Project J (7 page)

Chapter 12:
 
Meeting the Son of Man

“Now you have to understand a few things,” Dr. Fielding told the group.
 
“Most importantly, do not tell him anything about the Christian church as it exists today.
 
We have kept much of history from him.
 
We wished to learn about him and his time.
 
It is the opinion of Dr. Myers, as well as ourselves, that the impact of his learning how much has been done in his name would be a dangerous mental strain on him.
 
He is still undergoing culture shock of being in our time.
 
In fact, he doesn’t even know how much time has passed since his death. “

Juliette cut in with, “Some things we have had to explain.
 
How we managed to get him here, for example.
 
Which he accepts as magic.
 
I’m sure he has no real concept of how much the world has changed.
 
One time he saw an airliner pass high overhead, so we had to explain to him about airplanes.
 
He was shocked that men could fly in the sky.”

“I am going to introduce you to him as friends of Dr. Myers, who he knows as Seymour and accepts that he is a learned rabbi.
 
Dr. Myers is Jewish, but not actually a rabbi.
 
There is no real concept for a college professor in Jesus’ experience, and rabbi fitted best.

“Oh, and, by the way, you should address him as ‘rabbi’ also.
 
In his time, he acted much like a rabbi.
 
He taught the rules of Judaism: the Torah.
 
And, according to Dr. Myers, he was what we would call a radical preacher: his views differed from those of the established priesthood.
 
But I’ll let you talk with Dr. Myers later.
 
Right now, don’t ask questions.
 
It’s not an interrogation session.
 
You may shake hands with him, that is a universal gesture showing that you hold no weapon in your hand.”

Again Juliette added to the rules.
 
“I don’t know your religious backgrounds, but please do not look like you’re worshiping him.
 
Be respectful, he expects that, but don’t treat him like the Pope or some deity.”

“Remember,” Fielding added firmly, “this is not THE Jesus.
 
Only an exact copy of him.”

At that point, another man entered the room.
 
He was walking carefully, leaning on a cane made of hand-carved wood with a leaf pattern.
 
He was nearly bald but had a full beard, although heavily gray.
 
His face was lined with a slight squinting look like someone who had spent most of his life looking at books.
 
Before Dr. Fielding could do so, he introduced himself.

“I am Dr. Myers but you may call me Seymour.”
 
He held out his free hand to Tamara first.
 
“Dr. Stryker, I don’t believe we’ve actually met.
 
And this young lady must be Tamara Graves from the DOD or some government agency.”

“Correct... Seymour,” Tamara said, returning his smile.

“I understand you wish to meet our distinguished guest,” he said with a smile.

“I told them you would introduce them as friends of yours,” Fielding told him.
 
“It will be a short introduction, nothing more.”
 
The latter was directed at the others, even though he was looking at Dr. Myers.

Myers nodded.
 
“That will be good.
 
He has been wishing to meet more people as he heals.”

“Heals?” asked Stryker.
 
“From what?”

Myers turned to Fielding. “You did not tell them?”

“We told them.”

“You mean the wounds from the cross?” asked Tamara.

“Of course.
 
And more.
 
He hung there for about four hours,” Juliette explained.
 
“He was also stabbed in the side with a spear, one of those crude Roman ones.
 
The loss of blood was the first problem we had to work on.
 
And the shock of nearly dying up there.”

Again going into lecture mode, she continued, “There were also the lacerations on his back.
 
He was flogged, you know.
 
He was a weakened man when he was put up there.
 
The doctor who treated him told us that he was very close to dying when we ‘grabbed’ him.
 
Not in good shape at all.”

“I’m sure you’re anxious to meet our guest,” Fielding cut in.
 
“Later, we can talk about the procedures and what we’ve learned so far.
 
If you’ll come right this way.”

He turned to open a door but halted and turned back.
 
“One other thing.
 
Do not say anything about God or the issue of Jesus’ divinity.”

Dr. Myers immediately added, “You have to understand that his concept of God and yours are probably very, very different.
 
He was a devout apocalyptic Jew living in an age totally different from ours.”

Stryker looked as if he was about to object somehow, but he kept his mouth shut.
 
Tamara had a fair idea what Myers was saying.
 
She had been very interested in religions as a teen, and studied them more than the average person.
 
Early Christianity in particular had fascinated her.

“Shall we go?” said Fielding with his hand on the door.

Without waiting for replies, he opened the door and walked through, leaving them to follow.

They were outdoors.
 
It was late afternoon and the sun was just above the top of the western wall, casting a shadow that covered the whole courtyard.
 
There was some patio furniture, a table and chairs, and a barbeque.
 
There was also, near the chairs, a brick lined circle only a foot or so high.
 
Inside were black lava rocks.
 
A fire pit.
 
Around the courtyard were a dozen palm trees.

Fielding gestured for them to pause while Dr. Myers went ahead of them.
 
This gave them a little time to take in the man sitting in the chair only twenty feet distant.

He was not at all the image of what Jesus should look like.
 
Every depiction of him had him as a tall man with a gentle, kindly face, a well-trimmed beard and long, graceful hair.
 
This man was hardly kind looking, and his beard could definitely use a trim, giving the impression that he would not allow scissors to touch it.
 
He was dressed in blue slacks, sandals on bare feet, and a dark blue sweatshirt with UCLA in bold letters across the front.
 
Upon hearing voices, his eyes opened and he turned to take in the visitors.
 
When he saw that two of them were new to him, he sat up a little straighter.
 
His eyes were turned towards Tamara as they walked up.

“
Shelama
, rabbi,” Myers said.
 
Then, in Aramaic, “I have brought a couple of friends who wish to meet you.”
 
He gestured them forward.
 
Stryker looked confused, as if he had trouble grasping the situation.
 
Tamara smiled, and tried to tell herself that this was nothing special, just meeting a man.
 
No need to act or say anything different than she would meeting any other man.
 
Certainly no reason for her legs to feel weak and her stomach tense.

“This is my friend Brian,” Myers said, waving his hand at the Project Director.
 
He spoke in Aramaic with only the name coming through clearly.
 
He did not try to explain the man’s position.
 
Jesus would have trouble understand what a Project Director was.

“And this is Tamara, a friend.”

Jesus slowly got to his feet.
 
Up close, the bandages around his wrists were obvious, sticking out of the sweatshirt’s sleeve.
 
There were also almost healed scars on his forehead.
 
It appeared that just standing was somewhat painful for him.

The nails through the feet, she thought.
 
It’s a wonder he can stand at all.
 
Then, looking down, she realized that she could see no wounds nor any bandages on his feet.
 
She was certain, however, that under the overly large sweatshirt, his back would be horribly scarred.
 
The old Romans were noted for whipping prisoners with leather whips that had pieces of rock or metal woven into them to cut the flesh.
 
From her studies, she knew that he had been flogged by the Romans before he was crucified.

Stryker stepped forward and offered his hand.
 
There was the “welcome” smile of a politician on his face, one that held no real warmth.
 
It was obvious from his reaction that the handshake was painful for Jesus.
 
It had to be, with nail holes healing in the wrists, Tamara though with a wince.
 
Stryker could have been a little more considerate.

Tamara came up and offered her hand but only gently touched his, not a real shake.
 
His eyes were a pale brown up close, with lines radiating outward.
 
This is someone, she thought, who spent a lot of time squinting at the sun without the aid of sunglasses.
 
He smiled at her, and she felt some of his animal magnetism come across.
 
This was definitely not a meek and mild little man, even though the top of his head came only to her nose.
 
This was a man who could attract loyal followers and influence crowds of people.
 
She felt it.

“I am very happy to meet you, Rabbi Jesus,” she said.

He spoke a few words that she did not understand at all.
 
His voice was soft, but she had the feeling it could rise to a thunderous roar when needed.

“He says that you are the most beautiful woman he has ever seen,” Myers told her with a smile.
 
“He has met very few women since awakening, but you are, indeed, the prettiest.”

Tamara felt like this was something in a surreal movie.
 
Here was Jesus telling her she was beautiful.
 
And she had actually touched his hand.

Then a thousand questions filled her head, demanding to be let out, and had to be forced down.
 
Maybe later.
 
She bowed her head slightly in thanks.
 
It was hard not to just stand there and stare.

Myers spoke a few words in Aramaic.
 
“I’ve told him that you two have to be going.
 
Have to be someplace else, but had wanted to meet him.”

Stryker turned and left, but cast several glances back over his shoulder.
 
Tamara, on the other hand, asked, “Please tell him that it is a pleasure to meet him.
 
And I hope to do so again soon.”

Myers spoke the words.
 
Jesus smiled slightly and a transformation came over his face.
 
The worn, tired, pained man was gone, and a caring, even loving man took its place.
 
He said something to her.

“He says it is a shame you have to go.
 
And he does very much want to meet you again.
 
He finds your earrings fascinating.”

Only then was Tamara aware that she was wearing cubic zirconium earrings that looked like three or four karats worth of diamond sparkling in the sunlight.
 
She felt herself blushing for no reason.
 
Again she nodded to him by way of a bow, and turned to leave.

He must think I’m terribly wealthy, she thought as she retraced her steps towards the door.
 
Maybe that’s not good, she added.
 
Didn’t he say something about it being easier to get a camel through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter heaven?

Chapter 13:
 
Isa Comes

“This I cannot believe,” said Abdul Rahman Munif, waving a sheet of paper around.

“The Catholic Church believes it,” replied Khurram Murad dryly.

The scene was an office located on the outskirts of Cairo.
 
It looked like a student’s dorm room with books scattered around, newspapers piled in the corner and a laptop computer to go along with pizza boxes and empty cola cans.
 
Both men were in their later twenties, bearded but neatly trimmed, dressed like casual college students.
 
Through an open window came hot, humid air and the sounds of a mass of upraised voices from not far off.

“Can these American’s actually do this?
 
Bring back
Isa lbn Maryam
, a Messenger of Allah?
 
Today?
 
With a time machine?”

“There is a man working in that project who fed the information to a bishop of the Catholic Church.
 
He felt they should know.
 
Our spy in the Vatican intercepted the communiqué and sent it to me.
 
He says that the Church is taking this report seriously.”

Munif sat down in an old desk chair, keeping the paper in front of him and his eyes upon it.
 
“And what does this Jesus say?
 
What is he telling the Americans?”

“I do not know.”

“And what should we do about it?
 
What will happen when this is announced to the world?”
 
Munif shook his head and put the paper down.
 
“No, this must be a fake.
 
A trick of some kind.
 
Jesus?
 
Alive today?”

Murad reached across the desk to take the sheet of paper.
 
It held only a few lines of computer printout but had shaken these two Muslims badly.

Murad, always the more religious of the two, said quietly, “Maybe this is the work of Allah.
 
Is it not written:
‘It is definitely close in that time that Isa, Son of Maryam descends amongst you as a just ruler.
 
He will break the cross, kill the swine and abolish jaziya.
 
And money will abound in such access that no one will accept it’
?

“His second coming will be one of the signs of the End of Days.
 
Perhaps that sign is now.”

Munif stared at Murad, open-mouthed.
 
The room was quiet for a long time, save for the distant murmur of voices raised in protest from the daily demonstration.

“Allah is merciful,” Munif finally said.
 
“But what if this is not the sign?
 
Not the End of Days?
 
What if this is a trick by these Americans?
 
Then we will have to do something.”

“What if it is not a trick?” Murad said softly.