?”
“Nothing so dramatic, I hope. The worst thing that could happen is the media gets hold
of this and focuses entirely on Cherkasian and the Masters. They’ll have no time or attention
to spare for the hearing itself and the issues involved, much less the Age of Reason
Foundation. The whole exercise could backfire on us.”
“Did you ever think maybe that’s their intention?”
We had just started polishing our ice cream cones at a street kiosk outside the theater, and
my top scoop did a balancing act at my reaction to Shauna’s comment. I looked at her in a
sudden panic.
“Oh, no! Do you think that could be it? Chown did say something about these people
seeking attention. Cherkasian may be intending to spill things to the media himself. Not
only will he get to hog the spotlight, he’ll make it look like we overreacted by contacting the
FBI.”
“Wouldn’t the whole affair make him look like a bit of a loony?”
“Maybe he wouldn’t care. He might think the publicity would benefit his ambitions
anyway—whatever they are. I should call David and at least tell him to play down the thing
with Phyllis. We don’t want her thinking we’re being spooked by a bunch of millenarian
kooks.”
“Isn’t that the case?”
“Well, I only suggested it to keep David from worrying himself sick. And from telling
Patterson, I suppose. Maybe it would have been better if he’d let him in on it after all.
Knowing Patterson, he probably would have insisted that David ignore the whole thing.”
“Having FBI agents in the courtroom to protect him from bible thumping end-of-the
worlders might not fit the image Mr. Patterson would like to project.”
“Maybe I’d better discuss this with David.”
After the play, Shauna came over to my place for a while, but once again there was an
awkwardness and reserve between us when it came to more intimate activities. I was almost
certain that Shauna was feeling some dissatisfaction at our situation, probably with my own
lack of unqualified commitment. My binges of privacy and especially the obsessive
immersion in my research which had marked the last few weeks were only the most
prominent symptoms. The time had come to face the issue squarely, both in my own mind
and in a discussion with her about our relationship. At another time, I probably would have
done that very thing without delay. But because of the press of events, because I didn’t want
to risk adding further difficulties to the course of the next two weeks, I told myself that it
could wait that long.
She seemed keen enough on meeting with David and Phyllis the following weekend,
though it would involve listening to my presentation. I had a feeling that by now she may
have felt more familiar with the subject than she would like to be. Perhaps it had assumed
for her the nature of a villain, a burgeoning beast that was devouring my soul and imposing
its awkward bulk between us.

229

Maybe she was not far wrong.

Over the course of the next few days, it seemed that several lurking beasts were hovering
on the horizons of my concentration, and not all of them were external. Despite my recent
resolutions, my reading, webcrawling and notetaking became once more almost obsessive,
as though I were trying to wring from them sustenance, security, justification. I wanted to
turn it into a mystical experience, make it the culmination of my life’s work, something that
would transform me as well as the world around me. I felt the urge to trumpet my
discoveries and insights, scatter them like new seeds over the ignorant, naive landscape of a
society mired in primitive belief, become a new Messiah. Surely the world could be made to
see the soundness and incontrovertibility, the wonder and power of my ideas—if only they
would listen.
It seemed fanaticism was not the monopoly of any one type of belief system. Ruefully, I
had to admit that the human blueprint was undoubtedly much the same in all of us. Perhaps
it would be wise not to cast Rational Man and Rational Woman as a species apart.

I managed to get hold of David only on Tuesday. An agent sent by Chown had checked
out the schoolhouse that morning and noted nothing amiss. Chown himself had called to say
that he would be at the hearing, but only by the second day. Somewhat embarrassed, I told
David of my new misgivings about Cherkasian and how he might be planning to turn the
publicity tables against us.
“Thanks, Kevin,” David said in mock bitterness—at least I hoped it was. “I thought we
finally had a handle on this thing and I could sleep at nights. Well, I’ll try to immunize
Phyllis on that score when she gets here. And when I speak to Chown next, I’ll suggest he
and his people keep a low profile at the hearing. You’re probably right about Burton. The
last thing he’ll want is some kind of apparent bodyguard. Who knows what the media might
make of that?”
“My spin talents would probably not be up to it.”
Phyllis was to arrive Friday. We set Sunday afternoon as a tentative time to get together
at my place. David prodded, but I refused to let him in on what tale I was going to tell. The
truth was, I had already worked out a sequence for presenting the evidence before I would hit
them with the punch line. I wasn’t about to blow it ahead of time. I would have to bring
Shauna in on the game.
That was also the day I tried to get in touch with Sylvia, for I had heard nothing from her
since the night I had visited her home. Had she followed my urging to seek professional
help? I wanted to let her know that my concern and my promises had been genuine, and that
I really wanted her to keep in touch with me. But a couple of calls that day reached only her
answering machine. I decided to wait rather than leave a message. I would try again before
leaving for Philadelphia.
Thursday evening brought a disquieting development. Shauna called to offer her
apologies, but she had decided to go away for the weekend.
“I haven’t seen my parents in a while, Kevin, and perhaps this would be a good time.
You probably don’t need me for your little presentation to David and Phyllis, and I can meet
Phyllis in Philadelphia.”

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I sensed that the desire to visit her family was not the whole story, but I also sensed by
something in her voice that I should not try to talk her out of it. Apparently, things had
become sufficiently unsettled between us that Shauna felt a need to get away, though she still
seemed committed to attending the hearing with me. Perhaps it was a signal that I was going
to have to add a more personal item to the agenda for Philadelphia. Could I manage it on top
of everything else?
“I’m sorry you won’t be here. If I don’t make a good case to convince David and Phyllis,
I could have used you as a rooter on my side.”
This, of course, had been the wrong thing to say, and I realized it as soon as it came out.
Was that all I needed her for?
“Well, Kevin, I’m hardly the person who’ll make or break your success on this project.
You may find it’s a bit of a lonely undertaking, considering what you’re trying to do.
Anyway, I’m leaving right after work tomorrow, so I’ll give you a call when I get back
Sunday night.”
I tried not to let the unease show in my voice. “OK. And—the tickets are all ready for
Monday. And the hotel room. David’s arranged everything.” But she already knew this.
“I’m sure we’ll have a good time.”
“I’m sure we will.”
“Give my love to your parents.”
“I always do.”

*****************************

Chapter Sixteen

Phyllis Gramm had sparkled the day she first appeared and braved Philosophers’ Walk
with us, but on Sunday afternoon she fairly glowed, and together with the gleam in David’s
eye which he tried unsuccessfully to hide from me, I felt certain that another double room
would be on the booking in Philadelphia.
David also arrived with a copy of the Thursday Times. As resident publicist for the Age
of Reason Foundation, I should have been the first out of the starting gate to obtain a copy.
But I knew David would be bringing one for me, and in any case, neither a spare minute nor
a spare brain cell had been available over the last few days for extraneous reading.
“ ‘A new movement may be on the horizon for American education. Its goals promise to
bring it into conflict with more conservative forces who aim to usher in the next millennium
on a different note...’ David began to read from Phyllis’ article, skipping from one spot to
the next. He knew I would be perusing the entire thing at the first opportunity.
“...Burton Patterson, noted civil rights attorney absent from the public scene for almost
two decades, will be reentering a Philadelphia courtroom next week to try to prevent the
state of Pennsylvania from introducing Christian Creationism to the classroom under the
banner of Science, a measure hotly opposed by civil libertarians and others who see it as a
thinly-disguised attempt to do an end run around the constitutional separation of church and
state....Behind Patterson stands a newly-formed group with ambitions of influencing the
American intellectual scene in the run-up to the year 2000....” David cleared his throat. “At

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the head of this prestigious team stands the talented and highly-acclaimed philosophy
professor—”
“Hey!” Phyllis exclaimed, delivering a good-natured jab that would have done Shauna
proud. “No creative editing. One editorial board was bad enough.”
“What does Patterson think about it?” I asked.
“I spoke to him on the phone last night at the hotel. He said he hadn’t gotten around to
getting himself a copy, but he seemed to like the parts I read to him. He’s been busy
preparing for the hearing.”
“I’ll bet. Why did he need a weekend at a hotel for that?”
“He’s a behind-the-scenes man, Kevin. As much of his preparation involves personal
contacts and finding out what his opponent has in mind.”
“Oh, I’m sure he’s making a lot of personal contacts.” Now I was starting to sound petty.
I changed the subject. “Anything further from the Ascended Masters?”
“Nothing. I guess three clues is all we get to solve the puzzle. I spoke to Nelson Chown
yesterday. He says his people in Philadelphia have found out that the group at the house
have been recruiting at the U of P, much like Cherkasian did here. One of the agents made
contact with some student who responded to the overture and then decided he didn’t like
what he saw. Chown hopes to have something more concrete on Cherkasian and what he’s
up to by the time he gets to Philadelphia late Tuesday.”
“Boy, that will give us plenty of time,” I commented, with more than a touch of sarcasm.
“Also, I told him not to go anywhere near Patterson at the hearing. I’m not sure he was
completely happy with that.”
“I thought he said all we had to worry about was a few demonstrations?”
At this point David cast a glance at Phyllis, who was looking at the two of us with a
fascinated expression.
“See? The eagle-eyed reporter. You better watch what you say. She probably thinks
she’s on to some juicy confrontation story, and the whole Age of Reason Foundation will go
out the window as a poor second in public interest.”
I wasn’t sure whether to look concerned. David laughed. “Don’t worry. I filled her in on
all the good parts. I promised her an exclusive on our apocalyptic friends—provided it’s
played second fiddle to more important considerations, of course.”
“There’s always more than one angle to a good story,” Phyllis countered. “I won’t short
change the Foundation, but Patterson vs. Cherkasian might be a great boxing card.”
“Don’t forget, my dear, Mr. Patterson’s opponent in the courtroom will be Chester Wylie.
And he’s no wild-eyed fundamentalist.”
“Great. A three-way bout. The fight of the century.”
Then Phyllis turned to me. “But David tells me you’ve been sniffing out a story of your
own. The beginnings of Christianity are a very fascinating subject. A few years ago I did a
column on the Jesus Seminar when they were voting on the authenticity of Jesus’ sayings. It
was the first time the mainstream media were willing to give uncensored coverage to any
radical questioning of the Gospel record. I hear they’ve recently voted that it’s unlikely
Jesus was even properly buried, let alone raised from the dead.”
“That’s right. I guess once the genie’s out of the bottle, it’s impossible to stuff him back
in. Things start to snowball. The pressure’s built up underneath the lid for so long, now
that’s it’s been taken off everything comes pouring out.”

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“I hope you don’t mix your metaphors like that in your novels,” Phyllis admonished with
a chuckle.
“My editor doesn’t let me get away with much,” I laughed. “But come on into the study.
That’s where I do most of my research. I’ve been relying heavily on the Muratorian Project
on the Web—do you know about that?”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
Phyllis and David followed me into the back room. My multi-colored mural was still in
place, and I had set out two chairs for the larger audience—but no popcorn. The baton was
at the ready, but today I would rely less on my wall display than on a simple verbal
exposition, with a few notes and copies of the New Testament standing by for illustration. I
had had very little time to prepare and knew I would basically be winging it.
When David and Phyllis had taken their seats, I stepped back beside the computer,
scratched my head and fidgeted, and generally acted like a nervous professor about to begin
his very first lecture. Only it wasn’t acting.
“Let’s start with an analogy.”
David was smiling broadly, Phyllis looked intrigued. At least I had their attention.
“Suppose a deceased man’s descendants claimed that the man once won a lottery. Yet
there was no record at the time of such a win. No entry of a large sum of money in his bank
statements, no mention of it in his diaries and letters, no memory about a spending spree. If
on his deathbed he told someone that he never got a break in his life, if he died of starvation,
and so on. What conclusion do you think you would draw from all this silence about the
lottery win?”
Phyllis asked, “Do I have to put up my hand?”
We all laughed and I began to relax. I was among friends—even if they would eventually
come to the conclusion that I was crazy.
David spoke up. “I guess the answer you’re looking for is that the evidence—or lack of
it—points to the falsity of the claim. The man was not likely to have won a lottery.”
“Yes. That type of evidence is called the ‘argument from silence’. Despite the scorn New
Testament scholars like to heap on it, it can be quite legitimate under certain circumstances.
The more one has good reason to expect something to be mentioned and yet it’s found to be
missing, the more valid the argument becomes. And the more widespread the silence, the
stronger its force. So I’d like to begin by telling you about something I call ‘A Conspiracy
of Silence’.”
Of course, that was a tongue-in-cheek term. But it seemed a suitable way to express the
astonishing universality of the void to be found in the early Christian record.
I launched into a breakdown of the great range of silences in the New Testament epistles
about the life and circumstances of Jesus of Nazareth, occasionally pointing out a relevant
document on my mural. The lack of any mention of the places and details of Jesus’ birth, his
ministry, his passion and death. No pilgrimages to Calvary, the very site of mankind’s
salvation, no prayers and commemorations at the tomb where Jesus had risen from the dead,
no holy places at all. No relics, nothing Jesus had touched, worn. Nor, in the first century,
had there been any reference to the agency of his death, no Pilate, no holding the Jews
responsible—outside of the interpolation in 1 Thessalonians. No Judas, no John the Baptist,
no baptism of Jesus. And not a single reference to a miracle. No apostles appointed by

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Jesus, and no chain of apostolic preaching and tradition going back to him. No reaction, no
defence against the blasphemy and affront to Jewish sensibilities at turning a man into God.
Not in all the 80,000 words of the New Testament outside the Gospels and Acts, in over
500 separate references in 22 documents to ‘Jesus’ or ‘Christ’ or ‘the Son’, plus a few to ‘the
Lord’ meaning Christ, had anyone, by choice, accident or necessity, happened to use words
which would identify the divine Son and Christ they were all talking about with his recent
incarnation, the man Jesus of Nazareth who had lived and died at the time of Herod and
Pontius Pilate.
I had their attention. And I had clearly stimulated their curiosity. But I had saved the
most intriguing category until last. For even more than his death, Jesus persisted in the
modern secular mind on the basis of his recorded work as a teacher. For this—as a human
man—he had been and continued to be justly famous. Why then, I asked, did the New
Testament epistles entirely ignore him as such, even to the extent of offering teachings
identical to his own without ever attributing them to him? An outline of the most prominent
silences on the teachings, prophecies and pronouncements of Jesus to be found in the
epistles evoked comments of astonishment from both David and Phyllis.
“Naturally, scholars have long remarked on this silence about the historical Jesus as the
source of Christian ethics.” I reached for another sheet on the pile of notes I had hastily
printed out the night before. “But I should read you one of the most mind-boggling
comments on the subject ever made in a scholarly publication. This is Sophie Laws from
her study of the epistle of James:
“ ‘Whereas the Gospels have one form of adoption of Jesus’ teaching, in that they
identify it as his, James provides evidence of another way of retaining and preserving it:
absorbed without differentiation into the general stock of ethical material.’ ”
David gave a groan. “I wonder what we should call that. ‘Preservation by burial’?
I laughed and made a mental note to remember that one. “Yes, it’s amazing that later
generations were able to unearth it.”
Phyllis was more thoughtful. “That’s strange, because I always understood that the things
Jesus said and did were preserved through the early period by means of oral transmission.”
“Precisely. By word of mouth, in preaching, in correspondence, the sayings of Jesus were
supposed to have been kept alive over several decades until the evangelists assembled them
and recorded them in their Gospels. But how are Jesus’ teachings kept alive by being
‘absorbed into the general stock of ethical material’? How are they preserved if no one ever
attributes anything to him? The other question is, why would such a bizarre development
take place, this universal non-attribution of Jesus’ teachings to Jesus? Other scholars have
remarked on this silence and some of them take comfort from the fact that every document
shows the same thing, as though a collection of silences makes more certain the existence of
the object of the silence.”
“I guess you could say zero plus zero plus zero adds up to a sizeable number,” quipped
David.
“Only in New Testament math.”
I went on to illustrate the void in Paul on the recent ministry of Jesus. Paul had made no
place for it in the picture of God’s salvation history leading to the future Parousia. He had
talked of revelation and inspiration through the Spirit. All knowledge, even the gospel itself,
had come from God. Christ and his redeeming role was the great mystery revealed by God

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after long ages of secrecy, and the missionary movement of which Paul was a part had been
the first proclamation of this divine secret. For Paul, it had all come through scripture, the
great repository of the Christ event. Or so the first century writers seemed to be saying.
From David’s expression, I had the feeling that he could sense where I was going, but
Phyllis was looking increasingly perturbed. I did an about-face and outlined in brief some of
the leading philosophical ideas of the age: the transcendent Father and the intermediary Son;
the Platonic Logos and Jewish personified Wisdom, both channels of knowledge about the
ultimate God and avenues of salvation. I tried to convey some of the current thinking of the
time: layered universes and supernatural forces, the basics of mythical thinking.
When I reached the Greek mystery cults, with their mythical tales of savior gods and
goddesses, slaying and being slain, teaching and revealing, establishing sacred meals, born to
virgin mothers and offering guarantees of a happy immortality, a look of comprehension
came over Phyllis’ face. It was accompanied by a rather evident skepticism, though there
seemed no hostility in it.
“I can see what you’re getting at now. I don’t know much about the theory that Jesus
never existed, at least in detail, but I’ve never given it much credence. I must confess I’ve
never heard it presented in this fashion before. I thought it usually had to do with the lack of
reference to him in sources outside the New Testament.”
“Yes, that seems to be where a lot of the attention gets focused. People like the Jewish
philosopher Philo of Alexandria, or the Jewish historian Justus of Tiberias, Pliny the Elder
who collected records and myths about natural phenomena associated with famous figures—
no writer of the day of any sort says anything about Jesus or Christians.”
“There were no Roman records about Jesus?” David asked.
“The Roman historian Tacitus about 115 makes the first pagan reference to Jesus as a
man executed by Pilate. But it’s highly unlikely he’s consulting an official archive. For one
thing, he gets Pilate’s title wrong. And the chance of the Romans keeping meticulous
records about every political execution around the empire for almost a century are virtually
nil. Many scholars acknowledge that Tacitus information—and it’s just a bare reference—
probably came from popular hearsay and police interrogation of Christians. This would have
been at a time when the idea of an historical Jesus had just developed among them. Pliny
the Younger and Suetonius around the same time say even less about a human figure.
“What about Josephus?” Phyllis objected. “Isn’t he the one Christians always quote to
support their side of the case?”
“Well, Josephus is the great conundrum. Did he write that famous passage about Jesus or
not? As it stands, it’s too devotional, too naive to be his product. Josephus would never
declare Jesus the Messiah, or give credence to his miracles and his rising from the dead.
That’s a later Christian interpolation, everyone agrees. But did it replace or rework
something Josephus actually wrote there? As far as I’m concerned, the silence of all
Christian commentators before the fourth century about any such original passage is proof
enough that none existed. Origen in particular would have had occasion to draw on it in
refuting Celsus, but he and everyone else are silent.
“As for Josephus’ second reference, it’s only in passing when he’s talking about the death
of James, and there’s evidence that the surrounding passage has been tampered with by
Christians. I happen to think that Josephus may simply have quoted James’ title ‘brother of

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the Lord’, the one we find in Paul, which is a reference to the spiritual Christ. It could have
gotten amended later to mean the sibling of Jesus.”
“But didn’t the Jews talk about Jesus in the Talmud?” David asked.
“Well, those references were only written down much later, and they’re so garbled in
what they say about Jesus that they can’t be relied on to reflect any knowledge of such a
man.”
“A conspiracy indeed,” David remarked.
Phyllis had obviously absorbed a great deal of what I had said over the past hour. Now
she came across like an intelligent pupil disagreeing with her professor.
“But just a minute. You said that Paul never talks about Jesus’ death and resurrection as
part of history, but there’s a famous passage in 1 Corinthians, isn’t there—I don’t remember
chapter and verse—where he’s giving all the appearances Jesus made to various apostles
after the resurrection? Wouldn’t that locate Jesus in the time of those apostles?”
A taste of informed rebuttal. Good. This passage I had looked at carefully some time
ago, and I agreed with her. It was perhaps the strongest passage in the epistles against the
theory I was espousing. At least on the surface.
“Yes, 1 Corinthians 15. Let’s look at that.” I gave each of them a copy of the New
Testament and we turned to the critical passage. I read aloud:
“ ‘For I passed on to you, as of first importance, what I also received, that Christ died for
our sins, according to the scriptures; that he was buried; that he was raised on the third
day, according to the scriptures...’
“First of all, before we go on to those appearances, the whole key to this passage begins
with that verb ‘received’. Is Paul speaking of received tradition from others, such as the
apostles who supposedly followed Jesus? Or is he speaking of personal revelation from
heaven? The verb can be used in both senses, and Paul does so. But the governing
consideration is surely Paul’s adamant declaration in Galatians 1:11-12, that his gospel had
not been received from any man, but from a revelation about Jesus Christ. It doesn’t seem
likely he would compromise such a passionate principle here. Even if others had been
preaching a resurrected Christ, Paul brought his own interpretation to everything, especially
the part about ‘dying for sin’, so he could have felt justified in claiming that he had received
his doctrine from the Lord. In fact, he goes on to give a capsule summary of his gospel and
he points to scripture as the source. That’s where his inspiration comes from. Or through,
since ultimately the revelation is from God. This isn’t the meaning scholars usually give
‘according to the scriptures’ here, but it’s a valid one and it fits in with everything Paul says
about his use of the sacred writings.”
“What about Christ rising on the third day? That doesn’t refer to Easter?”
“That can be from scripture, too. Hosea 6:2. Anyway, ‘on the third day’ is a biblical
expression that really means ‘at the time God chooses to act’, more of a future promise idea
than an exact chronological designation.”
“I see.”
“But let’s go on. Now, there does seem to be a direct link leading into verses 5 to 8:
“ ‘...and that he appeared to Cephas, then to the Twelve. Then he appeared to more than
500 of the brothers at one time, most of whom are still alive though some have fallen
asleep. Then he appeared to James, then to all the apostles. Last of all, as to one born
untimely, he appeared also to me...’

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“First of all, this is all one sentence. But is the whole thing supposed to follow on the
‘received’ at the beginning? If Paul is using ‘received’ in the sense of information from
others, that can hardly apply to his own revelation. If he’s talking about personal revelation
from God, that would hardly include the appearances to Peter and the others. There’s
something not quite right about the way this passage has come down to us, and most
scholars sense that the list of visions probably doesn’t belong in the same category as the
doctrines about the Christ. Some suggest Paul intended some kind of closure after verse 4,
and in fact there’s a change of verb tense there. Perhaps the ‘visions’ were intended as a
testimony to the doctrine.”
“You say ‘visions’. So you’re implying this was not meant as a physical appearance?”
“Actually, the word ‘appeared’, which most translations use, is misleading. The Greek
verb here is commonly used in the context of revelation, not visual or physical contact. It
might be better thought of as ‘experienced a manifestation of.’ Paul uses the same verb in
referring to his own experience in verse 8, and no one considers that he saw Christ in the
flesh. In fact, the way Paul lists his own vision with the rest clearly implies that they were
all the same. Even if we were to accept Acts’ dramatic rendition of things on the road to
Damascus, we have to see all the others as no more than visions of this sort. This not only
wipes out Easter, it means there is no necessary chronological connection between Jesus’
raising and the list of visions. The resurrection Paul describes can be entirely mythical,
revealed through the scriptures. Then these people experience a revelation about Christ and
that resurrection. I happen to believe that this series of ‘revelation experiences’ by members
of the Jerusalem sect around Peter and James inaugurated this particular branch of the
Christian movement. Paul joined it, and the Western world was off on a mad jaunt we’re
still dizzy from.”
“Who were those ‘Twelve’, by the way?” David asked. “I assume it’s not the Twelve
Apostles of the Gospels because Paul lists Peter and ‘the apostles’ separately.”
“Good observation. It’s hard to say. There’s another vague reference in Acts to the
Twelve, and I suspect it refers to some kind of committee in the early Jerusalem church,
probably based on the symbol of the twelve tribes. What its role was, I have no idea.”
“So things do not always say what they appear to say.”
“Not when you’re dealing with chains of translation and transmission and the evolution
of ideas over 2000 years. Not to mention the addition of preconceptions no one wants to
give up.”
“So—” said Phyllis. She seemed to have reached a kind of neutral position, neither
accepting nor rejecting, if I could read her. “If no one knows the Gospel Jesus before the
Gospels, where did all the Gospel information come from?”
Always, of course, it came down to this. Shauna and Sylvia had asked more or less the
same question. For the modern mind, writing down information in a narrative setting had to
be either of two things: a deliberate work of fiction, or an accounting of facts, as accurate as
they could be ascertained. In the ancient world, there were other varieties of narrative,
especially in the religious context.
I said as much to my audience. “Are you familiar with the concept of ‘midrash’?”
Both shook their heads. “I know it has something to do with Jewish writings,” Phyllis
noted.

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“That’s correct. It was an ancient Jewish method of presenting some kind of spiritual
truth, an insight, getting across a moral or instructional point, by embodying it in a new
commentary, even a narrative story. The details of that story, the pointers to the insight or
truth, were to be found in scripture. Scripture was God’s code. If you knew how to interpret
it, how to put together the pieces, you could create a picture that would inspire people and
reveal how one should believe and how one should act.
“The procedure in midrash was to ‘flesh out’ the meaning of a given passage; perhaps
combine two or more passages and create some composite picture. Sometimes a story in the
bible would simply be retold, but put in a new, modern context, to illustrate that the ideas
lying behind the old version were not only still applicable, but that God had given them a
new meaning.”
“Can you give us an example?” Phyllis asked.
“Well, the overall view of the early Christian movement was that God’s relationship with
the world had entered a new phase. He was establishing a new covenent, one that would
supercede the old. Most believed it was in preparation for the establishment of the
Kingdom. And the Gentiles who joined this new Jewish movement, or who worked on it
from within, since Gentiles converted to Judaism were already a sizeable body attached to
synagogues in the Diaspora, naturally saw the inclusion of non-Jews as a critical part of the
new covenant.
“So the elements involved in establishing the old covenant had to be incorporated into the
story of the new one. Jesus had to be portrayed as a new Moses. His birth experiences are
similar. He performs miracles that are like the ones attending the Exodus. Mark, in fact, fits
in two sets of five miracle stories which parallel the crossing of the Red Sea and the manna
from heaven, as well as the healing miracles of the prophets Elijah and Elisha in 1 and 2
Kings. The object is to show that Jesus is a new Moses and a new prophet.”
“Which miracles of Jesus paralleled the Exodus?” asked David out of curiosity.
“Stilling the storm, walking on the water. And, of course, the miracles of the loaves and
the fishes. The link with the Exodus prototypes would be obvious to the believers of the
time and would set up all sorts of conscious and unconscious associations. Miracles were
also expected to mark the inauguration of the Kingdom, so Jesus had to be portrayed as
performing signs and wonders. The old covenant was marked by blood sacrifice, that of
animals performed by Moses. Jesus himself served as the sacrifice to establish the new one,
and he speaks words at the Last Supper scene which are a close parallel to those spoken by
Moses. And he does things which show that more than just Jews are to be welcomed into
the new covenant. Considerations like these would determine how the evangelists—or
rather Mark, since the others generally followed his pattern—would lay out the basic story.”
Phyllis said warily, “So are you saying that none of the Gospel details would have gone
back to preserved memories about what Jesus had actually done? If he existed, of course.”
I smiled at her tactful proviso. “The thing is, the last fifty years of New Testament
research have been a process of eliminating that very necessity from virtually every element
to be found in the Gospels. Scholars already knew that the Gospels had been put together out
of small, separate units, sort of like beads strung on a string with filler material added to
create a narrative effect. But every evangelist after Mark could also be seen to have
reworked the material he took over according to his own particular editorial and theological
purposes. They had to assume that Mark operated under the same principle in putting

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together his bits and pieces. If you so blatantly change your received sources, or the pieces
you’re working with, the last thing you’re trying to do is preserve history or factual accuracy.
You’re creating a religious statement, a moral guide. In sectarian terms, you’re justifying
your own beliefs and practices.”
I digressed for a few minutes to give them a thumbnail sketch of Christianity as reflecting
the nature and behavior of the classic sect.
“The preaching Jesus is really the preaching sect. Scholars recognize that Jesus vs. the
Pharisees is very much a picture of the post-Jewish War situation. It’s anachronistic to try to
transplant it to Galilee a half century earlier. The whole apocalyptic atmosphere of Mark
and Matthew doesn’t fit the earlier time, and Luke reflects an even later situation. As for
John, he’s somewhere out in left field. Few believe his picture of Christ has anything to do
with historical memory. All of John’s so-called teachings are utterly unlike the ones in the
Synoptics.”
“But what about those teachings?” Phyllis asked, a little plaintively. “Everything
Christians hold dear about their ethics is supposed to go back to Jesus. We still think the
Western world’s enlightened morality—such as it is, you’d probably say—is dependent on
this great enlightened mind, even if you don’t believe he was divine.”
“But that’s a universal human tendency, Phyllis,” I responded. “We only seem to be able
to get a handle on things, whether it’s ideas, or technological inventions, or whatever, by
imputing them to specific and superior individuals. We’ve always focused such things on
famous ancestors, or past figures we build up. Or gods in the case of myth. Whereas they’re
almost always collective developments over time. The first century was quite a progressive
era. There were new ideas in the air. Many of Jesus’ sayings were really Jewish and
Hellenistic moral maxims, popular parables, traditional wisdom teachings. Once they all got
put into Jesus’ mouth, with the passage of time people lost sight of their real origins.”
“The real origins would have been less exciting, I suppose; less inspiring,” David
commented.
“Exactly. After all, a community leader can say, ‘Jesus said this,’ or ‘Jesus gave us an
example when he did this.’ But if you don’t have that figure to focus on as the specific
source, the one who provided the example, it’s much more difficult. This is one of the chief
dynamics in the invention of prototypic figures like Jesus. They fill the necessary roles so
perfectly. It’s almost impossible to do without them.”
“I can see a problem in that, though,” David suggested. “When you have this famous,
unimpeachable figure at your disposal, then it becomes very tempting to attribute things to
him. If the religious establishment declares that this is what Jesus said or did, then it
becomes immutable law—Gospel, so to speak. That can lead to all sorts of abuse.”
“True. Although originally, such a device served to justify things the community was
already doing, or to solve the problems it faced. I’ll give you an example. One of the
burning issues in the early Christian movement was whether the observant Jew could eat
with Gentiles and lower-class individuals, since this was a contravention of their strict purity
laws. Yet table fellowship was the central expression of Christian society. It couldn’t be
abandoned. A solution had to be found.”
“Let me guess,” said Phyllis. “That’s the reason why the Gospels portray Jesus as
associating with Gentiles and outcasts.”

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“Right. ‘I came not to call saints but sinners.’ Acts has a naive scene in which Peter
receives visions about God himself suspending the dietary restrictions of the Jewish past.”
“So one of the things Jesus is most famous for, his egalitarianism, is simply a sectarian
invention?”
“Yes, but to justify its own enlightened actions. We seem to need to embody all the good
things we come up with in some superhuman precedent. The bad things we can handle on
our own.”
Phyllis seemed to be reacting, as my presentation went on, with a mix of fascination and
disconcertion. At the same time, as one involved in the media, I sensed she could smell a
good story, a controversy of epic proportion. But she was not yet prepared to blithely accept
things on the basis of an historical novelist’s research. I had a feeling that today would set
Phyllis Gramm, freelance scribbler, on a research path of her own.
“So let’s say we relegate most—or even all if you like—of the words and deeds attributed
to Jesus in the Gospels as later developments for the purposes of your sectarian mentality.
But are they not building on something? Surely the death of Jesus at least, is not determined
by sectarian needs. Would it not have some basis in history?”
“Not necessarily. The death of Jesus in the Gospels could still be seen as a midrash
rendition of the previous view of Jesus’ death in a mythical setting. Prior to Pilate’s role in
the Gospels, the only ones mentioned as responsible for it were Paul’s demon spirits.”
I reminded her of the layered universe concept with its spiritual dimensions. I described
Jesus’ descent through the heavens in disguise, as ‘foretold’ in the Ascension of Isaiah, how
he would be ‘hung on a tree’ by Satan in his spirit domain above the earth.
“And the death of Jesus is in fact the ultimate sectarian need. It’s the source of salvation,
the exaltation of the elect—or, in a more universalist context, the forgiveness of the world’s
sins. The death of the god was absolutely necessary. It’s an ancient motif far older than
Christianity.”
“OK, but why do you completely rule out the option that the Gospels are interpreting a
real death? The death of a man who had lived in Palestine, the Jesus of history. I don’t
know why Paul talked about demon spirits, but isn’t there a possibility that Jesus was simply
a human man, perhaps a rather charismatic preacher of the day, and all this was what others
made of him after he was gone?”
I nodded, and found myself pacing the floor in front of my Post-It mural, with its right-
angled turn at the year 100, roughly the spot where Christianity itself had swung in a radical
new direction.
“Yes, of course, that’s the path of least resistance. There’s no doubt that this is the
direction modern liberal scholarship is headed, along with most of the non-believing
community. But—”
I groped for a way to convey the acute problem—even the fallacy—involved in this kind
of rationalization.
“If it all began with such a man, why is that man so maddeningly elusive for almost a
hundred years after his death? And if some groups are interpreting his death, his crucifixion,
and turning it into a cosmic redeeming act, why are others totally unconcerned with any
death at all? How could one man’s life have given rise to so many radically different
responses? How could all the multiplicity we see in the early Christian record proceed out
of a crucified criminal?”

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“Perhaps because he was so impressive. He moved people in all sorts of ways.”


“But to turn a man into a god is a huge leap, especially a deification on the scale Jesus
supposedly underwent. It’s unheard of anywhere else in history. Declaring the Roman
emperors divine didn’t compare at all. Look at what the Christians made of Jesus: the Son
of God, pre-existent before the world’s creation, equated with the Greek Logos, creator and
redeemer of the world. They made him rise from his tomb, for heaven’s sake! And all this
among Jews! A people who had an obsession against linking the divine with the human in
any way. They couldn’t even bring themselves to represent God by the slightest suggestion
of a human figure. What could possibly have impelled such a reaction on the part of a man
like Paul? Because Jesus was a charismatic preacher? If that were the case, history would
be full of men turned into cosmic deities.
“You say he was so impressive. Then why can we find no trace of him as a man, no trace
of the things he supposedly did to produce that reaction, for the entire early period of
Christianity? Scholars in desperation point to the earliest layer of Q, but they’re pointing
underground, to something obscured and interpreted through layer upon layer. They’ve
brought their own needs and wishful thinking to their excavation. If the whole Christian
movement began out of a teaching Jesus, as the scholars now claim, does it make sense that
the record of that teaching would survive only in such a meager, tortuous fashion?”
Phyllis made a gesture of bewilderment. “Yes, I read a book on Q after I did the Jesus
Seminar article—they were appealing to it so much. It did strike me that they got a lot out of
a document no one could put their hands on. It’s a conundrum, for sure.”
Perhaps I could see a way. “A conundrum? No, Phyllis, it’s a dilemma. A dilemma that
can’t be solved. Look at it this way.”
I leaned against the edge of the desk. “If Jesus was a man who had the explosive effect
the scholars say he had, on the people around him and on countless others who never even
laid eyes on him, that man would have lit up the sky like a Roman candle—if you’ll pardon
the pun. Every commentator and every historian of the day couldn’t have helped but take
notice of him. Just the fact that his followers were going around claiming he had risen from
the grave would have attracted press coverage, good and bad. Do you think in the face of
that, Josephus would have totally ignored the Christian sect? Impossible. Christians
themselves would have lionized every aspect of his life, the things he said and did. Instead,
we have nothing but silence, both inside Christianity and out.
“On the other hand, let’s say he was just an ordinary guy, maybe a preacher with some
charisma and a few thought-provoking ideas, as you say. But he performed no real miracles,
didn’t say a quarter of what’s attributed to him, didn’t rise from the dead. That would
explain why he created no stir in the wider world and got his life virtually ignored by his
own followers. But then how do you account for this great wildfire he supposedly lit all
across the empire, virtually overnight? All those different responses, this elevation by Jews
to the status of throne-partner of the God of Abraham himself?
“I think you can see what I mean. The dilemma is insoluble. Either he was a mover and
shaker—and yet his life went into an immediate eclipse, even among Christians. Or else he
was essentially an ordinary man—and yet they turned him into a cosmic deity. If anyone can
offer a convincing solution to the choice between those two fallacies, I’d be willing to
listen.”

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Phyllis looked bleak. “I never thought of it quite like that. I’m afraid I have no solution
for you.”
All three of us fell silent for a few moments. I was begining to feel that, when faced with
the possibility that Jesus never existed, the instinctual reaction would always be the same: a
sense of loss, a feeling that some hole had opened up in the fabric of the world’s foundation,
whether one was a believer or not. The figure of Jesus had created Western society as we
knew it, and its removal could not help but shift the ground under everyone’s feet.
David’s next comment bore this out. “I think most people, regardless of what they
believe, if they had a chance to go back in time and witness any one scene in history, would
probably choose Jesus’ trial and crucifixion, simply because it was so loaded with drama and
consequences for the future. It would take a wrenching readjustment to accept that the entire
story is pure fabrication. We’ve all lived with it for too long.”
“Oh, I grew up with it too, don’t forget,” I said. “But did the first century Christians?
Almost all the details of the Passion account go back to one source: Mark. And they’re all
missing from Paul and the other first century writers—except for Paul’s words of Jesus at
the Lord’s Supper, but that can be seen as an origin myth about the establishment of the
Christian sacred meal, like the meals of some of the other savior god cults of the time. It
may not be a coincidence that the cult of Mithras, whose sacred meal is closest to that of the
Christian one, first flourished in Paul’s home neighborhood of Tarsus during the first century
BCE.”
“So you’re saying that Mark made all these details up?” Phyllis had now adopted the air
of one who was taking notes, though it had to be mental ones.
“No,” I said, “I’m saying he took them from scripture. He wasn’t the first to learn of
Jesus from the writings, of course. Paul and the earlier mythical phase were getting their
picture of Jesus’ activities in the spiritual world from scripture, too. But Mark went much
further. He built up a whole earthly Passion story from countless little passages, mostly in
the Psalms and prophets. It was in the best tradition of midrash.”
“The whole thing?”
“What if I could show you that virtually every detail of Mark’s Passion account, from
Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem to Easter morning, had a parallel in some Old Testament verse or
other?”
Phyllis spread her hands in a gesture of invitation.
Here was my moment. Along the right-hand wall, below the second century portion of
my time chart, I had cleared ten feet of space. From behind the computer I drew out a roll of
paper, another hastily assembled creation of the day before. Using bits of masking tape, I
unrolled the long narrow strip and attached it to the ten feet of wall running underneath the
mural. The markings on it were in bold felt pen. A series of crudely drawn scrolls
containing scriptural quotes ran along the upper half of the strip. Below each scroll I had
printed a line or two, accompanied by a rough sketch in a red pen. I had some little talent for
drawing, and even at a distance of several feet I thought that the little vignettes were
recognizable.
David and Phyllis shifted the angle of their chairs for a better view. I picked up my
baton.
“At the climax of the ministry which Mark has created for his Jesus of Nazareth, Jesus
and his disciples go up to Jerusalem. Do you remember how Jesus enters the city?”

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“This is Palm Sunday, right?” said David. “Isn’t he riding on a donkey?”


“Yes.” My baton tapped the little sketch of a figure on a small animal. “Now, we look in
Zechariah, chapter 9 verse 9, and we find—” I read from the scroll above it.
“ ‘Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Zion!
Shout aloud, O daughter of Jerusalem!
Lo, your king comes to you:
triumphant and victorious is he,
humble and riding on an ass,
on a colt the foal of an ass.’
“Now, unless we’re willing to believe that Zechariah is actually prophecying Palm
Sunday—which no reputable scholar these days would think of doing—we can see that
Mark has constructed his scene as a midrash on this passage. The people being urged to
rejoice by Zechariah, Mark has turned into the reaction of the crowds as Jesus enters the city,
spreading their cloaks and palm branches on the road. He even has them shout a verse from
Psalm 118: ‘Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.’ He’s probably also thinking
of a line in Zephaniah, about the people rejoicing at the King of Israel being in their midst.
This is one of the features of midrash construction. The interpreter takes different passages
from various points in scripture which in his mind complement or relate to one another.
They all get assembled in the composite picture.”
“I guess the question is, did Mark construct things like this because he believed the
scriptural passages were actual prophecies of historical events?” Phyllis was still determined
not to surrender too easily.
“He may very well have done so,” I replied, “though my feeling is otherwise. But we can
be sure he’s starting from scratch. Neither he nor the other evangelists can be familiar with
any oral traditions about Jesus actually making an entry like this into the city. They’re all
too close to scripture, and they’re all virtual carbon copies of Mark. There’s no sign of any
other source of information operating here.
“In fact, Matthew does something quite bizarre. He’s so slavishly tied to scripture that
when he reworks Mark he has the disciples go and bring back both a donkey and her colt.
Why? Because as you can see, the passage in Zechariah can be read as referring to two
separate animals. Exactly how Jesus can ride both is never illustrated, but Matthew is
anxious to point out that all this is in fulfilment of the words of the prophet, and he quotes
Zechariah.”
“So Matthew at least think’s he’s pointing to history.”
I hesitated. “It’s possible. He and the other later evangelists are always declaring their
Gospel events as fulfilment of scripture, whereas we find almost none of that idea in Mark.
And yet, why does Matthew so thoroughly revamp his sources, Mark and Q? Should he not
have thought that they were historical records and he was distorting them? I tend to feel that
the fulfilment of scripture thing is still part of the midrash approach. The scriptural passages
are pointing to new truths, but these truths are being embodied in fictional tales. I don’t
know. It’s extremely difficult to get inside the minds of these writers.”
My baton moved on. “Jesus Cleanses the Temple. A very vivid scene. An angry Jesus
drives out the money changers and the animal sellers from the Temple court.”
“You have made my Father’s house a den of thieves!” quoted David.

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“Something like that. It’s been a favorite picture of the righteous Jesus almost since it
was written, but I suspect that this was motivated by the Christian need to denigrate all
things Jewish. The trouble is, no one ever asked until recently whether this scene was at all
feasible, if it made any sense. Could one man do this? The outer court of the Temple was
huge. And could he do it with impunity? Jewish and Roman authorities were constantly in
attendance. It’s really a preposterous idea. And anyway, the activities of these traders were
absolutely essential to the functioning of the Temple. They made the public sacrifices
possible. There was no thievery about it.”
Phyllis peered at the scroll above my sketch of Jesus with the flail. “And this scene
comes from where?”
“Again, from a combination of passages. Malachi says that ‘the Lord you seek will come
to his Temple.’ Hosea 9:15—which certainly wasn’t talking about animal sellers—says,
‘For their evil deeds I will drive them from my house.’ And Zechariah 14:21 prophecies
that, ‘When the time comes, no trader will be seen in the house of the Lord.’ Your ‘den of
thieves’ quotation comes from Jeremiah 7:11. But he’s railing against those who commit
atrocities and make sacrifices to Baal and then come into the Temple and think they’ll gain
forgiveness.”
David volunteered, “I imagine that if Jesus had really done this, there’d be all sorts of
details available about it that didn’t fit scripture.”
“Exactly. It’s the kind of incident that would have grown with the telling, as it passed
through oral transmission. Some evangelist would surely have recorded some non-scriptural
details about it.”
I moved along my scroll strip. The plot against Jesus. The Psalms had told of those who
had wished him dead, of his enemies’ conspiracies—only the unknown Psalmist was talking
about himself and his own enemies.
Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane. The Psalms had contained many a lamentation
which the evangelist could use to paint his picture of a fearful Jesus. ‘How deep I am sunk
in misery, groaning in my distress,’ said Psalm 42. I pointed out that Mark’s fashioning of
so many elements in his Gospel were for instructional purposes. If even Jesus could be
afraid of the trials he faced, the sect’s members need not feel guilty about fearing the
persecutions which beset them. And the sleeping Apostles at Gethsemane were an example
of the personal weakness all had to deal with and try to overcome.
Phyllis pointed to one of my sketches, a pile of coins. “I take it that represents Judas. I
know that his existence at least has been called into question.”
“Yes. Apart from Judas being a convenient figure to represent the unresponsive Jews as
some kind of evil force, there were enemies of the Psalm writers who could be taken as
pointing to such a figure. Psalm 41 says that ‘Even the friend whom I trusted, who ate at my
table, exults over my misfortune.’ That gave Mark his scene at the Last Supper when Jesus
says, ‘One of you who is eating with me will betray me.’ The 30 pieces of silver is taken
from Zechariah 11:12. Matthew goes so far as to tell us that Judas regretted his action and
‘threw down the pieces of silver in the Temple.’ Do you think he might have gotten that
from Zechariah, who says that he threw the dirty money the authorities had given him into
the treasury?”
This brought me to the trials of Jesus. Scholars had pointed out the many inconsistencies,
indeed impossibilities, of Jesus’ appearance before the Sanhedrin: that such a trial could not

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be conducted at night, that the blasphemy charge made no sense, that the Jewish leaders had
no jurisdiction to pronounce a death sentence. Most scholars now regarded Mark’s whole
trial narrative as designed to serve his theological concerns. His desire to portray the Jewish
authorities as the force behind the execution of Jesus embodied his community’s animosity
toward those who sought to kill the Christian sect itself.
The false accusations at the Sanhedrin trial, the silence of Jesus before his accusers and
before Pilate, even Pilate’s washing of his hands in the Gospel of John, all these details had
scriptural precedents. The famous choice offered between Jesus and Barabbas was likely
pure fiction in any case, because it went against all that was known of Roman practice and
even of Pilate himself. Many scholars had called it into question.
The minute details of Jesus’ scourging, the abuse he suffered at the hands of the soldiers,
all were echoes of verses from the prophets. The crown of thorns refected a detail of the
treatment accorded one of the goats in the Jewish ritual on the Day of Atonement. Isaiah
50:6 had said, ‘I offer my back to the lash...and I did not hide my face from spitting and
insult.’ The Suffering Servant Song of Isaiah 53 told of one who ‘bore our sufferings...he
submitted to be struck down.’
Mark was building up his Passion edifice out of stones quarried from the sacred writings,
out of bricks fashioned from the ingredients of the prophets’ words.
“Perhaps the early Christians didn’t know the details of what Jesus went through,” Phyllis
suggested. “Maybe Mark was forced to make things up.”
I scratched my head with the baton. “Well, that tends to be the going explanation these
days. But ignorance of detail is one thing. Paul, for all he talks about the death of Jesus,
never even hints that he underwent a trial of any kind. For all that he talks about Jesus’
sufferings, there’s not a scrap of tradition he can offer about specifics. The abuse in the
courtyard, the crucifixion on Calvary—these things were conducted in view of great crowds,
so we’re told, and surely they would have been. None of the details of these scenes reached
Paul? Or any of the other epistle writers? No one ever alludes to anything throughout the
entire first century. Not even the name of Pilate appears!”
“So the Jewish onlookers never shouted, ‘His blood be upon us and upon our children’,”
David said in a somber tone. “I’ve always found that such a wretched line. So much misery
from a handful of words.”
“No, they didn’t.” I peered at one of my scrolls. “But 2 Samuel says, ‘David said, Your
blood be on your own hands.’ And, ‘May it recoil on the head of Joab and upon all his
family.’ Did Matthew get his idea from these passages? Who knows? In any case,
Matthew’s Gospel is chock full of anti-Jewish sentiment. The ironic thing is, that of all the
evangelists, he’s the one who was probably a Jew himself, though the Christians who came
after him were quite willing to believe the crowd’s outburst was fact.”
I moved along the wall, baton in hand, reciting.
“Isaiah 53:12: ‘And he was numbered with the transgressors.’ Jesus is crucified between
two thieves. Psalm 22:7: ‘All who see me jeer, they wag their heads; he committed his
cause to the Lord, let him deliver him.’ The taunts of the onlookers at the crucifixion, even
using the same Greek words that appear in the Septuagint.
“Psalm 22:18: ‘They divided my garments among them, and for my raiments they cast
lots.’ ”

245

Phyllis interjected. “That business of the soldiers gambling for Jesus’ clothes right below
his feet always affected me when I was a kid. I thought it was so callous. Now I guess I’m
going to have to apologize to all those Roman centurions.”
“And for the drink of vinegar and gall, I suppose,” David added.
“Yes, that’s Psalm 69. The prodigies of nature at Jesus’ death, like the darkness at noon
and the earthquake, came from Amos and Joel, even to the hour. A few things were needed
for the story which did not come from scripture, like Mark’s invention of Joseph of
Arimathea to take Jesus down from the cross and bury him. And Matthew adds guards at the
tomb to ensure that no one would claim that Jesus’ body was stolen by his disciples.”
“One thing I always found curious,” Phyllis said. “Paul has this long list of resurrection
appearances in 1 Corinthians, all to men of course, but the Gospels run absolutely counter to
this by having women go to the tomb and witness the first appearance of Jesus. Why do you
think that is?”
“Well, Mark started it, but he only had his women going to anoint the corpse, and they
find the tomb empty, that’s all. There were no resurrection appearances in Mark—that is,
until someone added them later to make up for the embarrassing shortfall. Matthew and
John extended things by inventing appearances and giving the first one to Mark’s women.
Luke has them find the empty tomb, but he gives some minor apostles on the road to
Emmaus the first encounter with the risen Jesus. It’s all a kind of haphazard development.”
Phyllis stood up and approached my mural, running her eye over all the scraps and strips
with their scrawled notes and scribbled quotes, the occasional splotches of color in my
sketches along the time chart.
She said soberly, “There’s obviously more to the early Christian picture than meets the
average person’s eye, I can see that. And out of all this conglomeration of ideas, somebody
sits down one day, writes a Gospel and sends the history of the world shooting off in a new
direction. If what you say is true, Jesus of Nazareth comes alive out of the blue, and we owe
it all to maybe one man whose name we’ll never know.”
“Well, not exactly out of the blue. I happen to think that no idea ever springs to life in a
state of pure originality. There’s a source and inevitability to everything.”
I set down my baton. “The ideas that went into Jesus of Nazareth had a lot of precursors.
I said that Mark put his Gospel together, especially the Passion, out of scriptural pieces, but
he also had a template to fit it all into. There’s a pattern, a theme that shows up repeatedly in
the previous centuries of Jewish literature, some in the bible, others in apocryphal writings.
It’s a story that scholars have characterized as The Suffering and Vindication of the Innocent
Righteous One. You find it in the story of Joseph in Genesis, in Isaiah 53 with its Suffering
Servant, in Tobit, Esther, Daniel, 2 and 3 Maccabees, Susanna, the Story of Ahiqar, the
Wisdom of Solomon. They all tell a tale of a righteous man or women falsely accused, who
suffers, is convicted and condemned to death, gets rescued at the last moment and raised to a
high position. In the later literature, he’s exalted after death. Does it sound familiar?”
“Mark’s Jesus is another tale in the series, obviously,” answered David.
“Yes, a man who preached God, is convicted though innocent, suffers in faithful silence
and after death is exalted to glory and God’s prsence. But all these stories are really the
story of the Jewish people: the way they saw themselves during the centuries following the
Exile. As a nation, except for the period of the Maccabean kings, they were continually
subjugated by the godless empires around them. And as a righteous group within the nation,

246

they were persecuted by those of their own people who had surrendered their souls to the
foreign culture, the rich and the powerful. Like all sectarian or persecuted mentalities, they
believed that through their suffering and faithfulness to God, they were destined to be raised
to glory.
“For the new Christian sect, Jesus was more than just a Messiah. He was their paradigm.
What he went through, they went through, and the triumph he enjoyed was a guarantee of the
triumph that was in store for them. The Gentiles who hijacked the Jewish Christ movement
finalized the new story, applied it to themselves as a new Israel, and carried the ball off at a
different tangent. The history of ideas is anything but linear. It grows like a mutating life
form, in unpredictable directions.”
Phyllis turned and looked at me with a thoughtful expression. “Layers upon layers. You
create an image of a great seething mass of subconscious motivation and experience,
stretching back into a misty collective past. Things bubble to the surface and some new
group creates a new theology, a new mythology out of it all.”
“And by the next generation, a new history has entered society’s consciousness. That’s
the way myth operates. Until that society evolves to the point where the great myths of the
past break down and can no longer function in the face of new developments. That’s the
point we’ve reached today. It’s taken us two millennia to get here, but it’s time for Jesus to
withdraw back into the mists he came out of. In fact, that reminds me of something my
favorite author wrote. Allow me to indulge myself...”
I strode over to the bookcase on the other side of the study and drew out a compact book,
its cover a simple, worn blue fabric. Alan Swallow’s editions of the Testament of Man had
been frugal.
“When Vardis Fisher got to his novel about the growth of Christianity, he was coming off
a rather simple and moving portrait of a Jesus who never understood what he was, or what
he was inaugurating. In A Goat For Azazel, Fisher had to present a wealth of material,
religious and philosophical, about all the ideas that went into the Christian movement and
what was made of Jesus. For that reason, some critics pronounced it too wordy, even too
sermonizing, with shortcomings in plot and characterization. But I can sympathize with
Fisher, because such a complex subject couldn’t possibly be gotten across entirely through
dramatic action. Maybe he tried to get too much into it, but without that detail, he would
have shortchanged the reader and left him without enough to go on to make his case. I think
the reader who approaches it as a novel of ideas and provocative insights would come away
fascinated by all that went into the origins of Christianity. It’s a problem I know I’m going
to face in creating my own novel.”
“This was part of a series?” asked Phyllis.
I gave her a capsule description of this most ambitious of historical fiction projects. “If
you take The Testament of Man as a whole, then A Goat For Azazel could be looked upon as
a kind of philosophical discussion chapter in the larger picture. Certainly, previous novels
have a lot of action in them, like The Valley of Vision, about Solomon, and Israel’s first steps
toward monotheism. Or The Island of the Innocent, which chronicles the clash of Hebrew
thought with Greek, centered on the Maccabean Revolt. There’s more than enough blood
and fire in that one. But even A Goat For Azazel has a lot of color and interest. Fisher lays
it out like a detective story, and you get introduced to famous Christian figures, like the
evangelist Luke and Ignatius of Antioch.”

247

“What does that title refer to?” David asked.


“It’s part of the Jewish Day of Atonement ritual. The priests laid the sins of the people
on the head of the goat, and it was driven out into the wilderness where the demon Azazel
disposed of it, and the sins were wiped out.”
“Meaning Jesus is the new goat, I take it.”
“Yes. The moral Fisher is trying to convey—or perhaps the question he is asking—is: are
we wise in creating a scapegoat for our sins, instead of accepting the burden of them on
ourselves? He suggests that maybe salvation is too easy if all that’s required is faith and
repentance because the consequences of sin have been placed on the shoulders of the
scapegoat Jesus. Should humanity’s ethical wisdom be based on penitent relations with a
deity, or upon responsible and productive social behavior in this world, to eliminate its pains
and injustices?”
“Good question,” said David.
Phyllis asked, “Did Fisher believe Jesus was a myth?”
“My feeling is he didn’t try to answer that specifically. He left it open. That’s why he
called his novel on Jesus himself ‘A Parable’. And he’s saying here that even if the birth of
the new religion were triggered by a man who actually lived and died, the religion itself is
the product of the long-developing myths he’s been tracing through all the earlier novels. Of
course, scholarship in his day was nowhere near as advanced as it is now. The layered
structure of Q, for example, was still unperceived, the sectarian nature of Christianity, the
obvious editorial motivations of the evangelists. Even so, Fisher’s analysis was very much
ahead of its time.”
Phyllis, the scribbler, asked, “Was he a good writer?”
I smiled at her very natural and partisan question. “I would say very much so. There’s a
simplicity to his style, but a poetry as well. Actually, I was going to read you a little
summary passage here I got reminded of....” I opened the book.
“The story’s hero, the ‘detective’, leaves a manuscript chronicling his investigation, and
in the last chapter his son is reading from it:
“ ‘The story had its simple and humble beginning in the land of the Jews—and yet not
there, for the story is ancient. Was there a lowly one named Jesus who was hanged as a
false messiah? I put that question to my friend Elisha and he said that nobody will ever
know now and it does not matter. Was there an Orpheus, was there, let us ask, a Buddha,
or have the gods been only glorified images of ourselves? If there was a Jesus he has
now been swallowed by the mists, like a lonely figure climbing a high mountain, that
vanishes from sight and forever when the clouds enfold him; and what he taught, or to
whom, or how he lived and died we can never know.’ ”
“He sounds almost wistful about it,” Phyllis remarked.
“Yes, perhaps he is. Perhaps even as a non-believer, Fisher couldn’t help but tap into the
power that myth holds over all of us. At another spot in the book he has his hero say
something like, ‘Even if there never was such a man, even if he never said a word that they
have him say, there is such a man for me now.’
“I think he realized that the idea of Jesus was part of a great and widespread human
yearning. We are constantly striving to create better myths for ourselves. So many of them
have been produced by fusing previously existing ones. Christianity took the salvation
promise of the Hellenistic mystery cults and the mystical leanings of Greek philosophy and

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fused them with the higher ethical concerns of the Jewish culture along with their
expectations of a new world. Even Judaism itself, after the Jewish War and the destruction
of the Temple, was evolving into its own higher stage. Perhaps it’s not a coincidence that
both developments were taking place around the same time. History tends to move in
waves, and you often see a whole complex of innovations taking place simultaneously, even
in unconnected areas. The second century under the Roman empire was probably the most
happy and enlightened period of human history before our own. The trouble is, every new
movement brings with it the seeds of its own petrification and decay. The more successful it
becomes, the more it moves toward being institutionalized. Fisher says that the earliest
Christians, like Paul, were creating a new poem for the religious mind of humanity, but
before long others had compromised it by declaring it actual history.”
“Poets write a poem, and theologians turn it into dogma,” David offered.
I raised my eyebrows in surprise. “That’s actually very close to the way Fisher puts it
himself. With dogma comes intransigence. With power—absolute power, as the Christian
Church gained—comes a betrayal of the higher principles earlier espoused. Eventually,
everything that isn’t seen as a direct path to the otherworld salvation is denigrated and even
rooted out: art, science, philosophy—”
“Not to mention differences of opinion,” added David.
“Yes. Then something else comes along, like the rediscovery of ancient learning at the
time of the Renaissance, and a new fusion takes place. Things go off in a new direction.”
“Followed by the Reformation and horrendous religious wars. Out of which, presumably,
comes a reaction in the Enlightenment.”
“The forever oscillating pendulum,” Phyllis remarked. She turned to David. “And you,
sir. Are you building any safeguards against the abuse of power into your new Foundation?”
Her lightness of tone did not entirely alleviate the very real, eternal issue which lay behind
the question.
David shuddered. “Yikes! Right now, I’m just trying to get the media primed for the
hearing next week.”
“Aha! Manipulation already! I’m going to have to keep an eye on you people. I hope
you realize you’re still on probation.”
David seemed to take this as a double entendre, by the look of his grimace.
“Anyway,” I said, closing the book. “That’s my case so far. A lot still needs fleshing
out, and I haven’t answered every question I’ve got in my own mind—plus a few I’m sure I
haven’t thought of yet. You don’t have to say whether you agree with me or nor. It’s a lot to
absorb at once, especially when it comes out of the blue like that.”
David stood up and stretched. “Well, the idea’s been around for a while, I know that.
But it sounds like you’ve given it a few new twists. How about if we leave any discussion of
it till after the hearing? Whether the Foundation will want to make use of it, I don’t know.”
He gave me the old freshman grin. “Maybe we’ll let you float the idea in your novel first.
Then if you don’t get stoned or lynched from the nearest tree, we might think about picking
it up.”
“There’s the old school spirit!” I said.
We wrapped up the afternoon at a local restaurant, a fine place and one of Shauna’s and
my favorite haunts. I had missed her today. A lot was being invested in new directions in
my life, it seemed, but was it at the expense of old established values—myths, so to speak?

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The parallels within parallels were a little disconcerting. I hoped she would call me when
she got in that evening, as she had promised.
By this time tomorrow, if things went according to plan, we would be arriving in
Philadelphia. By that time, too, I assumed, all the players would be on the scene, ready to
step the next day onto the stage we had set—which perhaps the times itself had set—for the
confrontation between the sacred and the secular, between the old and the new.

*****************************

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250

Chapter Seventeen

“All rise.”
Philadelphia. Tuesday morning, 10 o’clock. Judge Henry Banks Still entered Courtroom
C, Superior Court Building, wearing a world-weary expression like the precincts he presided
over and showing almost as many signs of age. Greying throughout, slightly stooped body
topped by a heavily lined, impassive face, his demeanor as he crossed the floor between the
rear entrance and the bench suggested he would check on exactly what case he was hearing
once he got seated. Since I was sure this was hardly the situation, I took it as a sign that his
own personal convictions on the question before him had been left behind in chambers.
One of the nice things about Courtroom C, I had been told, was the fact that it had
windows. On a sunny day like this one, in the dying moments of June, the light that shone
through the ornately-edged panes high on the wall gave a glow to all the room’s wood
surfaces, helping to soften the grime of time: the rich wall panels, the judge’s elevated
bench, the desks of the advocates and court personnel, the banks of spectator seating—a
forest of grained and knotted oak and mahogany. Unlike some of the more modern halls of
justice with their sterile synthetic decor, this ancient chamber possessed a glow of life. On
that morning it crossed my mind that this was a fitting observation to be made, for what was
about to be argued here was the origin of that life, not only the life of trees, but of the
creatures who grew them, cut them down and fashioned them into rooms like this.
The spectator seats were all but full. Shauna and I sat in the second row, directly behind
the table allotted to those who represented the challenge to the State of Pennsylvania.
Shauna was trimly and smartly dressed in a way I had rarely seen her, one which cast my
own less inspired garb into shadow. Whether it was the new city she had rarely visited, the
presence of the media, or perhaps the significance of the issue under judgment, she had
treated the event as an occasion, almost from the moment we had arrived the evening before.
As it turned out, I had not heard from her until Monday morning. She apologized and
blamed the lateness of the hour and a general tiredness upon her return Sunday night. Our
trip down by train that afternoon was uneventful: a few anecdotes about her visit home, but
no more than necessary, it seemed to me. In fact, our conversation so far had been non
committal, almost guarded. There was an air of deliberate neutrality about her, as though
feelings and issues cooking on the stove between us had been moved for the moment to the
back burner; as though she too were aware of the import of the occasion and the demands
the next few days could make on me. There they simmered, and the faint bubble was like a
background noise constantly impinging on my consciousness. Our room at the hotel, modest
but comfortable, had a double bed, but under its covers the night before we had held each
other without making love.
Two hours before that, we had met David and Phyllis along with two other members of
the Foundation, in a corner of the hotel bar; the place was bustling for a Monday night.
Perhaps the crowd was in town for the hearing, though none of the conversation around us
seemed to be about the age of the earth—or Burton Patterson. Phyllis and Shauna hit it off
well, and I was envious of the extra sparkle that came to Shuana’s eye during their

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conversation. David seemed to notice nothing amiss as he talked about last minute
particulars concerning the court case. Perhaps he was blinded by the sparkle in his own eye.
There had been no further word from Nelson Chown, and the Ascended Masters might
have receded to a dim memory except that James Franklin had told David early that morning
that Jeffrey, the young man I had talked to at the schoolhouse, had left for Philadelphia the
previous Saturday. He had been accompanied by another member of the Campus Crusade
and apparently part of the group at the schoolhouse, someone by the name of Lindon. How
Franklin, who seemed to be David’s private sleuth, had discovered this information I was not
told.
As for me, I carried my little notebook in the pocket of jacket, and its cryptic clues
generated a different background simmer, this one against my chest, where they seemed to
tingle the skin. Shauna and I had occupied some of the time on the train reading over the
clues several times and speculating on their significance. But as to why the Masters wished
to call our attention to Revelation’s pronouncements on those who would look upon the
pierced Christ, or those who called the stones to fall upon them and hide them from God’s
face, or on the spectacle of the angel who poured out his bowl of fire on the unrepentant,
remained as enigmatic as ever.
If there was any angel in attendance in Courtroom C, she was not beating her wings, for
the place lacked air-conditioning, and with streams of sunlight angling in through the south
windows, the place held promise of becoming stuffy and warm. For the moment it was
comfortable. There were glasses and pitchers of water set out on the attorneys’ tables. Two
fans located in the room’s corners to either side of the judge’s bench stood for the moment
idle.
About fifteen feet in front of Shauna and I, beyond the first row of seats and the low
balustrade separating the gallery from the business side of things, loomed the well-tailored
back of Burton Patterson. He was flanked by a young but professional-looking woman I
assumed was an assistant attorney. Prior to the entrance of Judge Still, Patterson had
conveyed the air of one confident and prepared. Rather than bury his head in a last minute
review of paperwork, as the woman beside him was doing, he had spent the few minutes
since our own entrance relaxing in his chair and occasionally craning around to look out over
the gallery. On one of those forays he had spotted Shauna and I, and a broad smile came to
his face. I felt no allusion that this had been directed at me, and while I nodded in
businesslike fashion, Shauna gave him a nod of her own with the slightest of enigmatic
smiles.
I had not dared to ask her if Patterson had contacted her again about his ‘social occasion’
which was to follow the presumed success of the hearing. David had spoken the night
before about a reception planned for Thursday evening. Judge Still had announced that he
would limit testimony to two days and deliver his judgment on the third day. I hoped that
David was correct in labelling this the work of no-nonsense arbitrator rather than one who
had already made up his mind—unless, of course, that mind was in our favor. On the way to
the courthouse I had made a passing reference to the planned reception but Shauna had
volunteered nothing further about any overtures by Patterson.
In the front row ahead of us but off to the side of the room sat David and Phyllis. Phyllis,
I could see, finally had her notebook in hand. Whether she hoped for the fireworks of the
famous Scopes ‘Monkey Trial’ repeating themselves today, with Patterson in the role of a

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reincarnated Clarence Darrow, I didn’t know, but she seemed full of anticipation. Legal
challenges like this one against various state attempts to introduce creationism into the
classroom had been sprinkled over the last decade and a half in various courtrooms across
the U.S. But none of them had featured a star figure like Burton Patterson, though this was a
star which had been in eclipse for some time. Cameras were barred from the courtroom, but
a half dozen seats, three on each side, had been placed before the railing separating court
from gallery and these, for most of the hearing, would be filled by reporters officially
assigned to cover the event. Their attention, and no doubt the majority of the words they
scribbled in front of them, were directed at the returning civil rights litigator.
At one point Phyllis had asked something of David, who promptly craned his neck out
over the gallery. He signalled me and mouthed a question which I could see involved the
name Cherkasian. My own sweep of the audience did not reveal the presence of the man I
had talked to at the schoolhouse.
I had, however, spied the second gardener from that day, the one Cherkasian had called
Steven. The young man was sitting in the back near the opposite corner. Even from this
distance I could see that he wore a nervous and intense look. I wondered just what he
expected to hear today and how he had prepared himself for hearing it.
Steven. Was he from Philadelphia before taking up residence at the schoolhouse?
Jeffrey was a student at the University back home. It was he, presumably, who had sent the
e-mails to the Foundation from the Campus Crusade’s computer, although at least one other
university student, according to Franklin, was on the scene as well. Clues 1 and 3. The
opening message and Clue No. 2 had come from Philadelphia. Had Steven anything to do
with sending those? That opening message had a peremptory ring which suggested
Cherkasian himself.
David and I should have urged Chown, or even the local police, to have them all hauled
in for questioning. Were apocalyptic quotations from Revelation sufficient probable cause?
Why not? Taken out of context, perhaps a judge could be persuaded that they had a
threatening air to them.
A few moments after that cheery thought, the spectators’ gallery was all but filled, and
Judge Henry Banks Still had entered the courtroom. It was solely he who would decide the
issue in these proceedings. No jury of average Americans had been permitted to be involved.
Shauna whispered, “What are Burton Patterson’s witnesses going to swear on?”
“Good question. A copy of Darwin, maybe?”
The formalities took a quarter of an hour. A court clerk detailed the challenge by the Age
of Reason Foundation, acting under the sponsorship of the ACLU, to the Senate of the State
of Pennsylvania, for its instructions to the state Board of Education to insert into the science
curriculum at the High School level an outline of the theory that the universe had been
created through deliberate design by a Deity. This theory was to be given equal time beside
any and all theories that stars, planets and life itself had evolved through natural, undirected
processes. The Senate’s resolution had been carefully phrased to avoid any reference to the
Christian religion as such, although there did appear the words “as presented in cultural
records reflecting traditional opinions and beliefs, such as the Bible.” This was closely
followed by the phrase, “and backed by modern scientific principles of investigation.”
Perhaps the groan at this point from David’s direction was only my imagination.

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The grounds for the challenge lay, as always, in the contention that creationism was
derived solely from religious belief as embodied in religious writings, and as a so-called
theory could demonstrate no adherence to scientific principles. The State of Pennsylvania
was required, before Superior Court justice, to demonstrate that there were grounds to allow
School Boards to act upon their instructions, ground which did not violate the constitutional
separation of Church and State.
At precisely 10:20, from his seat at opposing counsel’s table on the other side of the
room, Mr. Chester Wylie stood up. He was a heavy-set man in his fifties, greying hair
discreetly colored and coiffed, with an open, almost cheery face that would have led no one
to accuse him of narrowmindedness or intolerance.
He greeted the court affably, then got down to business.
“The issue at this hearing, Your Honor, is not a religious one, despite what opposing
counsel would like to maintain. And, by the way, I welcome Mr. Patterson back to the old
haunts he left—quite some time ago now, it seems. However, I will not be calling upon him
as a witness to the earlier stages of the world’s development.”
Several snickers and a guffaw arose from the gallery, and even Judge Still cracked a faint
smile. Patterson half rose in his chair to acknowledge the introduction. In a soft voice,
which carried into the corners of the room, he said, “Mr. Wylie must not be eager for news
about his own family tree.”
This raised a different set of snickers and a smattering of applause. Even Shauna beside
me gave a little involuntary clap of her hands. From the direction of the sounds, I realized
that supporters of each side had ranged themselves behind the respective attorney’s table.
That it would be a partisan and probably demonstrative audience seemed clear.
Judge Still evidently realized this as well and moved to establish control of his
courtroom. “I understand the emotional nature of the issue being heard today,” he said in a
hard-edged, gravelly voice. “But I will tolerate no outbursts. And I admonish both counsels
to keep their provocative comments to a minimum.”
Chester Wylie nodded graciously. “Provocation is not in my repertoire, Your Honor.
Nor is the State of Pennsylvania wishing to be provocative in its insistence that equal time
be given to the scientific theory of creationism. As I said, this is not a religious issue at base.
The issue is whether we ought to expose our children to all facets of contemporary thinking.
And in the science classroom, this includes all theories which follow lines of scientific
argument. We must further ask on the other side of the coin: shall we leave the education
field only to those theories which are flawed and questionable, and which many in our
society find objectionable or even ludicrous? To teach our children that the only option
open to viewing their family tree—not just my own—is that their ancestors swung from it, is
to shortchange them on the views of life and the universe which are available to us. We all
know to what level of godhead modern secular elements in our society have raised the
discipline known as ‘science’, and the hallowed status they have given to everything
preached under this banner. The State of Pennsylvania believes that science can and should
include theories which the secular community does not find itself disposed to entertain.”
Chester Wylie had a relaxed mode of delivery, at least when arguing before a judge’s
bench as opposed to a jury box. He had come out from behind the table but stood close by
it, moving little, occasionally resting a hand upon its surface. So far he had spoken without
notes.

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“Nor should we set a criterion for theories to be included in a science class that they have
to be proven as correct. I would like to call the court’s attention—a kind of hindsight
example, if you wish—to the fact that medieval science courses included the theory that the
sun went around the earth. We now know this to have been incorrect, as Copernicus and
Kepler demonstrated. But it was based on the accepted scientific tradition of the time, going
back to good scientific observations by Ptolemy and others in the ancient world. Would the
court say that science classes should not have taught the Ptolemaic system?”
As Wylie spoke these words, I thought to detect a subtle increase in tension throughout
the room, for he was treading tender ground here. By implication, he was admitting the
possibility that the theory of creationism could be wrong. And yet the tactic was shrewd.
His point was that science could encompass theories which were not infallible. Perhaps he
was heading for the position that it was how one approached a theory rather than its
demonstrable accuracy which justified its inclusion under the scientific umbrella. We would
see.
Perhaps sensing the undesirable implications in his argument, Wylie switched to another
example, one which those on his side of the room undoubtedly found more palatable.
“Should we have taught the earlier version of the theory of evolution, one could ask? It
described a gradual progression from one species to the next. This version proved
unsupportable by the evidence, and so a different theory, the one now called ‘punctuated
equilibrium’ has been offered. Who knows how long before this one is chucked in the
wastebasket and yet another offered in its place? The point is, Your Honor, science cannot
limit itself to those topics which an intellectual elite hold to be acceptable, relegating those
of us less prejudiced in our uses of scientific principles to the wilderness. Nor must we
banish our children to the wilderness and deny them the richness of what all our cultural
philosophies and investigations have to offer.”
The man was clever, there was no doubt about it. Not only was he managing to push a lot
of emotional buttons, he was by implication aligning creationism with the principles
associated with science and all things good in present society. I wondered what Burton
Patterson was thinking at this moment about the quality of the opposition and the challenges
he would face in winning the Foundation’s case.
That first morning’s ‘testimony’ by the State of Pennsylvania centered on a selection of
standard arguments in favor of creationism. These were things to do with the geological
record, the nature of life and the fossil evidence, laws of chemistry and physics, all, of
course, interpreted in unusual ways. I could tell from David’s expression that there was
nothing new here. A few of these points Chester Wylie delivered himself; others were made
through witnesses. Of these, most held degrees in science from what I knew were
evangelical colleges, one or two from more mainstream universities. After each statement of
principle, Burton Patterson was allowed to make a rebuttal statement or cross-examine the
witness, or to call a rebuttal witness of his own. The latter occurred three times, and always
involved the same individual. This was an evolutionary biologist from a Boston university.
The man was clearly adept and experienced at rebutting creationist argument; his answers
seemed prepared and he looked as though he had made a second career out of offering such a
service. Though high profile cases like this one were a relative rarity, evolution vs. creation
was an issue which was being fought out at a lot of local levels: in universities, school
boards and community organizations.

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It seemed from Chester Wylie’s manner and tone that he was not overly concerned with
convincing anyone of the validity of the case for creationism. Many points he delivered in
cursory fashion, as though slipping them by as unworthy of objection. And indeed,
Patterson let some of them pass as not requiring rebuttal. Wylie was clearly presenting these
features of the creationist case as expressions of science and scientific investigation, creating
the impression that creationism had a body of material and a method of handling it which
could rank with any scientific discipline. For that reason, he seemed anxious to squeeze in
as many points as possible, failing to argue most of them in any great depth. At the same
time, Wylie rarely chose to try to counter the Foundation counsel’s rebuttals.

Judge Still called a halt to the morning’s proceedings at three minutes before noon. The
courtroom emptied rapidly.
In the corridor outside, the Foundation’s members and supporters congregated, with
Patterson and David the focal point of the circle. Shauna and I were on its edge, but I
noticed that the attorney was aware of our presence and more than once glanced in Shauna’s
direction. Shauna herself maintained an impassive expression, though she, like all of us,
seemed to be listening intently.
“I don’t want to get bogged down in trying to rebut all the details of the creationist case,”
Patterson was explaining to David, though he spoke for the benefit of everyone listening.
“Sometimes too much rebuttal can backfire on you because it creates a bully image, and to
the non-scientific mind some of their arguments can have a veneer of respectability.
Rebutting them often requires very technical discussion which doesn’t always convince,
because people don’t understand it and it sounds elitist.”
David nodded, though his expression suggested he was still worried. That, I reflected,
was the man’s natural proclivity. “Are we going to be in a position to discredit them? The
way the hearing is structured, it seems to give them all the serves. We have to respond to
what they give us.”
Patterson was reassuring. “They’re answering our challenge. Don’t worry. It can work
to our advantage. The more we let them open their mouths, the more something damaging is
going to come out. I think Wylie realizes that, which is why he seems more interested in
creating an impression than in offering substance. He’s laying the groundwork for
something, and I have the feeling he won’t get to whatever it is until tomorrow. I prefer to
save my best ammunition for the crack troops, when they finally attack. In the meantime, we
sit tight and try not to let them get away with too much.”
Phyllis, standing beside David, asked, “Isn’t there a danger in not rebutting their case as
thoroughly as possible? The more the judge is convinced they have one, the more he may
think students have the right to hear it.”
Patterson was unperturbed. “Dear lady, as you yourself should know, it is not always the
substance of something which is the most important, it is how it is delivered. Mr. Wylie
implied that principle himself in his opening remarks. He is really aiming at the question of
how creationism would be offered in the classroom. That has to be the central issue, and he
knows it.”
The smile he had given Phyllis with this answer suddenly gave way to a more thoughtful
expression. “That battle has not yet been engaged. It will be where the truest feelings come
out.”

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He threw his glance around the circle and I thought it rested momentarily on myself and
Shauna. Then he caught sight of someone behind us and signalled. To David he said, “I
need a word with Kaminsky. Have some lunch and relax. See you back here at two.” He
pushed his way out of the circle and went off down the hall with his rebuttal expert.
Shauna and I found ourselves with David and Phyllis as the rest of the circle melted away
in its own directions. After a brief discussion of the merits of lunch and where to indulge in
it, we agreed to Phyllis’ recommendation of a small Italian place she knew of, a block down
from the courthouse.
As we left the building and descended the stone stairs to the street, we approached a
familiar figure standing at the base of the steps, looking up intently at the weathered
courthouse facade as though finding it a place of evil or uncertain menace. As I passed the
young man named Steven, he noticed me and our eyes locked, each one’s following the
other’s as I moved by only a few feet away. His expression was unfathomable.
“Who was that?” David asked, as we made our way down the street.
“That, my friend, was one of our Ascended Masters. His name is Steven. He works on
gardens and who knows what else. He apparently subscribes to the notion, if he listens to
Mr. Cherkasian, that God can be prodded into bringing the world to an end and setting up a
new Jerusalem.”
“I assume we wouldn’t be a part of it,” remarked Phyllis.
“No, I have no doubt we’re all citizens of the evil Babylon. The avenging angels are
going to have a field day with us. Somebody has to suffer all that fire, hail and scorpions
they’ve got stored up in heaven’s arsenal for the day of judgment.”
“But no sign of Cherkasian himself so far?” David once more had adopted a worried
tone.
“Not a whisker. It’s curious he wouldn’t want to be here, but it seems he’s let his charges
out on their own this time, unchaperoned. Although, I haven’t seen Jeffrey. I thought
Franklin said he was supposed to be in Philadelphia—with someone else from the
University?”
“So I was told. But I wouldn’t recognize him, either. Maybe Agent Chown will have
something to tell us when he gets here this evening. He has my room number at the hotel.
Hopefully I’ll hear from him tonight.”
We set the hearing aside for an hour and enjoyed a meal heavy on pasta. Though she
frequently responded to remarks all round, Shauna seemed self-absorbed. When our eyes
met a few times there was a note of reflection in them, of distant sadness, as though life,
despite one’s best efforts, had a habit of following its own impenetrable course and one had
to go along with it. For the first time since our relationship had begun, it struck me that its
permanence was not guaranteed, and that I could actually lose her.

By the time we returned to the courtroom at 1:55, the heat buildup had become marked.
The corner fans were working, creating a little, somnolent whirring sound and a sensation on
the skin as the musty air of the place was pushed into a sluggish circulation. Dust motes
floated within the golden shafts which fell at a rakish slant from the high moresque
windows.

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As I peered back over the crowd, now filling the room to capacity, I noticed at least one
new face. Jeffrey was now here. Perhaps the young man beside him was Lindon, the other
Campus Crusader. At the moment, both were looking about. I spied Steven off on the far
side. Were there other Masters spread about the room, whom I was not familiar with? I
scanned the rest of the two hundred-odd spectators. Cherkasian was still not present.
Why would he not have attended? Chown thought Philadelphia was his ‘home away
from home.’ There should have been no impediment to him being here, especially as so
many of the cult members had come. I was beginning to feel that his absence was somehow
more threatening than if he had been sitting beside me. At least in an adjacent seat I could
have kept my eye on him. Now I felt him as a menacing presence, a spirit force visible only
through his minions, junior demons whose adolescent behavior might prove unpredictable.
Their pitchforks pricked at my nervous back.
Patterson, waiting at his table for the entrance of Judge Still, was in conversation with the
young woman attorney who had fed him papers throughout the morning and directed the
movements of the expert from Boston; this man sat at the end of the first row, just beyond
David and Phyllis. The chief counsel’s back showed no sign of twitching from the barbs of
the demon striplings present.
“All rise.”
For the two hour afternoon session, Chester Wylie switched to the other side of the
creationist position: an attack on the fundamental tenets of evolution. He did his best to
exploit all the vulnerable elements of the Darwinian theory. Patterson, with a battery of
sources and his trusty Bostonian evolutionist did his best to parry and counter.
Some of the defensive manoeuvres were easy. Wylie must have regretted having one of
his ‘creation scientists’ bring up the Second Law of Thermodynamics.
“All things tend to become more disordered, less complex,” said Mr. Ellington. “In all
reactions some energy is lost as heat, hence the total available energy is reduced; things
break down, they shrink; order is gradually replaced by disorder. The theory of evolution
would contravene this law, since it requires that things become more developed, more
complex.”
When Patterson left his seat and approached the witness box, he scratched behind his ear
and looked a bit perplexed.
“Mr. Ellington, how old are you?”
Wylie looked as though he was about to object, thinking that the question was meant to
compromise or denigrate the witness in some way. Since this effect was not immediately
clear, he restrained himself for the moment.
“Uh, forty-six.”
“And how tall are you?”
“Five foot ten.”
“I see.” Patterson switched to scratching behind the other ear. “That must have been
very hard on your mother.”
Now Wylie could not restrain himself, feeling that some sort of denigration was indeed
being expressed here.
“Your Honor! I’m not sure what Mr. Patterson has in mind, but I find this questioning
bordering on the distasteful.”
“Yes, Mr. Patterson,” Judge Still responded. “What are you getting at?”

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“I was only remarking, Your Honor, that Mrs. Ellington must have had a difficult time
with the birth of a son who was over five foot ten. I can only assume that if the Second Law
of Thermodynamics applies, the state in which we presently see him is more disordered and
shrunken since the point at which he came into the world.”
Wylie, having stood up from his chair, sat down abruptly and shook his head. Laughs
and a smattering of applause erupted from the right side of the room, abruptly cut off as
Judge Still glared out over the gallery. Patterson muttered into the silence, “I suppose we
should also congratulate Mr. Ellington on having been an intelligent child.”
Before Judge Still could switch his glare to counsel for the Foundation, Patterson swung
toward one of the windows and pointed. “What is that, Mr. Ellington?”
Mr. Ellington looked blank. “You mean the window?”
“No, sir. I mean what’s coming in the window.”
Ellington said slowly, “You mean, sunlight?”
“Yes, sir, I mean sunlight. No doubt you are aware that this is not manna from heaven,
but represents heat and energy given off by the sun. Creation science does recognize the
existence of the sun, does it not?”
“Of course it does.”
“Oh yes, I forgot. God was good enough to stop it in its revolution around the earth, so
that Joshua could conquer a few more Canaanites.” Wylie had adopted a disgusted
expression, no doubt self-directed for having allowed Patterson such a devastating opening.
“Are you aware,” Patterson continued, “that the law of thermodynamics operates in a
closed system? The earth is not a closed system. We are bathed in energy from the sun, as
you can see through these windows. This is the force that powers evolution. It is what
powered your growth from an infant to a five foot ten adult and surely made your mother
proud.”
He retreated to his table. “I don’t think I need anything further from this witness.”
From that point on, Chester Wylie seemed to tread more gingerly. When he brought up a
series of creationist claims that many of the standard dating techniques which evolutionists
relied on to gauge the age of geological strata could be faulty, since no allowance had been
made for the possibility that such things as the rate of radioactive decay could have altered
over time, Patterson took the opportunity to put forward a related example which had not
been brought up.
By now, I could see the reasoning and strategy lying behind Patterson’s approach.
Helium retention and the breakdown of Uranium 238 was gibberish to most people. But
point out that creation theory also required that the speed of light had dramatically decreased
over the last few centuries, and the absurdity of the idea was apparent to even the scientific
semi-literate.
“Today’s 186,000 miles a second is a snail’s pace compared to the clip it was really
travelling at to get from the known edges of the universe to the earth in the 6,000 years since
creation.” He made a gesture of invitation in Chester Wylie’s direction. “Of course, I leave
the floor open to opposing counsel should he wish to argue that light from all those distant
galaxies was created at a nearby point in space and launched from there.”
Wylie demurred, as a further snickering arose from the gallery. The spectators were
clearly more stimulated this afternoon than they had been during the morning session. The
nonchalance Patterson had displayed at the lunch break had perhaps been eroded by David’s

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expression of concern. Had he realized that he might have been allowing the opposition to
score too many points? On this side of the room, the change was a welcome one—as well as
notably more entertaining. Shauna was chuckling audibly to herself, and her eyes were
animated as she looked out over the scene beyond the balustrade. Patterson cut a figure
which could at times be mesmerizing. But I had already known that.
Patterson’s more aggressive approach seemed to induce a change of direction in Wylie’s
own strategy. He abruptly dropped the attacks on evolution as a theory and switched to a
reading of excerpts from evolution’s own champions, words ostensibly indicating the
breakdown of their own theories. All taken out of context, of course.
I was aware that this practice was a common one among the advocates of creation
science. Exploit the questioning and honest examination given to their own field by
evolutionists, the admission of limitations and incomplete information. Take the
fundamental feature of scientific inquiry—the ability to question current theory in the face of
new evidence, to alter and even scrap past conclusions which were no longer tenable—and
use it to imply that secular scientists were a bewildered lot, unable to support the prejudiced
assumptions they had foolishly come up with.
No new phylae had entered the fossil record since the Cambrian explosion, Stephen Jay
Gould had admitted. The failure to locate any widespread fossil evidence for ‘intermediary’
forms of life was an observation going back a century. The challenges in understanding how
complex chemical reactions could have occurred in the primordial soup were regularly
remarked on by evolutionary biologists and physicists. Of course, all these admissions had
been accompanied or followed by suggested explanations, revised theories, new discoveries.
None of these, however, ever showed up in the creationists’ quotations.
Patterson contented himself with a statement of principle, that the process illustrated the
vitality and productive fluidity of scientific thought in its pursuit of understanding. “Science
prefers to let the universe reveal its truth to us, no matter how long it takes, rather than allow
us to impose our own truths upon the universe.” In response to the old chestnut that Darwin
himself had expressed bafflement at how evolution could have given rise to the wonder of
the human eye, Patterson read from a new book by Richard Dawkins which offered a theory
to explain just that.
The afternoon session seemed to dribble to a close. Perhaps Patterson had been right.
Wylie during the last half hour seemed to be marking time, awaiting the bell of the current
round so that he could regroup and introduce a fresh set of moves when the next bell
sounded in the morning. Judge Still struck his gavel at 3:55.
As the courtroom began to empty, I watched the three Ascended Masters. For several
minutes they each remained seated, watching Patterson as he gathered himself up at the
counsel table. None of their gazes seemed friendly. More than once during the course of the
day my imagination had run away with me, and I had taken comfort in the fact that the ever-
present metal detector at the entrance to most American courtrooms these days had been
functioning for this hearing.
Unlike the end of the morning session, Patterson as we left the courtroom was
approached by several media people, including a female TV reporter accompanied by a
cameraman. From the tenor of her questions it was clear she had not attended the hearing
and was interested in Patterson as the celebrity flavor of the week. Patterson showed less
objection to this than I felt he should have, and sensing for the first time that I ought to be

260

doing something to fill my role as publicist for the Age of Reason Foundation, I stepped in at
an opportune moment to plug the Foundation and point out its sponsorship of the challenge
to the State of Pennsylvania. I invited them all to the reception scheduled for Thursday
evening at the hotel. “I’m sure Mr. Patterson would be pleased at that time to accommodate
your enquiries.”
Patterson looked at me curiously, while David smiled broadly. This was easier than I
thought, I reflected. I rather liked the sensation. And hopefully, under a press of reporters
and interviewers, Patterson would be kept busy throughout his ‘social occasion’.
Thus far, the hearing had not turned into the media circus some had expected. Or hoped,
depending on how one looked at it. I was almost tempted to bring up the Ascended Masters
and produce their clues under the very eye of the TV camera. Wisdom prevailed, however.
Besides, there was plenty of time for recourse to desperate measures. The best was no doubt
yet to come, and I had faith that Patterson had his own plot and methods to draw attention to
himself.

Adjacent to the reception room, the hotel boasted a first-class restaurant, and at 6 PM
eight of us were gathered to enjoy a quality meal at Patterson’s expense. The attorney was
accompanied by his courtroom assistant. Her name was Helen Walters, but although they
were cordial toward one another, there seemed no suggestion of a romantic relationship. She
was probably a good 25 years his junior, I noted.
I found it curious that Patterson seemed to have no female companionship on this trip to
Philadelphia. Perhaps he felt that the work was too important to let romantic distractions get
in the way. Yet somehow, the role of the celibate prizefighter before the great match did not
suit him.
Over cocktails our talk fell to the day’s proceedings. Patterson once again expressed the
opinion that Chester Wylie was not too concerned about making a flawless case in favor of
creationism. “I suspect he thinks we both came out on a more or less equal footing today.
He expects the balance to tip in his favor tomorrow. He wouldn’t have taken on the case if
he didn’t think he had a chance of persuading the judge. If he can convey the impression
that creation science has some substance, and at the same time exploit the so-called
deficiencies on the evolution side, he may even carry it.”
He winked at David. “Of course, then we get it overturned on appeal.”
David looked as though he didn’t know whether to take Patterson seriously. “I hope it
doesn’t come to that.”
Phyllis prodded, “So you think there’s a possibility that you’ll lose the case?”
“I never expect such a thing.”
Certainly, Patterson’s relaxed demeanor as the meal proceeded suggested he had no
worries about the ultimate outcome. And yet he had lost the edge to the bravado I had come
to associate with the man. Tonight his conversation was, for the most part, thoughtful and
responsive to those around him. There was a point at which he almost struck me as a lonely
man, seeking to fill a life that had become too diffuse, too shallow of purpose to satisfy the
drives that had carried him so far. Perhaps in the waning of middle age, he was seeking his
own final spurt of evolution.

261

Between Patterson and myself, the sense of friction still lingered, and I caught him more
than once looking at me in a contemplative fashion, as though some kind of evaluation were
going on in his mind. Occasionally, that glance took in Shauna beside me. At those
moments, the sense of a pull in her direction was palpable, nor did I think it was my
imagination. But today, amid the languishing state of my relationship with Shauna, for
which I was taking all the blame, that evident attraction did not invoke the same feelings of
hostility. Instead, it brought to my awareness the potency and fragility of human feelings,
the power of that sea of emotions and needs which carried us all on its churning,
unpredictable waves. Perhaps it was the natural tendency of molecules, whether of myth or
human relationships, to break up and reform. Not even Jesus could go on forever, and that
loss the world would one day have to face, perhaps soon. My own sense of loss was
beginning to impinge on me, for Shauna and I were drifting apart, and I was not sure how to
cast the life-saving line. I realized that the whole question required a degree of self-
examination I had been reluctant or unable to face.
Finally, as the main course was delivered all round by a pair of obsequious waiters,
Patterson ventured to Shauna, “And what about you, Miss Rosen? I suppose you think that
today was a lot of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”
It was the first word they had spoken to each other, though I had thought to sense a subtle
undercurrent between them from the evening’s beginning, something I had in this case put
down to my imagination. Actually, Patterson’s question had been penetrating, for it
reflected Shauna’s genuine attitude toward such issues, she who believed that life should be
lived at the center of present reality.
Shauna had spoken very little through the meal thus far. Now she looked directly at
Patterson and said, “I haven’t made up my mind yet. I suppose it’s good to have causes and
all that, but we shouldn’t lose sight of the things which are really important, the things that
nourish us. Too much energy gets misdirected, I think. It’s always been that way.”
“Suppose one could strike a balance? Then you could have the best of both worlds.”
Shauna said, with surprising candor it seemed to me: “I enjoyed your performance today.
It was entertaining. And I suppose these things are necessary until we establish some kind of
common sense, something we can live by and teach our children.”
“We all get a little impatient waiting for things we’d like to see happen.”
“As I said, I haven’t made up my mind yet.”
This rather curious exchange was interrupted by Phyllis, who proposed to Patterson that
he pick up a certain line of argument in tomorrow’s session. My appetite was turning out to
be sluggish and I finished the rest of my meal with little gusto. Everyone, in fact, seemed
caught in some uncertain limbo, unsure of the course of events that lay ahead. We had
placed so much stock in this hearing; in a way, the Foundation had almost sidetracked itself
by putting all its eggs in the Patterson basket. If he fell, would they all be broken? Perhaps
our Age of Reason would evaporate on the cold stone of Philadelphia’s courthouse steps,
and the regressive forces which the Foundation had sprung to life to oppose would carry the
day and the next millennium.
Surprisingly, it was David who lifted our spirits by proposing a toast with the after dinner
wine.
“To the victory of reason and enlightenment. We’ve ridden a rocky road trying to reach
it, but no struggle has been more important and more promising. And to our good friend

262

Burton Patterson, who will shortly be putting one more nail in the coffin of irrationality and
bringing us a little further along that road.”
There was a hearty round of Hear! Hear! Even Shauna raised her glass and joined in the
expression of fervent hope and celebration.

As it turned out, our uplifted mood was shortly to be compromised. Around nine, Shauna
and I ended up with David and Phyllis in their hotel room, and five minutes later Nelson
Chown called from the lobby. He was invited to join us.
“At 11 o’clock this morning, Robert Cherkasian was sighted at the schoolhouse,” Chown
reported. “I think we can assume he has no intention of attending the hearing. I suppose he
could arrive late, but if he had anything cooking, I would think he’d be here from the
beginning.”
David looked relieved. “So he’s probably not even planning some play to the media,
trying to make us look silly over his e-mails.”
But something about the situation bothered me. “It’s odd, though. Here he zeroes in on
us precisely on the subject of the hearing. He called Patterson a ‘hotshot lawyer’. What
reason would he have for staying away? And I don’t know whether you’re aware of it or
not, but at least three of the Masters are here, two from the schoolhouse. None I’ve seen
looked overly friendly. Cherkasian has to have an interest in what’s going on, or else he
wouldn’t have sent the kids. Why not come himself?”
“Maybe he’s just giving them exposure to this sort of thing,” David suggested. “Maybe
it’s meant to be a learning experience.”
“Yes,” Phyllis added. “Get them all stirred up against the godless evolutionists.”
Chown mused, “He gives them free rein by not accompanying them, but he’s counting on
the hearing to solidify the indoctrination. He’s probably got them pegged perfectly.”
I moved over to the window and looked down twelve stories on a bustling Philadelphia
street in advancing twilight. “It still doesn’t feel right. Cherkasian has no control over what
Patterson says, and he risks having what he does say do some damage to the boys’ faith, to
his own indoctrination. I should think it would be better to accompany them.”
Chown shrugged. “I don’t think we can presume to know Cherkasian’s motives. Maybe
he got them so worked up, they just came on their own. Maybe they’re here expecting to
witness some kind of divine wrath. But if you like, I can keep an eye on them.”
David said hastily, “Just don’t let Mr. Patterson know you’re around. I don’t want
anything putting him off tomorrow. We’ve got a case to win and it’s not in the bag yet.”
Shauna spoke up. “Did it ever occur to you all that Mr. Cherkasian sent these boys to do
some harm to Mr. Patterson?”
Chown looked at her and frowned. “That doesn’t seem feasible. It would be suicide for
him. If he gave them instructions like that, there’s no way it wouldn’t come out. He doesn’t
strike me as the sort who wants to preach the end of the world to convicts at Levinworth.”
He snapped his fingers. “However—”
Phyllis beat him to it. “He could have sent them to make a demonstration.”
David looked alarmed. “In the courtroom? If they were able to disrupt the proceedings
sufficiently, the whole hearing might be jeopardized!”
Chown scoffed. “I doubt it. There’s no reason why they wouldn’t be subdued fairly
quickly. The hearing would simply resume after a short delay.”

263

The FBI agent drew himself up to his full stocky height. “It’s pointless to speculate like
this. For all we know, Cherkasian will show up tomorrow.” He turned to me. “Meet me at
the door of the courtroom a few minutes before the session starts—ten, is it?—and point
these characters out to me, if you can. I’ll try to keep an eye on them.”
Once more David was looking thoroughly miserable. “Try not to let Burton see you,” he
said to me bleakly.

At 11 o’clock, Shauna and I retired to our own room down the hall. We had been
together the whole day, but since leaving the hotel early in the morning we had somehow
managed to say very little to each other, and of that virtually all of it was superficial. Now
we both felt awkward. We knew there were problems that needed addressing, and yet a
hotel room in Philadelphia hardly seemed the right place, especially when a demanding day
lay ahead of us and preoccupations, some disturbing, pressed from all sides. We got ready
for bed, making small talk about the day’s events.
Something about Shauna’s conversation with Patterson over supper had been nagging
away at me, but I knew that this was the last thing I should bring up now. Expressions of
jealousy, especially when I was blaming myself for the problems we faced, would have been
petty and entirely inappropriate.
Instead, I should have told her that I had been thinking a great deal about our relationship,
and that I realized things die unless they are kept invigorated. I should have told her that my
periodic withdrawal into a world of my own, retreating into the past to avoid a commitment
to the present, was inhibiting the deeper bond we could be developing. I should have told
her that I loved her.
What I should not have done was tell myself that we could not spend the night in a
weighty, emotional discussion. That it could wait one or two more days.
Shauna emerged from the bathroom in her nightgown. I turned down the bed clothes. To
fill the silence created by that procrastination, I began to talk about the other subject that was
weighing heavily on my mind.
“I suppose we ought to trust Chown’s instincts that we don’t have anything to worry
about from the Masters, except maybe a little courtroom disruption. But I keep going back
to those clues. Somebody, no doubt Cherkasian, went to a lot of trouble to pick out passages
from Revelation to send to us. And each one of them is altered in some way. Now he’s not
even attending the hearing. Were these clues not supposed to have any particular
application?”
Shauna plumped the pillows up against the headboard of the bed, slid her legs under the
cover and sat upright. She folded her hands in her lap. “Clues. What are clues usually used
for?”
I walked over to the window, the tie of my own nightgown knotted about my waist. I
looked out over the neon-lit street below. “As a hidden meaning. A warning, perhaps?”
Shauna then came up with one of her sudden insights, the product of that sharp mind
which could make life with her endlessly fascinating. “What if the idea of the ‘clue’ isn’t
directed at you—at the Foundation? Maybe the clues have some meaning for Cherkasian
himself.”
I looked around at her thoughtfully. It was a clever idea. I went over and sat on the edge
of the bed, near the outline of her feet under the light blanket.

264

“You mean, that Cherkasian could see the clues as some pointer for himself or the
Masters. He actually had a rather subtle way of looking at scripture. He felt that the
prophecies were expressed in such a way as to have an open-ended applicability. They could
refer to any number of future times, and it was up to God to decide when to let them be
fulfilled.”
“The scriptures provide the mold and God pours in the molten metal.”
I winced. “That image is a little too close to Revelation’s own horrors. But you’re right.
And there was another element to Cherkasian’s view, something even more original. He
said that when you know God’s will—whatever he meant by that—he has to act. He
believed it was possible to convince God that now was the time to fulfill all those
prophecies. He thinks he can force God’s hand.”
“Maybe the clues were for God,” Shauna said in a facetious tone.
“Maybe.”
I got up and started to pace. “But suppose we follow your suggestion and consider that
Cherkasian and the Masters read them as clues: for their own enlightenment. He told me
that events were already unfolding as foretold. Are these things happening? Do the
passages he sent us refer to some current events he thinks are pointed to in Revelation?”
“Isn’t that what all the fundamentalists are doing? Pointing to the fulfillment of prophecy
in our time?”
“Yes, they are.” I scratched my head. “Maybe Cherkasian isn’t as inventive as I thought.
He didn’t even come to the hearing. But, you know, why does something about that bother
me more than if he were actually here?”
“Maybe putting in an appearance was beneath him.”
I shook my head in frustration. “As Chown says, he may show up tomorrow, or the third
day. If he’s planning some limelight-grabbing stunt, he may not want to dilute the effect by
showing himself ahead of time.”
“So he sends his charges to scout the place. To prepare for his arrival.”
“Like Jesus on Palm Sunday entering Jerusalem.” My voice was heavy with sarcasm.
“Maybe he’s waiting at the schoolhouse for some angelic chariot to carry him onto the scene.
It’s impossible to know what minds like his are capable of believing. What they are capable
of doing is driving minds like mine crazy.”
“Perhaps you should come to bed.”
The silence of the darkened hotel room was filled by anxieties and unspoken thoughts,
and not just on the subject of Ascended Masters. As I lay with my arm across her shoulder,
both my own brain and Shauna’s, I was sure, were resonating with words that wanted to be
said, feelings needing expressing. But except for that undercurrent of cerebral vibration, the
quiet of the room lay unbroken. Distant noises from the world below drifted up the twelve
stories. Eventually I fell into a fitful sleep.

When I awoke, it was still dark, though the world was quieter. The faintly glowing
numerals of my watch said 4:22. My mind must have been in problem-solving mode while I
slept, for I was now struck by a configuration I had not seen before. The Ascended Masters
had sent us three clues. As far as we knew, three of them had come to Philadelphia.
Was this a coincidence? Perhaps the brooding hour combined with a state of anxiety
could make even the insignificant details of a problem look portentous.

265

Two clues from the University. Two Masters from there were in attendance at the
hearing. One clue from the house in Philadelphia. The third Master, before moving to the
schoolhouse, had been resident at the Philadelphia headquarters, if that’s what it was.
I got quietly out of bed, retrieved my notebook from my jacket pocket and went into the
bathroom.
The light seared my eyes. So did the look of myself in the mirror. Rational Man was
decidedly haggard, haunted. I was almost willing to concede that I looked my age. Was that
the price of trying to change the world? And salvage one’s own personal life at the same
time?
So far I was not doing an exceptionally laudable job of either.
I sat on the closed toilet seat and opened my notebook.
‘Clue number one.’ It had been sent from the University. Jeffrey and Lindon were
members of the Campus Crusade for Christ, recently enlisted in the Ascended Masters.
‘This is the revelation given by God to Jesus Christ. The hour of fulfillment is near.
Behold, every eye shall see him pierced, and all the peoples of the world shall lament
in remorse. So it shall be. Amen.’
The phrase about the piercing had been shortened from the one in Revelation: ‘Every eye
shall see him, and among them those who pierced him.’ A simple abbreviation?
Christ crucified. We shall all lament. A clue sent by God to the Masters—to Cherkasian
himself? Were such events already unfolding?
‘Clue number two.’ Sent from the house in Philadelphia. Steven’s old haunt.
‘Those who think themselves great men, and the rich and the strong, shall call to the
stones: Fall on us and hide us from the face of him who is seated on the throne and from
the wrath none can stand before.’
The original passage called on ‘the mountains and the rocks’. The great men, the rich and
the strong, were probably seen as a reference to the Foundation. Patterson and the rest of us
shall call upon the stones to fall upon us to hide us from God’s wrath.
I couldn’t remember doing anything like that lately.
‘Clue number three.’ Back to the University.
‘And the fourth poured his bowl on those sons; and it was allowed to burn them with its
flames. But they only cursed the name of God, and refused to repent.’
A significant change from the original here. The fourth angel had poured his bowl on the
sun. The clue had altered this to‘sons’. Obviously, we were the sons, and I liked Franklin’s
suggestion that the term may have referred to the Sons of Darkness of Qumran conception, a
link which Cherkasian may have made in his own mind. I doubted that he saw us as the
Sons of Light.
I had recently been accused of refusing to repent. But no angel had poured bowls of fire
on me, or anything else. At least, none Cherkasian would have known about.
A scare tactic? Three appeals for repentance and remorse? They all had that element in
common.
Had each of the Ascended Masters who were now in attendance at the hearing been
assigned to deliver one? Get them involved in converting the world, was that Cherkasian’s
strategy? And how were such appeals to induce God to bring about the fulfillment of his
prophecies?
Could a rational mind make any sense of an irrational one?

266

When I crept back into bed, I could only hope I would manage another couple of hours’
sleep. I had a disquieting feeling that I was going to need a good supply of energy to cope
with the approaching day.

By 9:40, Courtroom C of the Superior Court Building in downtown Philadelphia was


rapidly filling. David had arrived earlier and taken the precaution of claiming several seats
at the end of the first row. Shauna and I sat down beyond David and Phyllis, with a seat
remaining at the side aisle. Whether Agent Chown would need one, or whether he would
consider this a good location, I didn’t know.
In ten minutes I would have to retreat to the corridor to meet Chown as arranged. I
twisted in my seat to look out over the gallery floor behind me. The faces gazing at the still
empty counsel tables and judge’s bench were full of anticipation. It was clearly a factional
crowd. David had said that news features on television the night before, and in the morning
papers, had created a bit of a stir. Apparently, the issue could still seize the public
imagination—and its partisanship.
The first familiar face came into view at 9:45. Jeffrey took a seat along the far aisle. He
seemed to be alone. If the young man I had seen seated beside him the day before had been
Lindon, the two were not together today. I strove to recall what he had looked like, but I
could not spot anyone who reminded me of his face.
At 9:50 I got up and made my way back toward the corridor. As I did so I saw another
familiar figure entering from the center door and moving down to a row near the back.
Steven. He too was alone. I tried to decide whether he or his fellow Master along the far
wall looked as though they were prepared to meet Armageddon today.
Chown was waiting just outside the doorway, beyond the metal detector arch.
“I hope you slept better last night than I did,” I muttered.
People were pushing past us. I had thought to fill him in on some of the fevered
rumination Shauna and I had indulged in the night before on the subject of Ascended
Masters and their cryptic clues, but in the light of day and with the press and noise around
us, it seemed ill-conceived. Behind us stood a TV crew and the same woman reporter of the
day before. They were obviously intent on waiting out the morning session here, since the
cameras were barred from entering the courtroom. Somebody’s celebrity status had shot up
overnight. I was sure it wasn’t the Foundation’s.
“We have a seat for you in front, if you like,” I said to Chown.
Chown shook his head. “That’s hardly an advantageous position. Don’t worry about me.
Have you seen anyone so far I should know about?”
“Not Cherkasian. I’m really beginning to think he’s not going to show. But two of the
fellows from the schoolhouse are here. Maybe more, but I don’t know them well enough.”
We stepped into the gallery and stood against the wall at the back row. I suddenly noted
that Patterson and his assistant had entered the courtroom from the attorneys’ entrance and
were standing by the counsel table. Patterson had turned outward, making a gesture to
David. I shrank, hoping he would not glance further and notice me lurking at the back of the
room beside someone who, to my mind, had every appearance of a law enforcement officer.

267

The moment passed and Patterson turned away to the front. I breathed easier and pointed
out to Chown, as surreptitiously as possible, the two young men, Jeffrey and Steven, whom I
had met at the schoolhouse. Today they conveyed no sense of tillers of the earth. Their
clues called for repentance under threat of divine mayhem, so perhaps they envisioned
themselves as grim reapers, separating the wheat from the chaff at the great accounting
which Revelation promised.
Chown nodded and melted back into the corridor. I retraced my steps down the aisle and
settled back into my place between Shauna and Phyllis. From the seat beyond, David sent
me a questioning look. I nodded reassuringly. All was going to be well—or so I hoped.
Then I whispered, for a hush had fallen over the courtroom as the bailiff stood up. “Chown
doesn’t need the seat.”
“All rise.”
The sun, as was its wont, had risen again on this second day of the hearing, and it was
making its presence felt in the angling sunbeams through which Judge Henry Banks Still
passed as he made his way once more to the elevated bench. Glancing at the clock, which
registered three minutes after ten, Judge Still wasted no time and nodded to chief counsel for
the State of Pennsylvania. “You may proceed, Mr. Wylie.” The gallery rustled in
anticipation, but spoke no sound.
Chester Wylie rose to his feet and strode to the open space before the bench. Again, he
adopted an air of easy geniality. He had clearly dismissed any bumps on yesterday’s road as
inconsequential.
“Your Honor, the arguments we presented on Tuesday are important to the issue to be
decided by this court, but they were also in the nature of preliminary and even provisional
material.”
Well, here comes the other shoe, I thought. Patterson behind his counsel table seemed
relaxed but alert. I only wished I could see the expression on his face.
“Your Honor, as I intimated yesterday, the issue here is not whether certain arguments for
or against one point of view or the other are true or false, or whether they can be made to
seem true or false. Let us leave aside for the moment the question of creationism vs.
evolution and ask ourselves what is the nature of a scientific theory. How is it arrived at?
So-called scientific truths do not drop from Heaven—indeed, such a thought might
constitute a logical contradiction to most of my opponents here today.”
Chester Wylie, in his leisurely swing between the two counsel tables, here bestowed an
affable grin upon Burton Patterson. I thought: the man exudes the confidence of a tiger who
thinks he has his prey in sight and knows there is no way it can flee.
“Some might claim that scientific truths are attained through ironclad experiment or
indisputable evidence. Shoot a few molecules through an atom smasher, get a spoonful of
protons and electrons out the other end, and presto! a group of eminent scientists makes a
clear statement about the immutable nature of the universe. Perhaps so, but not all scientific
truths are so easily attained. And of those that are, many have passed through earlier stages
of less precise experiment and even conjecture, based on no more than educated guesses.
Nor is it the case that experiment always precedes the theory. Often the theory is a result of
simple observation, observation that cries out, to the scientist’s mind, for explanation.
Experiment may only follow this step and go on for many years, undergoing alteration and
shifts in focus as more is learned.”

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Wylie swung about to grant the opposing counsel table an amicable gesture. “I think my
learned adversary would agree with me thus far.”
Patterson, his elbows on the table, hands covering his face to the base of his nose, made a
nod of generous acquiescence. Wylie went on.
“Take, for example, the scientific theory of Continental Drift. How was this ‘indisputable
truth’ first proposed? Had Dr. Wegener spent a few years underground measuring the
movement of the earth’s crust over his head? Perhaps he had found the remains of a left-
handed glove lying on the beach in Florida and those of a matching right-hander stuck in a
sandbar off Morocco.”
There were a few loud guffaws from the spectators. Even Judge Still reacted with no
more than a light-hearted glare toward the seats.
“Well, of course not. Nothing so ironclad as that. In fact, it would seem that the idea
first occurred to Dr. Wegener while sitting in his study looking at a map. Perhaps he was
indulging in an after-dinner brandy at the time. He happened to notice that the bulge of
Africa would fit neatly into the Caribbean basin, that the Canadian Maritimes would plug up
the English Channel very nicely. Of course, he followed up these initial observations with
some investigation of the geological formations that would have lain side by side and he did
indeed find some similarities, even similar animal fossils to suggest some former avenue of
contact between the two areas that were now widely separated by ocean. Yet for many
years, his theory was hotly contested by other eminent scientists in the field, and that dispute
has continued even to this day. There are scientists who still claim that there is no force
within the earth that could serve as an engine to drive such movements of the planet’s crust;
that mountain building, one of the supposed side effects of continental drift and one of its
principal supporting arguments, is rather a result of the shrinkage of the earth as a whole,
forcing the crust to buckle upward—a little like the skin of a dieter will go into wrinkles as
the underlying bulk disappears.” More chuckles from the spectators. Wylie had them with
him and he was ready now to get to his point. “The question is, when did the theory of
continental drift find its way into our nation’s school textbooks? Those being used in
science courses, that is,” he added with a smile in Patterson’s direction, and his eye fairly
twinkled.
Patterson’s hand made a gesture toward the advocate. The point is all yours, it said.
“Well, I believe it was some time in the 1930s. It was offered with the proviso that the
theory was still tentative. But it was offered. Today the theory has attained more secure
stature, yet it is still strongly disputed in some scientific circles.”
I suspected that Wylie was overstating this last point, but having now laid the
groundwork, I sensed that the attorney for the State of Pennsylvania was about to shift gears.
Apparently Patterson sensed the same thing, for I thought to detect a subtle change in the
poise of his back.
After a brief pause, Chester Wylie said: “I would now like to ask Mr. Frank Wickens to
take the stand.”
Frank Wickens turned out to be the Vice-Principal of Fennimore High School in Great
Bend, Pennsylvania. There was no doubt in my mind that he had been carefully chosen, and
little doubt that he would verge on the status of a ‘liberal’, or as near to this as a member of
the Coalition could get. He was probably willing to bend during cross-examination. Rigid
views always snapped under pressure and Wylie’s preliminary remarks had led me to believe

269

that the creationists were prepared for the first time to adopt a more flexible stance, though it
must have galled the more fundamentalist circles among them. How far might Mr. Frank
Wickens bend and did he have a breaking point? Patterson would try to glean that from
Wylie’s questioning. One could be sure that the man had been thoroughly primed, both for
his testimony and for cross-examination. Another Scopes fiasco would be the last thing the
Coalition wanted.
“Now, Mr. Wickens,” Wylie began, after the witness’s identification and background
were out of the way, “I am going to offer you a definition of a scientific theory and see if you
agree with it. Let’s call it this: an honest and responsible interpretation offered to explain
certain observed phenomena. Just as Dr. Wegener in 1912 came up with the theory of
continental drift to explain his cartological and geological observations. Would you agree
with this definition?”
“Yes sir, I would.”
Frank Wickens exuded an air of self-confidence, not so much as to convey arrogance, but
sufficient to appear to be his own man rather than a parrot of someone else’s arguments. He
was somewhere in middle age, with a premature advance of grey across a distinguished head
of hair. His gaze was direct, perhaps a little complacent, and he had a healthy, tanned
complexion. I had no doubt that he was indeed a responsible individual with responsible
convictions and Patterson would have to handle him as such.
“Now, would you say that creationism as you understand it would fit into such a
definition?”
“I most certainly would.”
“And as you would espouse it to be taught at Fennimore High—or any other American
school for that matter?”
“Yes.”
“Well, let’s see just how you would apply creationism to our definition. As you yourself
might teach it.”
I had to doff my hat to Chster Wylie, or whomever had come up with this approach. Not
only did Frank Wickens come across as a responsible citizen of Middle America, but as a
responsible educator as well he would be able to convey the idea that creation science could
indeed be taught in an objective and unthreatening manner. Wylie and company were
playing not only to Judge Still but to the American people.
“First, what would you say are the ‘certain observed phenomena’? Briefly, and not too
technically, please. There is no reason why any subject cannot be made understandable to
the average layman and woman.”
That was a dig, ranging the exponents of evolution and other intellectual elitists against
Wylie’s ‘average layperson’. I realized it would probably force Patterson to keep his cross-
examination to a similar direct simplicity.
“Well, sir, I would say the existence of the universe, which suggests a need to explain
that existence; the fact that life has arisen on this planet, and especially intelligent, self-
aware life, which strikes me as a very remarkable phenomenon indeed. Then, there are so
many of the world’s physical characteristics, such as the development of the right
components to create a stable atmosphere for life, the cycle of the seasons, the behavior of
the weather, the general balance of nature, all being conducive to the thing we call progress
and the development of civilization. Things like that.”

270

Very good, I thought. All scientific-sounding points, steering clear of any reference to
morality or the supernatural. And the tone: no hint of uptight fanaticism here. Wickens was
being a bit woolly, and there were fallacies implied in some of it, but I wondered if Patterson
would consider it wise to bother digging them out.
“Yes,” said Chester Wylie, “I would certainly call these things phenomena that would cry
out for explanation. And if you happened to be sitting in your study, sipping an after-dinner
brandy perhaps, trying to come up with an honest and responsible interpretation of these
phenomena, what might present itself for your consideration?”
“I would say that I would certainly want to investigate the possibility that a Creator had
deliberately caused all of these phenomena.” Investigate, caused, possibility. All the proper
terminology.
“And once this possibility—let’s call it a theory—had occurred to you, would you want to
investigate further to see whether more observation and experiment could add support to this
theory? Just as responsible scientists have done to test the validity of other scientific
theories.”
“Naturally.”
“Could you expand on that? What sort of investigation might you conduct?”
Frank Wickens paused as though considering his answer to the question, conveying the
impression that, even if he had thought about these ideas before, he was nevertheless
answering off the cuff now. “Well, of course I am neither a geologist nor a biologist, but I
would want to examine the fossil record and the geological record to see whether they might
conform to the idea of a Creator; and from what I know, for example, of the fossil record,
there is nothing in it that would disprove the notion that a Creator had created all these
species at some time in the past, and that some of them have died out at different times.”
The Vice-Principal of Fennimore High smiled condescendingly. “I know that there are some
who still subscribe to Bishop Ussher’s calculation, but for the purposes of creation science,
there is no need to maintain that the earth is only 6000 years old.”
A faint murmur rippled across the courtroom. Mr. Frank Wickens was indeed of a
‘liberal’ persuasion. The creationists had apparently decided that flexibility was the better
part of discretion, though I wondered if Chester Wylie’s personal influence had produced
this remarkable new stance. Perhaps even overnight, for no sign of such a liberal position
had been in evidence the day before.
“In fact, Mr. Wickens, would you agree with me that such a belief as that of Bishop
Ussher would more suitably fall into the area of religious opinion, and that such opinion
could be kept separate from the principles of creation science and not included in its
teachings?” Remarkable indeed.
“I most certainly would.”
“In other words, Mr. Wickens, would it be fair to say that your religious convictions,
whatever they might be, could be kept separate from your scientific ones in a classroom
situation? That what we are discussing here in our desire to have a creation theory presented
as an alternative in America’s schools is an honest and responsible attempt to explain one
possible origin of the world to our young people? And that this theory has a validity of its
own which does not proceed out of purely religious beliefs? Would you agree with me on
all those points, Mr. Wickens?”
“Yes, I would.”

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David turned his head and looking past Phyllis, raised his eyebrows at me. He was
clearly thinking as I had done. Never before had the creationists been willing to retreat from
any of their basic fundamentalist positions, or to phrase their case in such broadminded
terms. Indeed, they almost seemed to be allowing for the possibility that they could be
wrong.
Chester Wylie strolled away from the witness box.
“Before I turn my witness over to Mr. Patterson, I would like to draw what I believe to be
a pertinent analogy here, Your Honor. Around 585 BC a Greek philosopher named Thales
was the first to offer a scientific explanation for the origin of the physical world: he declared
that all materials proceeded from a single element, namely water. The fact that he was not
altogether accurate is beside the point. But if men who believed he was wrong—such as
some of those here today—had been in a position to deny Thales the right to disseminate his
idea, that would have been a big mistake, and an injustice. And it might have stifled the
development of further ideas which have proceeded from Thales, ideas which led to many of
the scientific principles we hold today. Your Honor, no honest, responsible idea—which we
maintain creation science is—should be denied a voice simply because others in positions of
power disagree with it. Who knows what further development might thereby be stifled—”
With a shake of his head, Burton Patterson raised himself part way from his chair.
“Your Honor, I must object. Is Mr. Wylie intending to deliver a final summation at this
time without allowing me to cross-examine Mr. Wickens?”
Judge Still’s stoic face permitted itself a faint scowl. “Yes, Mr. Wylie, I agree that you
are going beyond the scope of your witness’s testimony. I’m sure you would not want to
break Mr. Patterson’s train of thought for cross-examination.”
“Of course not, Your Honor,” Wylie demurred, and withdrew to his seat, granting the
floor to his opponent.
Shauna leaned over to my ear and whispered, “That was a masterful display of smoke and
mirrors.”
I nodded, but did not turn in her direction, for I, along with everyone else in the room,
was watching the counsel for the Foundation getting to his feet. It was a slow, almost
nonchalant rising, but nonetheless riveting. After a moment, during which he paused and
cast a glance over a sheet of notes resting in front of him, Burton Patterson moved around
the end of the table. His height, just over six feet, and the full, unruly head of light brown
hair, gave him a conspicuous presence. As I had noticed yesterday, he seemed to adopt the
slight suggestion of a stoop, as though he felt that on the courtroom scene, especially one
under the glare of media attention, it was important not to convey the image of a predator.
The stance may also have been intended to disarm the witness.
Now as he approached Mr. Frank Wickens, there was dead silence around him. In that
moment I discreetly turned my head to scan the audience of rapt faces. Steven and Jeffrey
were still in their places. I tried to let whole areas of the room imprint on my vision at once,
but nothing corresponding to the face of Robert Cherkasian impinged on my awareness. He
would evidently not be here today.
Of Chown I could see no sign. The doors of the courtroom were all closed. I did notice
that just inside the center one stood the TV interviewer. Even though she could not bring the
camera in with her, she herself was not going to miss the occasion.

272

I turned back to the scene before me. The Vice-Principal of Fennimore High School in
Great Bend, Pennsylvania, though obviously a man intent on maintaining his composure,
betrayed in his eyes a mix of apprehension and hostility. Without a doubt he had been
sitting among the spectators during the previous day’s testimony to accustom himself to
Patterson’s style of cross-examination. Some of what he had witnessed yesterday could not
have been encouraging.
Patterson stopped before the box and gave the witness a reassuring smile.
“Now, Mr. Wickens, I want you to know that I too agree with Mr. Wylie’s definition of a
scientific theory. What was it? ‘An honest and responsible interpretation of certain
observed phenomena.’ Even I indulge in an after-dinner brandy and contemplate questions
like these.”
Patterson’s voice was soft, relaxed and good-natured, and it carried to every corner of the
courtroom, but he stopped short of rendering it a drawl. Here he must have drawn the line,
for it would have seemed too affectatious—indeed, together with the stoop, just a bit too
folksy. I had no doubt that some of the things he was going to say were definitely not going
to appeal to ordinary folks.
I glanced toward the opposing counsel table. Chester Wylie was leaning back in his
chair, hands folded over an ample midsection, round face revealing only a hint of tension in
a slight narrowing of the eyes.
Patterson went on. “It seems to me, Mr. Wickens, that the key words here are ‘honest’
and ‘responsible’. Honest, in that it should represent a genuine concern on the part of the
person proposing the theory to arrive at the truth of the matter—or as near to the truth as
possible—without closing his or her mind to whatever that might be. Responsible, in that—
well, the word speaks for itself.”
Beside me I heard Shauna give a soft chuckle. I realized exactly what she was thinking.
Patterson had not had a chance to work out a suitable enlargement on the second word. Not
only did he manage to cover this up, he had conveyed a very strong impression in the cover-
up phrase itself.
“The famous Dr. Wegener,” continued Patterson, “who came up with the theory of
continental drift did not, I am sure, close his mind to any plausible explanation for his
observations, each of which, I am sure, he weighed carefully, making his choice free from
prejudice one way or another. Would you agree with me there?”
“Yes, yes I would. Always keeping in mind that the making of a choice is determined by
a lot of things, and who can say what constitutes prejudice?”
“I’ll grant you that.” The answer, besides being surprisingly subtle, showed that Frank
Wickens was definitely a man who could speak for himself. There was an almost audible
sigh of relief from the direction of the opposing counsel table.
“Let us say, Mr. Wickens, that it might be a valid proposition that a Creator was
responsible for this world and everything in it. I think everyone here, regardless of personal
convictions, would say that the idea makes a certain amount of sense. Provided, of course,
that they do not close their minds to it.”
Wickens gave an emphatic nod of agreement. He had, I noted, a particularly mobile
expression.
“And if this phenomenon of the world’s existence would indeed suggest a Creator, what
else might it suggest about him?”

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Wickens looked puzzled. “I’m not sure what you mean.”


“For example, would it tell you which God it was that created the world? Many gods
throughout history have been attributed with this feat. Does your theory include his
identification?”
Wickens looked like a man who had stepped unexpectedly into a patch of quicksand.
“Well, I suppose we assume that—”
“But surely assumptions, Mr. Wickens, when they relate to scientific theory, must be
based on some degree of evidence, some particular observation or experiment?”
“Uh, yes, I suppose so.”
“Is there anything relating to your scientific theory of creationism which would warrant
you proposing that the God who created the world is to be identified with the Jewish and
Christian God, rather than with any other God—such as the Muslim Allah, for example?”
There was a stir of tension throughout the courtroom. Wickens realized the danger he
was in and saw that there was only one way out. Somewhat to my surprise, he took it.
“Offhand, though I would like to be able to consider the question more fully, I would
probably have to say no.”
Patterson drove his point home. “So that if you as a teacher of creation science in one of
our nation’s schools were approached by one of your students, let’s say a black pupil whose
parents followed the Muslim faith, and that student asked you who the Creator was, you
would say that your scientific theory did not include this information?”
“I suppose I would.”
Patterson smiled. “Mr. Wickens, I am not trying to trick you. But you did tell Mr. Wylie
that you could keep separate your religious opinions from the principles of creation science
and I am just trying to discover if this is indeed the case.”
But Patterson was not yet ready to let the witness off this particular hook. “So. Just to
clarify: I realize that you have your own religious opinions to which you are entitled, as are
all of us, but as far as a teacher of creation science is concerned, you would be prepared not
to rule out the possibility that the Creator responsible for the existence of the world was
Allah?”
“As a teacher of creation science, and as far as my pupils were concerned, I would not
rule it out.”
“I am sure that would reassure those American parents who follow non-Christian faiths. I
also assume that given the nature of the evidence you would not rule out the possibility that
the Creator who created the world has since died, since there is nothing to indicate one way
or the other.”
This was a concept that had obviously never occurred to Frank Wickens.
“I—I’m not sure. Perhaps there is some evidence to be found that the Creator still has a
hand in maintaining the existence of the world. I would have to think about it.”
“But if the evidence could not be found, you would be prepared to admit the possibility
that the Creator no longer exists.”
Wickens said glumly, “Possibly.”
“For that matter, it’s even possible that the Creator does indeed still exist, but that he has
gone mad, or that he was mad to begin with. Considering the nature of the world with all its
evils and natural disasters, to say nothing of the evil inherent in its most intelligent life
form—”

274

A murmur from the gallery broke over the court like a distant, rising surf. I could see that
the witness was not prepared to admit this possibility into his theory. In fact, in sudden
anger Wickens opened his mouth and got out two words: “Man’s evil—” before Chester
Wylie jumped to his feet.
“Your Honor, I object! Counsel for the Foundation is harassing the witness with
pointless conjectures, and I daresay he could eventually propose one so outlandish as to
provoke the reaction he is seeking. I think Mr. Wickens has sufficiently demonstrated the
integrity of his position.”
“Objection sustained,” said Judge Still. “Mr. Patterson, you have made your point and I
suggest you suspend this particular line of questioning.”
“Certainly, Your Honor. I only wish the court to indeed be satisfied as to the integrity of
the creationist claim that they can keep science separate from religion. To that end, I will
pursue a different question.”
As Patterson turned back to Frank Wickens, I noticed that he gave a glance to the clock
on the wall. It read 11:05. I felt certain that Patterson was calculating how much time he
would have to discredit this witness. He would have to do it before the lunch recess, before
Wickens, in consultation with Wylie, could shore up his defences. Wylie’s objection had
interrupted the attack, but Wickens’ near outburst showed that he did indeed have a breaking
point.
I recalled that in yesterday’s morning session, lunch had been called at a few minutes
before noon. But I had also noticed that Judge Still had begun to appear restless shortly after
11:30. Patterson would have to do his work quickly, to knock down the witness which
Chester Wylie had obviously gambled his entire case upon.
Fortunately, I could follow the race without turning my head. The clock lay high on the
wall in roughly the same sight line as the witness box. It hung near the top of the room’s oak
panelling where the wood met the rough stones of the building’s aged architecture, a product
of a more trusting and believing era of a century ago.
Patterson resumed his questioning, as he swung momentarily outward, glancing over the
spellbound gallery.
“Mr. Wickens, you and Mr. Wylie spoke earlier about observation and experiment in
regard to the creation science theory, and I would like, with your help, to compare the nature
of the evidence in both theories. The things an evolutionist will look at to seek support for
his theory are tangible: things that are present in the world which all may examine, namely
the fossil record, the geological record, the nature and behavior of certain species of life,
plant and animal. Indeed, these are the things which would and did lead the evolutionists to
come up with their theory in the first place. What sort of evidence would you rank beside
this to apply to creation science?”
Frank Wickens had regained a measure of both composure and confidence. “Well, for
one, I would say that the same evidence—given a different interpretation, of course—could
serve the needs of creation science.”
Patterson smiled and bent his head to scratch behind his ear. “Yes, but—as we saw
yesterday, standard science tends to make rather short shrift of that kind of interpretation.
Besides, according to yesterday’s testimony, which I assume you heard, creation theory
spends most of its time on those particular topics in trying to discredit them as evidence for
evolution. It tries to show that the standard scientific interpretation of these things is false or

275

misleading. In regard to the fossil record, for example, I have often heard it stated that these
creatures might never have lived but were placed in the ground as fossils by the Creator, for
what purpose I know not. Or that they represent a kind of divine experiment with different
forms of each species, which would explain why fossils exist that bear close resemblances to
each other.”
“I think you are distorting our argument,” Wickens protested.
It seemed to me that Wickens’ protest was to some extent valid, at least in terms of the
previous day’s testimony, for I recalled that such things as fossil and geological evidence had
been presented by the creationists as a more positive support for their own position than
Patterson was making out. And no one had actually claimed that God had placed fossils in
the ground, though I knew that such an idea had been floated elsewhere—which was the way
Patterson had been careful to phrase it. Wylie seemed on the verge of making an objection,
but it would have been a subtle one, and he hesitated just long enough for Patterson to carry
things further and dilute the opportunity. The Foundation’s advocate had gotten away with
his sleight of hand, and I was pretty sure I could see where he was headed.
“The point I am getting at is this, Mr. Wickens. We might liken these tangible supports
for evolution as the voice of the earth speaking on behalf of itself, on behalf of the theory
that life and the world came into being through their own natural processes. What then
would you say is the equivalent primary evidence for creationism? Where is the voice of the
Creator speaking on behalf of himself and the creationist theory?”
There was no doubt that Wickens had been led to the edge of a chasm. Yet for the
witness to retreat would have meant equal defeat, and he must have decided to push ahead
while protecting himself as best he could. I could see that Chester Wylie sat with leg
muscles tensed, ready to launch his objection if the witness blundered into Patterson’s trap.
“I think it is legitimate,” said Wickens carefully, “to say that in principle, writings like the
Bible”—he placed a firm emphasis on the word ‘like’—”would represent such a voice and
could be weighed as evidence. Most...cultures have such writings, and taken together they
represent a kind of universal tendency which supports a creationist theory.”
I had to admire Wickens’ articulation under pressure, his meticulous maintainance of
impartiality. Wylie was led to hesitate a little longer about making an objection, though the
danger was clear.
“Do you believe in the infallibility of the Bible, Mr. Wickens?”
This time Chester Wylie did more than tense his leg muscles. “Your Honor, I object!
Mr. Patterson is pursuing an irrelevant line of questioning! Whatever Mr. Wickens’
religious views are, he has stated that he can keep these separate from his scientific ones. I
think opposing counsel is trying to confuse and mislead the court!”
Judge Still turned a quizzical eye back to Burton Patterson, inviting rebuttal.
“Not at all, Your Honor. I am trying to point out that such a statement may be invalid
simply because creationism’s so-called line between religion and science is seriously
blurred. Indeed, it has already been crossed by Mr. Wickens who has brought religious
writings into the picture, no matter with what air of impartiality. I am trying to establish if
indeed such a line can exist, if there is a distinction between religious and scientific views in
creation science.”
Judge Still nodded. “Objection overruled. You may proceed, Mr. Patterson.”
Chester Wylie sat down heavily.

276

“Perhaps,” Patterson resumed, “the question of the infallibility of the Bible is a religious
one, so I will set it aside at this time. Let’s approach my point this way. We could say that
Charles Darwin was first induced to think of his theory by the prodding of certain
observations about animal characteristics and behavior. That is, it was these things which
first put the idea into his mind. Would you say, Mr. Wickens, that what first put the idea of
a Creator into your mind was a reading of the Bible, or the education you received from
those who had themselves read the Bible?”
Chester Wylie was again on his feet, shouting in a tone of desperation. “Your Honor, he
is leading the witness!”
Judge Still struck his gavel once in the first show of anger I had yet witnessed from him.
It seemed to jangle the nerves of everyone in the chamber. “Mr. Wylie—this is cross-
examination! Don’t force me to suspect you of trying to obstruct these proceedings. And if
the witness doesn’t want to be led, he can simply say no. Proceed, Mr. Patterson.”
“Thank-you, Your Honor.” Patterson strolled over to the counsel table, checked some
notes. I had the feeling he was allowing a few moments for the commotion to settle.
Perhaps he believed that in an atmosphere of too much agitation, a witness could be rendered
useless, rather than placed in the more desirable state of vulnerability. This would be
especially critical in a case like this one, in which counsel was attempting to develop an
intricate intellectual argument.
The late morning sun streamed through the windows. Was there a people on the face of
the earth, I wondered, who still worshipped the sun as a god? The old building’s fine dust,
hanging softly in the air, made the sunbeams tangible. Perhaps the spirit of some god did
stand there, contemplating the embittered scene with—what emotion? Well, I decided, let
him come forward and clarify the issue. Let his voice ring from the rafters and the stones.
The stones.
The rich and the strong shall call to the stones: fall on us and hide us from the face of
God and his wrath.
My body gave a twitch, which Shauna noticed. I shook my head as though to clear it.
The idea that had just crossed my mind was too outlandish. It was ridiculously impossible.
A bomb in the Superior Court Building? I swung my head. Jeffrey and Steven were still in
their seats. Cherkasian would hardly sacrifice them in some human-designed destruction of
the godless courtroom. Anyway, the scene was a joint one. Just as many members of the
creationist side were present.
Unless Cherkasian felt antagonism toward them as well. Or didn’t care.
No. My stimulated and addled brain had crashed a circuit. I wrenched my attention back
to the scene in front of me. Patterson had turned from the table to make his way back to the
witness box.
Besides, what about the two other clues? And if clue number two, the one about the
falling stones, belonged to Steven, he was still here, intent on the same scene I was.
Unless this was not the moment.
Steven, from the house in Philadelphia. Had the FBI investigation gone deep enough to
know whether anyone there had anything to do with explosives?
“Now, Mr. Wickens...”
Would Chown think I was crazy if I broached the subject to him during the lunch break?
A bomb wrapped in a quotation from Revelation?

277

“Would it be fair to say that the original source of your theory—the thing that made you
think of it in the first place—was the Bible, or other similar writings?”
Wickens looked forlornly toward the Coalition counsel table, but there was no help to be
had from that direction.
“Mr. Wickens?”
“Uh, yes, originally—”
Before the witness could add a qualifier, Patterson pressed on. “Well, then, if your so-
called scientific theory proceeds from a religious writing, how can you claim to keep science
separate from religion?”
Realizing he was on his own, Frank Wickens made a valiant attempt to rescue the
situation. He drew himself up and looked the advocate squarely in the eye. “The nature of
the theory of creationism cannot help but be somewhat religious, Mr. Patterson. Creationism
is about a Creator. And a belief in a Creator, no matter what it is based on, has always been
labelled ‘religion’. Rather than involving a rigid separation, I would characterize
creationism as a composite of religion and science.”
Frank Wickens had definitely struck out in his own direction. In the spectator gallery
there was a tentatively satisfied sigh from the creationist supporters, who perceived that the
witness had stepped back onto firmer and sensible ground. But in his haste to cover himself,
Wickens added, “But creationism can still claim to be included in the science category if it
conforms to scientific principles, and taught according to them, as we have been trying to
demonstrate.”
The man was resourceful. I glanced at the clock. 11:20. Patterson would have to go for
the jugular, I realized, and quickly.
But half my mind was preoccupied in other directions, directions which seemed a little
less outlandish by the minute. Cherkasian had said that events were already unfolding.
Were the intimations contained in the clues those ‘events’? And since obviously no such
things had happened yet, what was already unfolding? How was Cherkasian forcing God’s
hand?
Patterson asked, “Are you familiar with scientific principles, Mr. Wickens? Specifically,
the principles of scientific investigation?”
“Yes, I would say so.”
“You and Mr. Wylie offered a definition earlier of a scientific theory. Now I want to
offer a definition of my own. Science is a discipline that proceeds by a constantly repeating
chain of events: theory and investigation, theory and investigation. That is, a scientist comes
up with a theory, and then he subjects it to investigation. This in turn leads to a revision of
the previous theory, or to a completely new one if necessary. Then, new theory in hand, he
conducts further investigation which may in turn lead to yet further changes to the theory, all
in the interests of arriving at the ultimate truth. Now, Mr. Wickens, if at any stage of this
chain, the scientist stands with his theory in one hand and the results of his latest
investigation in the other, and the two are incompatible, the two do not agree, which one
does he discard?”
The witness looked at the advocate without speaking. He apparently sensed that
Patterson intended to answer his own question.
“Being a man of science, Mr. Wickens, you know that he discards the theory. Correct?”
Frank Wickens could do none other than agree.

278

“It seems to me, then, that the claim of the creationists to offer an alternative science to
our schools is determined to a great extent by their willingness to follow such scientific
principles. In the case of evolution, the original theory put forward by Darwin has
undergone considerable revision. For example, as we all noted yesterday, thirty years ago it
was taught that evolution proceeded by slow and gradual changes in a given species until
those changes most suited for survival eventually become predominant. But continuing
investigation of the fossil record seemed to cast doubt that this theory was entirely accurate
and now evolutionists are suggesting that the process involved some sudden and dramatic
mutations which occurred periodically, perhaps due to bursts of radiation from outer space.
In between, most life forms remained much the same for long periods. Through
investigation, a previous theory is giving way to a new one. Let’s see if the same scientific
principles could apply in creation science.”
11:30. No sign yet that Judge Still was feeling restless. Unfortunately, I could not say
the same for myself. The bowl of fire. Poured out by the fourth angel. Jeffrey’s clue. He
was seated not too far behind me. Ridiculous. Was he to set fire to the courtroom? Charge
in with a flame-thrower? On the other hand, should I automatically assume that the
courtroom, or even the courthouse, was the venue for this forcing of God’s hand?
Great. Chown would think I had gone completely haywire. Bombs and infernos.
“Now, Mr. Wickens, I would allow that writings like the Bible should legitimately be
considered as primary sources of evidence for creationist theory. After all, where else does
one get information about a Creator if not from writings and traditions which have
something to say about him? They can hardly be ignored. Would you agree?”
Hesitantly, Wickens answered, “Certainly.”
“So if the question of sources of evidence were to come up in a creation science course,
naturally the Bible would be included among them.”
“I think that’s only fair,” said Wickens somewhat defensively.
“Yes, it is. Now, Mr. Wickens, I am going to return to the question I set aside earlier, but
you may take a few moments and phrase your answer in any way wish: do you believe the
Bible to be infallible?”
The moment of silence following that question resounded throughout the room. I
suspected that Patterson was hoping his proviso, which I was sure really meant nothing,
would lull Chester Wylie into hesitating over another objection.
There was no reaction from the State’s lawyer. The witness answered carefully:
“Whether I do or not is a purely religious conviction. In a creation science course the
question would be left open.”
An uncertain stir rippled across the courtroom. It probably seemed to the creationist
partisans that Frank Wickens had scored another point, but there was a growing uneasiness
over the increasing amount of ground that was being given up in order to do so.
“I see. So then, if in considering the Bible’s statement that the world was created in six
days, one of your students pointed out the conclusive scientific evidence which shows that in
fact billions of years separate the formation of the earth—or let’s say its creation—from the
creation of the first life, you would say that the Bible was erroneous on this point?”
“No, sir, not erroneous,” Wickens retorted with more vigor. “It might simply be our
interpretation of the word ‘day’ which was erroneous. The basic creation timetable could
still be the same.” The man was undeniably professing a ‘liberal’ view for a creationist.

279

“Granted, although we are forced to stretch meanings of words and give whole passages a
significance which is not obviously there. Well, then, how about the passage in Genesis
which says that God gave man dominion over all the animals? If a pupil pointed out that
this was not entirely correct because some species of animals had lived and died out before
the first appearance of man, you would say that the Bible was wrong on this question?”
“Well, not necessarily. The Bible could not be expected to cover every single point. It
would be up to us to fit those details into the broad picture which Genesis presents.”
“It sounds to me, Mr. Wickens, that under no circumstances could you bring yourself to
admit in a creation science course that the Bible was anything but infallible.”
Getting wearily to his feet, Chester Wylie adopted his most unaggressive tone: “Your
Honor, I would respectfully suggest that counsel for the Foundation is being somewhat
argumentative.”
“Your Honor,” Patterson inserted hastily, “I am simply trying to establish whether the
witness would in principle be willing to revise or discard any element of his theory in the
face of evidence to the contrary. After all, he has agreed that a willingness to do so is a
fundamental principle of scientific investigation. Mr. Wylie has based his case on the claim
that creation science conforms to such principles.”
Judge Still, with a glance at the clock, said, “Overruled.”
Forcing God’s hand. How? By making these things happen? ‘If you know his will he
has to act.’ In ancient magical thinking, calling on a god’s name of power brought the god’s
force into play; the god had no say in the matter. Did Cherkasian regard an act which fitted
God’s prophecy as forcing his hand? God had been awaiting the time when he would fulfill
the open-ended prophecies. Did Cherkasian think he could trip the prophecy-fulfillment
mechanism in a way even God could not resist?
Could I know in what fevered world Cherkasian’s mind moved?
Patterson had turned back to the witness box. “Well, Mr. Wickens? Is it not the case that
you would never admit that the Bible could be wrong?”
It mattered not which way the witness went, Patterson would have him in the end.
Wickens rubbed the base of his palm across his forehead. “That’s not necessarily true,”
he stammered. “But you would have to give me an example of where the Bible was
unmistakably wrong.”
From one corner of the gallery there came a little groan, as though Frank Wickens had
finally been pushed to the point of uttering a heresy.
“Well, Mr. Wickens, when I stated that there is scientific evidence that the world and
mankind have been around for a lot longer than the period stated in the Bible, you explained
this by saying that the Bible’s term ‘day’ would have to be reinterpreted. But surely you
would have to admit that the genealogy from Adam to Noah as set out in Genesis could not
possibly be correct, since there are simply not enough generations given to fill the hundreds
of thousands of years and more that men and women have walked the earth. And I think that
no one would allow you to explain this by saying that the term ‘year’ also means something
different, and that these men really lived for many millennia.”
Wickens had been backed into a corner and knew it. If he once again defended the
essential accuracy of the Bible he would be confirming Patterson’s accusation. He looked
thoroughly miserable as he said in a small voice, “I suppose it could be said that the Bible
left something out.”

280

“So that would mean that the Bible is wrong.”


Wickens’ lower lip trembled perceptibly. “If you wanted to press the point, I suppose
you could call this an inaccuracy.”
“An inaccuracy,” Patterson repeated. The audience held its breath.
The clock read 11:43.
What clue would be the trigger? All of them? Could Cherkasian count on all three? All
three of the boys to fill that kind of an order? Or would only one suffice?
But what was clue number one? How would Christ’s crucifixion be reenacted?
Once again I shook my head. Shauna beside me, I could tell, was starting to think that
there was something wrong with me. I told myself that a good stiff drink over lunch would
clear my head of these outrageous fantasies.
I was looking at Judge Still, who seemed at last to be showing signs of restlessness. I
caught Patterson’s glance in the direction of the bench. Perhaps for that reason he pushed on
hurriedly.
“Well, Mr. Wickens, it is reassuring to know that you could, after all, bring yourself to
advise your students that the Bible, as a source of information about the creation theory, is
like any other source of evidence: it could be partly right and partly wrong. I daresay,
following scientific principles, that if a student pointed out to you that the fossil record
reveals several different branches of the human species going back millions of years, you
would have to admit that this evidence would tend to indicate that Genesis was wrong in
other respects: that there never was an Adam and Eve, there never was a Garden of Eden, no
forbidden fruit, no original sin—”
Wearing a dire expression, Mr. Frank Wickens stood up in the witness box. His fists
were clenched, and small veins stood out in both temples as he flared at the advocate: “No,
Mr. Patterson, I would never admit that! Never! If there were no Adam and Eve and no
forbidden fruit then there would have been no Fall! And if there were no Fall, we wouldn’t
have needed Jesus to come to earth to redeem us! If there is no original sin, what is the
source of man’s evil? You are one of the embodiments of that evil, Mr. Patterson, and I am
here in this courtroom to try to counter it! And creation science must be taught in our
nation’s schools in order to destroy evil like yours—”
At the beginning of Wickens’ tirade, Patterson had dropped his head to gaze at the floor
in an attitude of submission. No doubt he had seen, as we all did, Chester Wylie rise
halfway to his feet. But no sound accompanied the motion, for nothing could legitimately be
done to halt the outburst.
The Vice-Principal of Fennimore High stopped abruptly. A thunderous silence followed
during which Chester Wylie sank back into his chair, while the witness slowly closed his
mouth and stared bleakly out over the courtroom. Patterson in his stoop finally raised his
head. His voice was eerily quiet, but he made sure it carried to the limits of the chamber.
“I think Mr. Wickens has demonstrated to the court what are the motivations behind so-
called creation science and those who promote it. When honest and responsible
interpretation of evidence is sacrificed to rigidly-held doctrine, this constitutes nothing of
true science. I have no further questions for this witness, Your Honor.”
The clock read 11:48.
Judge Still pounded his gavel and said, “This court is adjourned until two o’clock this
afternoon.” He rose from his chair and was out the door.

281

In a moment the entire room was abuzz and on its feet. Most of the spectators simply
milled about, not leaving. Some seemed in a state of agitation, others wore triumphant
expressions. I caught a glimpse of Steven standing near his seat, a grim face with clenched
teeth. Jeffrey I could not spy through the crowd. Of Lindon there had been no sign all
morning.
David was elated, and he passed through the gap in the balustrade to the counsel table.
There he shook Patterson’s hand. Beyond them I saw Frank Wickens leave the witness box
and move toward the far table, sunk in his own dejection. Wylie was gathering himself up,
obviously disheartened by the turn of events.
Beside me Shauna breathed, “That was the most incredible piece of theater I’ve ever
seen.”
I had to agree with her. “The man is a master, there’s no doubt about that.”
She and I and Phyllis followed David into the open area. David was saying, “If Wylie
recovers from this to even attempt any further argument, I’ll be amazed.”
Patterson nodded, surprisingly sedate. I might even have said humble. Perhaps he did
not really relish the shredding of a man’s integrity before the public eye. “Wylie will
probably proceed directly to closing statements. I don’t intend to call any witnesses now.”
He smiled at David. “But then, I always went on the assumption that they would torpedo
themselves.”
Phyllis declared breezily, “That’s not where the torpedo came from, not from my angle.”
Some of the print reporters who had filled the chairs at the front of the gallery were
milling about, as though thinking of approaching Patterson, even though the hearing was not
yet over. As they hesitated, a voice from behind piped up.
“Mr. Patterson!”
It was the TV interviewer, standing in the gap of the balustrade. She had witnessed the
proceedings standing just inside the door at the back of the gallery.
“Mr. Patterson, could you give me a moment? I have a camera crew outside, and I’d love
to give you a spot on the 6 o’clock news. If we wait until later, I won’t be able to make it in
time.”
Patterson looked up and gave her a polite smile. He glanced at David and made an easy
shrug, the corners of his mouth turned up in an amused expression which said ‘Why not?’
Aloud, he announced, “That’s one of the things we’re here for. I’ll be sure to plug the
Foundation.”
He turned back to Helen Walters, his assistant. “Maybe you could grab my papers and
briefcase, Helen, and meet me outside.”
His eyes swept the animated faces of the people around him. Patterson had to have
known that he had just shown the world he was still a master of the courtroom. He looked
content, but the arrogance I might have expected was not in evidence. When his glance fell
on Shauna, it lingered there for a moment. Then he turned and followed the interviewer up
the aisle.
David expressed his elation by giving Phyllis a kiss on the cheek. “Maybe we should
reschedule our press reception for tonight.”
Phyllis looked at him in amused wonder. “My dear, the judge has not rendered his
verdict yet. All Mr. Patterson has done is discredit one of the witnesses. The hearing isn’t
over.”

282

David looked startled, then sheepish. “Well, yes, of course. But their case is in tatters,
that’s clear. But you’re right, we can’t jump the gun.”
The crowd around us, its centerpiece removed, was thinning out. Helen Walters had
gathered up everything and started up the aisle. Someone said, “I guess we should see about
lunch.”
Shauna took my arm without moving. “What were you twitching about back there? You
seemed like you were so nervous you couldn’t sit still.”
I shrugged it off, though her question brought back some of the unease. “Oh, just some
leftover demons from last night. The clues and things. I was seeing Cherkasian behind
every pillar—or stone.”
Shauna narrowed her eyes just slightly. “Why, did you think of something else?”
“I was just thinking about those three boys. Cherkasian evidently exercises some control
over them. Maybe he’s even been indulging in some kind of indoctrination. They each get a
clue to send—”
“You didn’t mention that last night.”
“Uh, no. Actually, that only came to me in the middle of the night. I didn’t wake you.”
David and Phyllis had started to move off toward the center aisle of the gallery. It was
still thick with people.
Shauna asked, “What do you mean, they each got a clue?”
“Well—” My brain was picking up its deliberations, like a train lurching out of a foggy
tunnel, resuming where it had left off. Coherent thought had been difficult while the
dramatic courtroom scene was going on in front of me.
“It occurred to me that each of these warnings was given to one of the boys to send. Was
Cherkasian trying to plant some idea in their minds? Some kind of suggestion? Or—” I
found I was tapping on my forehead, as though trying to induce my cerebral processes to
work a little faster. “With all this talk about God’s will and persuading God to act, who
knows what effect those passages were designed to have on them?”
I looked around me, without knowing what I was expecting to see. “That way, he could
cover himself. It wasn’t a direct order. Maybe he didn’t expect all three of them to
respond.”
The increasing urgency, the apprehension in my voice made Shauna react. She asked in
some alarm, “All what? An order to do what?”
I was speaking in some agitation. David had stopped part way up the aisle and looked
back, curious. Phyllis turned as well.
“I don’t know. To bomb the place maybe. To set fire to it. I know it sounds crazy, but
that’s what the clues talk about. At least two of them. Fire and the falling stones, Jeffrey
and Steven. The other one talks about Christ crucified. Seeing him pierced.”
“Seeing who pierced?”
Shauna had almost shouted. David, nonplussed, was coming back.
“Seeing—”
How could I have been so blind? Shauna asking the question like that made it seem
absurdly clear. The passage had been changed to eliminate the past sense of the piercing.
Every eye shall see him pierced. A future prediction. A suggestion. Who? Who else but
Burton Patterson himself?
David was in front of me, anxious. “What’s the matter, Kevin?”

283

That would have been the simplest of the clues to carry out. For Lindon? About him I
knew nothing. Yesterday I had laid eyes on him briefly. Today he was nowhere in sight.
A knife could not have been brought into the courtroom. It would never have gotten past
the metal detectors.
I looked past David, beyond an equally perplexed Phyllis.
“Where’s Patterson?”
David looked bewildered. “Why—out in the corridor. Talking to the TV woman.”
For one long moment, one part of my brain sent me the message to stop, calm down, and
then consider whether I should be sounding so alarmist. I had surely created a phantom
nightmare in my own mind. The universe we lived and loved in would not be that crazy.
The next moment, the message was superfluous. And horribly wrong.
A cacophony of voices, marked by several screams, suddenly erupted from the corridor
beyond the gallery door. I rushed past the others and forced my way up the aisle. Beyond
the doorway, past the protective arch of the metal detector, I was stopped by a milling press
of people, all wearing panicked or horrified expressions. One or two were crying. In a
moment, I felt David pushing behind me.
Ahead, in the midst of the press, a camera bobbed and jerked. It was pointed toward the
floor. I heard a voice shouting from the same direction. Agent Chown was bellowing to
someone: “Hold him!” There were calls for an ambulance. Courthouse security people were
swirling in the mix, pushing their way, pushing others aside. I caught sight of the TV
reporter. There was blood on the front of her blouse. She wore a stunned look and she was
still clutching her microphone.
With David’s added pressure at my back, I found myself penetrating the eddying clump
of braying humanity and arrived at its core, where Nelson Chown was crouched over a
supine figure wet with blood. Burton Patterson was on his side, legs askew, head and upper
body twisted skyward. His eyes stared in pain, and blood was escaping from an open mouth
which seemed to be expressing a silent astonishment. Chown was trying to get him fully
over on his back. The TV woman hovered above them, a mix of horror and professional
self-possession on her face; beside her the camera was rolling.
A few feet away was a knot of three figures on the floor. A man in a trench coat together
with a court security guard were grappling with another, arms twisted, head held brutally
against the floor. Beneath one leg lay a red-stained knife.
“Oh God! Burton!” David pushed past me and knelt beside Chown, his knee in a
spreading pallet of blood. “Oh God, how did this happen?” His voice was breaking with
anguish.
Chown, as he worked Patterson over, was pressing some kind of cloth against the
attorney’s chest, trying to staunch the flow of scarlet.
“I was too far away,” Chown grunted. “I saw the bastard go by—he looked like he was
just passing them, uninterested. Then he whipped out the damn knife. I was too far away.”
Chown raised his head and hollered. “Is that ambulance on its way?”
The voices, the commotion, the sound of Patterson’s rasping breath, were strange and
disembodied to me, like a distant dream. Into that dream came Shauna, clutching fiercely at
my arm. “Oh, no. No, no. Burton!” She let go of me and approached the fallen man, trying
to make her way around the kneeling David. Someone was in the way. She stepped in
blood.

284

In my dream, she was stepping out of my life. I could see that. I did not understand fully
at that moment, but I knew that some link existed now between my former lover and Burton
Patterson, who lay on the hard floor with his life seeping out of him.
From my daze, I heard and felt Phyllis crying angrily beside me.
There was a voice shouting. “Clear the way!” Some medical personnel pushed us aside.
Shauna’s hand had gone down to the felled attorney. She had touched his arm and then was
forced to withdraw. David slithered sideways, on his knees, to let the medics through.
My feet retreated awkwardly, a numbness seizing my body. Shauna took a couple of
steps, randomly, as though not knowing what to do. Then she turned and stared at me, eyes
streaming. Anguish, guilt, stubbornness etched her face. She moved hesitantly toward me.
“I—I was with him last weekend. Here, in Philadelphia. At the hotel. He promised not
to let on.” The syllables came individually to me, pressed like ground chunks through the
continuing commotion and the voices. My brain struggled to piece them back together in
coherent meanings, shocking images. She came closer and put a hand on my forearm.
“I only spent a day at my parents’. He had asked me to come. I said yes, because—
you—”
I shook my head, my lips pursed. Perhaps they trembled. My eyes told her she didn’t
have to explain.
“I needed to find out—if—how I felt about everything—” Her own eyes were hollow,
red pools of distress and uncertainty. She swung back to look at the knot of furiously
working people around Patterson.
She seemed caught on a line pulled in both directions. Suddenly she sagged and just
stood there, weeping like the flow of a collapsed reservoir. For another moment I could not
move, and Phyllis, having witnessed the exchange between us, stepped into the gap and went
up to Shauna, embracing her. Their tears mixed, as I regained control of my body. Like
everything else, too late.
Bits of phrases emerged from the group on the floor. “Give him a bit more....It’s less
than a quarter of an inch away....Stand back, please. Let the stretcher through!”
In a moment, they were lifting Patterson gingerly, laying him on a wheeled bed. His face
looked bloodless. The wheels were slippery.
David was standing with soaked pants, looking as distraught as I’d ever seen a man look.
As the medics were attaching the straps, he took Patterson’s hand and spoke to him, though
the attorney seemed hardly conscious. “Hold on, you stubborn son of a gun. We’re going to
ask for a rematch and you’d better be there.” Patterson showed no sign he had heard.
Shauna and Phyllis, still holding each other, were watching along with everyone else as
the intravenous life support bottle was hurriedly attached to Patterson’s arm. David asked
the medic, “Is he going to make it?”
The man glanced at him fleetingly. “Say your prayers.”
David’s reaction was bitter, as they started to wheel the stretcher away. “I think the God
you want me to pray to was busy attending to someone else’s crazy appeals.”
By this time, more police were arriving, and the stretcher bearing Patterson disappeared
through a mass of blue uniforms. I noticed that the would-be assassin had been lifted to his
feet, handcuffed and brought to a bench outside the courtroom door, where he was
unceremoniously forced into a sitting position. His face was familiar. The young man, his
features composed and somber, was undoubtedly Lindon.

285

Over the next few minutes there were hurried consultations all round, between the
various law enforcement people, between myself and Chown, who wanted me to scan the
crowd to see if any of the other Ascended Masters were in sight, perhaps even Cherkasian
himself. I could see no sign of anyone. I noted the absence, too, of Chester Wylie and Frank
Wickens. They had taken the attorneys’ door out of the courtroom, and I presumed they had
missed the whole affair. They were in for a shock when they returned for the afternoon
session. I wondered what the fate of the hearing would be, but at that moment I felt drained
of all caring. Let the creationists teach their science. It was a drop in the bucket of the
world’s insanity.
After a further consultation with the local police commander, Chown informed me,
“We’re setting up an immediate raid on the Masters’ hangout here in the city. It’ll take a
couple of hours to get in touch with the bureau and organize one against the schoolhouse.
Wherever Cherkasian is, we’ll have him here by suppertime. Can you make yourself
available later? You seem to be the one who knows the most about these characters.”
I said bitterly, “Yes, I had the clues, all right. But I didn’t interpret them properly until it
was too late.”
Chown looked quizzical, but evidently decided to leave the matter until later. He went
off to make his arrangements.
David, meanwhile, had enquired as to where Patterson had been taken. Between the four
of us, we decided to return to the hotel, where David could change out of his bloodied pants
and the rest of us would freshen up, then grab a bite of food and go off to the hospital. We
let Chown know where we were going before we left the saddened courthouse. Its brooding
stones had indeed fallen on us all.
In the back seat of David’s rented car, I put my hand on a subdued and tear-stained
Shauna. “I understand,” I said softly. “Let’s just concentrate on getting through this day. If
there are things that need settling between us, we can do it another time.” She stole a glance
at me and nodded.
Later that evening, she informed me that she would stay in Philadelphia for the rest of the
week. Patterson had undergone an emergency operation and was unconscious, but for now
was holding his own, and the doctors said there was still a chance he could pull through. He
had no immediate family, and Shauna wanted to wait in case he woke up. David would also
stay for a few days.
Earlier in the evening Chown had commandeered me and brought me to a diner near the
hospital. There he picked my brain on the Ascended Masters. The raid on the schoolhouse
had missed Cherkasian “by inches,” he said. Somehow he had known. Jeffrey and Steven
had been apprehended when they returned to the house in the city, and the next day they
would be subjected to intense questioning. Chown doubted he would have anything to hold
them on, but they might provide information which would allow the FBI to track down
Cherkasian.
“What I don’t understand is what his motives were,” Chown fretted over a third cup of
coffee. “What the hell did he think he was going to accomplish?”
It was my third cup as well, which was two over my limit. I told myself it didn’t matter,
since I was not likely to do much sleeping that night in any event.
“If I gave you the answer to that, you’d think he was crazy—or I was. The religious
mind, especially when you immerse it in the more fevered parts of scripture, is a hothouse.

286

All sorts of strange and hybrid ideas can take root there. Let’s just say Cherkasian felt he
could tap into forces that would bring about some changes in the world. When you crave
desperately for the things you think God has been promising for so long, frustration may
drive you to create your own straws to grasp at.”
“In other words, the man is insane?”
“By unofficial standards like yours and mine, probably. Legally, I don’t know. But I
think you’re going to be wasting your time. He’s covered himself nicely. He’ll claim he
gave the boys no such instructions. They just got carried away—or at least Lindon did—and
took the prophecy passages too seriously. He’ll say he picked them as warnings to the
Foundation, strictly religious of course, and let each boy deliver one. No doubt he
surrounded it with a lot of suggestive indoctrination, but I doubt anyone could prove
homicidal intentions or deliberate conspiracy.”
Chown tapped the edge of his coffee cup with his spoon. It was like the thudding of a
judge’s gavel. “Don’t be too certain about that. I’m sure going to have the department give
it a try. Besides, if he was so confident he was in the clear, why did he run?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he panicked.”
“Well, we’ll get him sooner or later.”
To avoid an awkward situation, when I learned that Shauna intended to stay the week, I
decided to take the midnight train home and leave her with the hotel room. The hearing had
been suspended, and there was no reason for me to stay. David promised to call me each day
and keep me informed of Patterson’s condition. Shauna said she would call me when she
returned home.
Our parting, in the waiting room outside the ward where Patterson was resting, was
resigned if a little tearful. What the future held was impossible to say, and neither one of us
was in the mood for prophecy. Before this disastrous day and its revelations, I had felt on
the threshold of a new and exciting phase of my life. If that was still to be my destiny, I
would probably be entering upon it without her.
The ride home was long and melancholy. The clatter of the wheels on the rails, instead of
its usual soothing, hypnotic effect, was disturbing, almost nerve-wracking. In the darkened
railway car, with sudden pinpoints of light sliding past in the black countryside like
demented, chaotic spirits, some part of me wanted desperately to find a clear reason for this
catastrophic day, to hold some one person or agency responsible. Instead, it was like the
collision of a rash of vehicles, in a complex intersection during a storm. Some of the drivers
were reckless, others distracted. A few had been craning at the sky.
It was like the junction of our times. The world was careering down the road toward the
next millennium. That upcoming juncture of the eras was literally driving some people mad.
For others it was inspiring. The stretch of highway they had just travelled had carried them
through a wind of change and enlightenment. Some, against that new speed and freedom of
the road, were setting up detours, laying byways back to a wilderness left behind. The
collision of these forces was inevitable.
What new world would emerge from the impact was anyone’s guess.

*****************************

287

Epilogue

In the end, the Age of Reason Foundation got its publicity, almost more than it could
handle, but none of us would willingly have paid the cost. Patterson made a slow but steady
recovery, and some of it was due to Shauna’s ministrations. Though we talked several times
during the weeks following the aborted court hearing, and even met on one occasion, I did
not try to plumb her motivations. Why she had been drawn to Patterson was her affair, and
as I had always known her to be an honest and warm-hearted person, I knew the choice had
not been made frivolously. Evidently my own evaluation of the man had been biased and
ungenerous.
As for her dissatisfaction with our past relationship, we were both aware of the reasons
for that. We spent little time discussing the issue. She managed to let me know that my
longstanding reluctance to make a wholehearted investment in the business of living—and
loving—had sapped some of her own commitment, leading to a fateful weekend in
Philadelphia. We parted on good terms, but it was a parting that was to inaugurate in me an
intense period of soul-searching.
Three weeks following the hearing, David and I got together at his office to review the
situation. Tactfully, and mercifully, he made no mention of Shauna. Patterson by then had
been taken off the critical list, but it was clear he would not be returning to the courtroom
anytime soon. The ACLU, David informed me, had taken back the reins and was working to
reschedule the hearing under their own auspices later in the summer.
“In time, hopefully, to prevent the State of Pennsylvania from carrying through its
intentions and introducing creationism into the school curriculum next year.”
“Who’s going to argue the thing?” I asked.
“Don’t know. It’s out of our hands now. We’ve had our moment of glory. A rather
bloody one, wasn’t it? Chown tells me that Cherkasian has disappeared into a black hole.
But he claims he’ll be dug out eventually. Long arm of the Bureau and all that.”
“What about the boys?”
“So far there’s no evidence of any collusion between the three. Lindon was working on
his own, certainly under Cherkasian’s influence. But whether they could prove that in a
court of law is less certain, if I can read through Chown’s bluster.”
“Perhaps Lindon will plead insanity.”
David’s eyes lit up in a mix of anger and perversity. “You know, I’d love to see that.
This should be a high profile trial across the country. Let’s have a good defence lawyer
present a case for fundamentalist belief constituting a form of insanity—or inducing that
state in the believer.”
I had to chuckle. “Maybe if the case is delayed long enough, Patterson will have
recovered in time to take on Lindon’s defence. Wouldn’t that be a supreme piece of irony.”
David started to laugh with me, and then abruptly sobered. He put his tongue only a little
way into his cheek. “You know, Kevin, that is not as outrageous an idea as you think. I may
bring it up with Patterson the next time I visit him. It might give him an extra incentive for
recovery. Chown actually sounded as though it might take some time for the case to come to
trial, what with Cherkasian missing and all.”

288

“No, David, the idea is totally outrageous. Which might be why Patterson would actually
give it some consideration. Imagine the media attention that would draw!”
“There’d probably be some legal impediment to it. Conflict of interest or something.”
Yet his eyes looked almost wistful, starry with visions of the potential that such a situation
would involve. “The Foundation would be in the public eye for months.”
We both shook our heads as if to clear them of assorted outrageous fantasies.
“Speaking of publicity...”
David lifted a pile of newspaper sheets from behind the desk and plopped them in front of
me. We perused pages, mostly front ones, from publications around the country, taken from
the days immediately following the attempted murder. Some of the headlines tried to be
clever. “Darwin’s Fittest May Not Survive” and “Ghost of Bryan Haunts Modern Darrow”.
Almost all the articles made some mention of the Age of Reason Foundation. Time
Magazine, in the previous week’s issue, had included a substantial feature on the Foundation
and the issues surrounding it, focusing on the creationism dispute. As David pointed out, we
had paid a high price for the windfall publicity.
“Which is why we can’t pass up the opportunity to take advantage of it. For now, the
Foundation is attracting new members at ten times the previous rate. I’m just on the verge of
losing personal control over the whole thing. You know the best part of it all—for me,
anyway? Half the board of the International Skeptics, the ones I originally proposed the
thing to and who essentially told me to go off and pull on my own tail, they want in on the
Foundation now. Well, they’ll have to wait in line.”
I asked hesitantly, “What about me? Do you think I can still handle the ‘resident
publicist’ duties?” I actually found myself a little apprehensive at the thought that the
organization was evolving to a new, expanded stage, and that I might be left behind. I had
noted, without comment, that I had not been brought in to help with the Time interview.
David was solicitous. “Absolutely. We might even have to give you an assistant. I left
you alone for a bit—I guess I left everyone alone—in the wake of Patterson’s stabbing, and
I’ve been running back and forth between here and Philadelphia. By the way, he’s starting to
ask about people and things at the Foundation, which I take as a good sign. But I want us to
get back on track as of today.” The old twinkle came back into the eye. “How about I give
you two days—OK, three—to put together a rough game plan. Something covering
everything from now to our Symposium on Rationality in the year 2000.”
The trouble was, he was half serious. I nodded slowly. “OK, three days—no problem.
Maybe I’ll throw my novel together during the other two.”
We both laughed. “You can do that on the weekends. Anyway, I’m not entirely averse to
making some use of the idea of a non-existent Jesus. You almost convinced me of it the
other day. But we’ll have to handle that one carefully. Let’s see if the world is ready to give
it a hearing. Which reminds me—”
He reached into a desk drawer and fished out a recent copy of the Atlantic Monthly. He
had tagged a page. “Listen to what one of today’s leading scholars has to say about the latest
conclusions in New Testament research. He’s quoted in an article about Q: ‘Because Q
contains no passion narrative, Mack believes that no one really knows how Jesus died and
that the Gospel stories of his passion, like most of the Gospel stories, are pure fiction. “It’s
over,” Mack said. “We’ve had enough apocalypses. We’ve had enough martyrs.
Christianity has had a two-thousand-year run, and it’s over.” ’ ”

289

David looked up at me quizzically. “What do you think of that?”


I hesitated. “It’s—unheard of. Burton Mack is certainly on the cutting edge; he used to
belong to the Jesus Seminar. But I don’t think even he would have dared express such
finality as little as five years ago. I guess the snowball is really gaining momentum. We’ve
already arrived at a thoroughly human Jesus. The conclusions I’ve come to may lie just over
the next hill.”
David tossed the magazine onto the pile of papers. “Who knows? Still, I have a feeling
the Frank Wickenses of this world are not going to meekly come on board overnight, either
on yours or Burton Mack’s ship. Christianity is facing some rough seas ahead. Perhaps
religion as a whole. That’s why I want to be out there. I want to offer a port in the storm.
Help me fashion that harbor, Kevin. We have to offer a viable alternative. The world has
been moving toward a secular outlook, we both know that. It’s groping for a new rationality
we can all embrace. I know we can’t just abandon overnight all the emotional needs we’ve
had, the things we’ve invested in mysticism and gods and the supernatural for so long. The
irony is, our precious evolution has probably selected for that kind of investment, just to
keep us going.”
I tried to put a better cast on things. “Maybe we don’t need to abandon them, David. We
just need to find them a better home. That old saying about putting away the things of the
child never struck me as quite right. You never lose those things, or put them away. You
simply translate them into more adult expressions. That’s what we need to do. We’re on the
verge of adulthood—at long last—and we need to find a new setting for our childhood needs
and emotions. Just don’t ask people to cast them aside, much less denigrate them. We just
have to let ourselves see them for what they are.”
As David nodded in acknowledgment, I moved to the office window and looked out over
the campus quadrangle, a place of green and sunlight amid the concrete, man-made artifacts.
Nature had witnessed our long, painful growth. Was she patient or impatient? Caring or
unconcerned? Did she have the capacity for either? Yes, for we had that capacity and we
were part of nature, that part which had evolved the ability to think, to feel, to be aware. In
us, the mind of the universe was growing up. Adulthood was inevitable. No organism could
stay a child forever. The path of evolution travelled only in one direction. Those who
sought to hold us, or return us to the past, could not, in the long run, succeed.
I took comfort, and inspiration, from that thought.

Ruminations about childhood had led my thoughts in another direction, for childhood
was also a time of innocence and vulnerability. And what the child experienced, almost
invariably beyond its own control, would determine so much of what the adult became. I
wondered what type of rationality we as a species would achieve in our adulthood, having
passed through formative years so beset with bizarre fantasies, cruel inflictions, and a parade
of wretched demons.
But as I left David’s office, declining his offer to walk me to my car, my thoughts were
less on our collective fate than on that of one particular individual. I found myself tracing
my steps down the corridor in a different direction, to another office I had visited once
before. Through the frosted glass window I could see none but the natural light of late

290

afternoon and no movement, and my light knock drew no response. Sylvia was not on the
premises. Perhaps she had no courses to teach during the summer session, or perhaps they
were over for the day.
In the flurry of preparation for the trip to Philadelphia, I had neglected to try again to
reach her. Upon my return, and for the last three weeks, the weight of those mad events I
had been living through forestalled any renewed efforts at contact, though I realized she had
never been completely out of my mind. But it was also true that Sylvia herself had
apparently made no attempt to contact me, despite the assurance I had given her that I
wanted to help and to be kept informed. I still had no idea if she had followed my urging to
seek therapy for those devastating childhood experiences.
But had I done the right thing, leaving the initiative for that contact up to her? Through
the evening, one increasingly heavy with a July humidity under incoming clouds, the
question worried away at me.
The house was quiet and somber, as it had been, it seemed, since my return from
Philadelphia. Half-hearted attempts to draft ideas for a novel had filled some of that
melancholy time, but I was still not convinced that I had come up with the right approach.
What I needed was a format, a setting, which could somehow take into account the modern
effects of the fall of a 2000-year-old Jesus from his celestial firmament, not to mention his
very evaporation into thin air almost as soon as he hit the ground. I suddenly realized that
my novel would have to move between both worlds, the world of the first century when vital
new ideas were seizing people’s minds, when new movements were being launched into a
radically different future, and the world of the late 20th century, when the great momentum
of that ancient myth was finally running out of steam, to be swept away in new currents still
only partially discernible.
I would need motifs to link the two eras, to point up comparison and contrast. For
conflict, there would be no shortage of devices. As for the subtlest and most demanding of
any novel’s features, its characters: what would they be, and could they bridge the two
millennial gap? Might I be able to have them communicate on some level, interact to share
feelings, hopes and convictions across the great gulf of time and knowledge and human
sophistication? Or had evolution carried us so far in the last 2000 years that minds like
Paul’s could share nothing with minds like Patterson’s?
And yet we were all part of that mysterious stream of life and progress flowing in
directions unclear, for purposes unknown. Adulthood was surely reached when we could
finally cast our investigation of ourselves and our world in the light of such a momentous
and demanding realization. Who was to say that voices from the past could not still
contribute to the vast ongoing project? It would be interesting to see.
But not tonight.
As the long and listless evening progressed, I felt increasingly concerned, even anxious,
at the continuing silence which the image of Sylvia presented to me. Had I been wrong in
blithely assuming that she would take the initiative, that she would have the courage to reach
out to my proferred hand? I had, after all, rejected her advances. Her state of mind as a
cruel past made yet another overwhelming invasion back into her life would hardly be
conducive to reasonable behavior. I should have asked David that afternoon if he had had
any contact with Sylvia and how she seemed to be doing, even if that might risk betraying a
confidence.

291

No, what I should have done was take the initiative myself. She had suffered before from
people who had abandoned her and let her down; it was no surprise that she would fear
putting herself in the same situation once again. And my own silence had only confirmed it.
My ancient heirloom of a grandfather clock struck eleven. Something in me, some
unconscious perceptor, began to vibrate. Whether rationally or not, I suddenly felt that to
wait one more day, perhaps even one more hour, would somehow be disastrous.
I rummaged in the desk drawer where I remembered putting the paper with Sylvia’s
telephone number, now long weeks ago. After a moment of near panic, I uncovered it and
brought it with the phone to my reading chair in the living room. It crossed my mind that if
Paul had had a telephone, to harangue the Corinthians over the long distance wires, we
would have had no letters—and no way of understanding what early Christianity had really
been about. Tonight, however, I cared more that the evolution of the telephone had provided
a lifeline no letter could equal.
The old phone rested in my lap as I dialled the number. Eight rings went by, but I was
reluctant to break the connection and restore the ongoing silence. Outside, the dark night
seemed to sigh in sad resignation, when almost imperceptibly the receiver at the other end
was lifted. After a momentary pause which seemed like an eternity of stillness, a small
female voice said, “Hello.”
My own voice came out hushed and unsteady. “Sylvia? I know it’s late. But I’ve been
thinking about you. And—and a little worried. Did I wake you? It’s a muggy night, isn’t
it? Are you feeling OK? It’s Kevin—”
Good grief, let the woman speak, I admonished myself.
“Kevin?” The voice at the other end was still small, almost disoriented. “I—I’m
surprised to hear from you. Are you still in Philadelphia?” The question made no sense.
“Oh, no. I’m at home. No, I was only there for a few days.” I had never discussed the
impending hearing with her, though no doubt she had learned about it from David or
someone else in the Foundation. “How are you? Are you well?”
She seemed disconcerted by the question. “I—I’ve not been feeling all that well.
Perhaps some things are...just meant to be.”
There was a listless quality to her tone I found unsettling, a disjointedness.
“Have you—did you contact anyone, as I recommended?”
She hesitated. “Umm...I spoke to my doctor about it. I guess it was a week ago.” Had
she waited that long? It was not a good sign. “He hasn’t called me back yet, I don’t think.”
Another hesitation. “I’m not sure it would do much good to talk to anyone.”
“It always helps to talk to someone, Sylvia.”
There was a long pause. “Perhaps there are other ways.”
If anything, her voice was getting smaller, with a hint of tearfulness. I suddenly felt
alarmed.
“You know, it’s so muggy tonight,” I said, keeping my own voice calm and friendly.
“I’m sure there’ll be trouble sleeping. It occurred to me that if you’re not too tired yourself, I
could go over and we could chat some. A lot of pretty dramatic things happened in
Philadelphia, as I’m sure you’ve heard. It would be nice to talk to someone about them.
Those kinds of things weigh heavily on the mind, you know.”
An agitation came across the line. “I don’t—I don’t think I want you to come here,
Kevin. It’s, well—the place is not too tidy, actually.”

292

I had the feeling this was not the real reason. Perhaps her own apartment would hold the
wrong associations for her now, in view of my last visit.
But I was determined not to leave her to her own demons. “Then will you let me send a
cab for you? You could come and visit me here.” I decided to be more direct. “I have the
feeling you shouldn’t be alone, Sylvia. The truth is, I’m feeling alone about now, too, and I
think we could both benefit from each other’s company. What do you say?”
I could sense a complex of emotions in her voice. “I wouldn’t be interfering with
anything?”
“No, you wouldn’t. I can promise you that.”
There was a noticeable sigh. “All right. You’ll have to give me an hour. And I can call
my own cab.”
“If you’re not here in an hour and five minutes, I’ll come and get you myself.”

As it turned out, she had three minutes to spare. Though it was a warm, humid night, she
arrived at my door wrapped in a heavy shawl-like affair. She looked drawn and haunted, and
the whole effect of her appearance was like nothing so much as a lost waif. I did not believe
that David could have seen her recently, or else he would have remarked about her to me. I
gave her a little hug as I drew her inside.
July may not have been the usual month for even a late night hot chocolate, but I sensed
that Sylvia’s insides needed warming for other reasons than the weather, and she made no
objection when I proposed the hot milk drink. Coffee would have been too unsettling of the
nerves.
We made hesitant small talk as I prepared it in the kitchen, and I could feel a touch of
wariness in her. Occasionally she would glance around, as if she half expected Shauna
might suddenly appear. I felt awkward about bringing up the subject of my late lamented
relationship, and so I let it lie for the moment.
With steaming cups in hand, we went into the living room to my worn, comfortable sofa.
We sat side by side, near enough that I could show I had no aversion to being close to her,
yet giving her room to feel unpressured. The awkwardness of her movements was back in
evidence, I noted, though she had lost weight and now seemed almost slim. Her clothing
tonight was subdued and dark colored, yet I felt she had tried to give herself a touch of grace.
After a sip of the warm liquid I said, “I want to apologize for not getting in touch with
you sooner than I did, Sylvia. A lot of things were happening, but I did think of you often.”
Her eyes went wide over the rim of her cup. “Oh, you don’t have to apologize, Kevin.
That wasn’t your responsibility. As I recall, I was the one who promised to do the
telephoning.”
“Yes, but that was no reason for me not doing it.” I pivoted a little toward her. “Tonight
before I called, I had the strongest sensation. I don’t believe in psychic phenomena, but I did
feel that if I didn’t call you right away, something...something would have happened. And I
didn’t like the sound of your voice when we spoke.”
She cast her eyes down to her cup, now resting in her lap.
“Yes, I was thinking about it,” she said softly. “Maybe—maybe more than thinking.”
The large bright eyes were moist. “I don’t know that I can face dredging it all up. What if
whoever I tell it to rejects me, too?”

293

“That won’t happen, Sylvia. That’s your childhood fears and experiences talking.” After
a pause, I said, “And I didn’t reject you. There were just things in the way.”
She hastened to place a hand on mine. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean you. I understood.
Anyway, I was hardly behaving decorously. I don’t know what you must have thought of
me.”
“I thought a lot of things. Most of them good.”
She returned to her sad pensiveness, though she left her hand lightly on mine. “Perhaps
these things are just fated to be. Perhaps we have to accept them. Besides, I’m probably too
old to be helped. It was so long ago, now.”
I looked at her directly, and there was an intensity in my voice which surprised me.
“But it doesn’t feel like that, does it? It feels like only yesterday. Because we store these
things just below the surface where we can get at them at a moment’s notice, even though
we think we’ve buried them out of sight, out of reach. We keep them handy because part of
us knows that they have to be dealt with. At the first available opportunity, and we’d better
not have misplaced them.”
Sylvia searched my face, my eyes, for understanding. Perhaps it was time to bring my
own demons out into the light.
“I didn’t go through the sort of things you went through, Sylvia. No one violated my
body. But things can be done to the mind and the spirit that are almost as harmful. It’s
ironic—it’s really the great Fraud, actually—that while religions vaunt their principles of
love and respect, they’ve always implemented them through fear and coercion. They show
love and compassion to their fellow man by forcing him to believe as they do, or else
relegate him to outer darkness—or worse. They build up human pride and self-respect by
preaching guilt, that humanity is inherently evil, the body sinful, and none of us are worth
anything when measured beside the perfection of God. Priests spend far more time talking
about hell than about heaven—or at least they used to. These days it’s not always so
fashionable. They build character through indoctrination, by making you fear even to doubt
or question. They develop the ability to reason by imposing dogmas, even when those
dogmas are left in laughable shreds by modern science and rationality. They build their
ethical systems on the whims of a deity, or at least of those who would interpret such a thing
for us. Religion demands that we commit intellectual suicide, and it alienates us from our
own human needs and the world we live in.
“I grew up in a family and a community which swallowed the whole warped philosophy,
and I saw what it did to those around me. I saw what it was doing to myself before I finally
broke free—if I’ll ever accomplish that completely. A lot of people are still breaking free,
but there must be a deeply felt need for the old slavery, because the kind of religion that’s
flourishing today, and wants to drag us back into the past, is the mindless fundamentalism
that almost cost Burton Patterson his life, the kind that’s doing its damnedest to bring back a
repressive patriarchal system and turn our children into Bible-enslaved eunuchs. Who
would have thought that the medieval era would be hailed as a place of refuge as we
approach the third millenium?
“But we can’t let that happen. It’s been long enough. Some scholar recently said, ‘It’s
over,’ and he’s right. The bottom line is that religion, not just Christianity, doesn’t work and
it never has. Any of the good things about it can be just as effective, if not moreso, in a
different context—a humanistic one. It’s time to turn to something else.”

294

Sylvia’s usually mobile face was looking a little stunned by the bursting of my own dam.
“I had no idea you held such emotional views on things, Kevin. I guess we all have more in
common than we realize.”
I felt suddenly apologetic. “Forgive me for running on like that. I’m still trying to
resolve some of the pains and constrictions of my own youth.” I adopted a more solicitous
tone. “But I didn’t ask you over here to talk about my past, Sylvia. It’s yours that needs
dealing with—and it’s much more urgent. I meant what I said, that I would like to be there
for you.”
Her eyes softened and seemed once again to search my own for things unspoken. They
were as yet unsaid because I was still investigating them within myself. I had lost Shauna—
or perhaps had never had her—because of things unresolved, because of my search for
understanding in the past. But then, we lived in an unresolved world. No one insisted that
we had to suspend our lives and our commitments while seeking that resolution.
I looked at the sweet face, the forlorn but still vital figure before me, with its mind so
keen and sharing so many interests with my own. It was finally dawning on me that Sylvia
and I might both benefit from a loving relationship while we struggled to cast off our
respective demons, and I was beginning to suspect that I could indeed love this woman. She,
in turn, could find strength for the struggles ahead in an understanding partner, one who, in
his own way, had been there as well.
But all these thoughts lay still unvoiced, and so Sylvia could only ask tentatively, “What
about your lady friend?”
I smiled in my own tentative measure, for the ghost of Shauna might linger for a while.
“She’s not in the picture any more. These past few weeks have been an upheaval in more
ways than one. But she’s out of my life, and she won’t be coming back.”
Instead of relying entirely on words, such lame and often embarrassing little devices, I set
our two cups down on the end table beside me and took her hand in both of mine. In her
eyes there was a swirl of anticipation and apprehension, and I knew that if I was going to
offer myself to this woman I had better be ready to deliver. There had been enough betrayal,
enough self-flagellation in her life.
I stroked her hand as I said, “I don’t want you to go home tonight, Sylvia. We can take
things at whatever pace you feel comfortable with. We’re all on the road to recovery in one
way or another, but you more than most. Tomorrow we’ll light a fire under that doctor of
yours. But I want you to be able to feel confident about me. Let me into your life and I’ll let
you into mine, and we can both give to each other. And we’ll try to concentrate more on the
future than on the past. I happen to think there’s a pretty exciting future in the works, and
we can both be a part of it. David and the Foundation can use all the help we can give them.
What do you say?”
The glow on her face, the avid light in her eyes, told me all I needed to know. They
probably matched my own. Such things were worth dying for—or better still, living for.
She said in the softest of voices, “I will try, Kevin.”
In the darkest hour of the night, just before dawn, we made love. Perhaps the demons of
the past would always prowl nearby, watching and waiting, but if Sylvia could learn to
receive love as freely as she yearned to give it, those demons would forever flounder
impotently in the distance, denied their former seat, like Nielsen’s snare drum in the music
Patterson had described to us at the end of Philosophers’ Walk.

295

Afterwards, she cried, long and deeply.


I simply waited—and comforted. Yes, I had left out one item in my earlier diatribe
against the religious system, perhaps the most damning of them all. When the stakes were
on the scale of eternity, when bliss or damnation hung in the balance, an immense power
was placed in the hands of those who directed the tales from men’s mythical imaginations.
The fact that so often not even they, as representatives of such truths, could resist the abuse
of power, should have been enough to discredit the basis of the messages they offered.
Instead, like all things flourishing under the sun, we were all of us, minister and devotee
alike, groping our way out of the natural evils inherent in the richness and terror of
undirected life.
An image came to me, one of those vivid scenes with which Vardis Fisher had filled the
novels of his Testament of Man. This one came at the climax of the final, shattering book of
the series, My Holy Satan. The novel’s main theme was of the tyranny that people had
always tried to exercise over one another, and the greatest of these was the tyranny over the
mind.
In the previous novel, Peace Like a River, Fisher had marvelled bleakly at the tyranny
over the body which early Christian ascetics in the desert had willingly imposed upon
themselves, in their pathological fear of the allurements of the world and the evils of the
flesh. But when he came to examine the medieval Church’s Office of the Holy Inquisition,
he had to present a picture of the most highly institutionalized suppression of thought and
liberty in human history, the greatest exercise of tyranny over the mind of a pliant, fearful
society, purposely held in ignorance, in material and spiritual servitude. That it was all
conducted with the best of intentions, to save men’s and women’s souls for the next world,
was only the most chilling of its aspects. For the latter part of the book, the reader was
forced to descend with Fisher into the inquisitors’ dungeon, with its tortures and brutal
degradations, where all hope and initiative, human feeling and compassion were to be rooted
out in the quest to purify the soul from the paramount evil of incorrect belief, before its
saving execution.
What madness had led society to turn over such power to its ministers of eternal life and
death, to allow for such an obscene deprivation of human rights? Why could religion by its
very nature never be divorced from the obsessive need to suppress the thirst for knowledge,
the quest for human betterment, the upholding of the dignity of the individual and the
freedom of his or her mind—and body?
No religion had ever in the course of history shown itself to be free of this defect, exempt
from the great Fraud. And were Fisher to write a follow-up novel to portray the spirit of
religious fundamentalism today, Christian and non-Christian alike, he would no doubt point
to more of the same.
He would see it in the Vatican’s denial of human choice in procreation, of the need to
control the population and depletion of resources on a finite, fragile planet; in its voice
added to that of the other established and evangelical churches in their universal denial of
women’s rights to reproductive control of their bodies. He would see it in the Religious
Right’s ambitions for political power, their attempts to steer the nation’s legislation in the
direction of so-called Judaeo-Christian values, even to the institutionalization of biblical
law. In this they already had a modern precedent in the achievements of fundamentalist
Islamic societies.

296

Fisher would see it in the already successful undermining of science and human
knowledge in the schools, in the suppression of evolution and the attempt to propagate myth
and superstition. And he would see it in the horrifying scandals of physical and sexual abuse
of children, those innocents whom society had trustingly placed in ministerial hands,
scandals which were now erupting like blighted sores on a long concealed skin, as the cloak
of sanctity and privilege was at last being pulled away.
And Jesus? He was an institution in itself, still going strong, the figurehead for so much
of the nonsense and bitter folly the world had visited upon itself for the past two millennia.
Could he witness the deeds enacted and the ideas imposed in his name, I had no doubt he
would willingly opt for non-existence himself, to vanish into the lonely mists Fisher had cast
for him, so that none would remember.
Today, the solution was the same as it had always been, and it lay at the heart of My Holy
Satan, where Fisher had drawn his vast survey of the history of human intelligence and ideas
to a close—on a somber if hopeful note. The “holiness” was in courageous, independent
thought and free inquiry, which in the twisted logic of the medieval ecclesiastical mind lay
with the Church’s great opponent, Satan himself. In the hands of the Prince of Darkness had
the “wisdom of the world”, as opposed to those who knew the mind of God, always lain, and
for today’s fundamentalists it lay with Satan still. Perhaps for Fisher, in putting a seal on his
Testament just before 1960, not much had changed in principle between the claims of
religious authority in medieval times and the claims of the same authority in his own time—
just the ferocity of their application. And yet his work, though it faced squarely humanity’s
ignorance, cruelty and immaturity, nevertheless affirmed its great potential and the glory of
human strivings.
The unprecedent swing toward secularism coincided with the final decade of Fisher’s life,
as he and his books languished in censure and obscurity, one of the last to fall victim to the
sacred and privileged position which established religion still clung to amid its crumbling
walls. Perhaps it was time to bring this unique and audacious champion of questing
humanity back into the literary light. Could I bring my own novel to life, I would feel
privileged to keep such company.
But the year 2000 lay on the near horizon. And although it was an entirely arbitrary
division in the ongoing human saga, and—in the light of my own conclusions—a
meaningless one at that, perhaps the world would have the courage to seize the moment, and
the opportunity. There could surely be no turning back.
With Sylvia resting in an undisturbed sleep beside me, Patterson recovering in hospital
with Shauna’s help, David and our Foundation of reason easing promising tentacles into the
consciousness of a nation, I myself was filled with hope for a rewarding future, a future
luminous and proud.

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