The Lost Epistle of Jesus
Prologue
Qumran at the Dead Sea
August 2, 1997
THE FOOTSTEPS were getting closer. Terrified, Karim Ahmed Abbas scurried into a cave on the stony hillside. He feared that the footsteps belonged to Palestinian militants determined to find and punish him. With one hand he held a papyrus scroll; with the other he felt his way into the cave’s inner reaches, his heart beating in his throat, sweat stinging his eyes.
Despite his panic, Karim had no regrets about fleeing Bethlehem. About refusing to blow himself up as a "shahid" in the Intifada against Israel. The suicide attack in the Mahane Yehuda market in Jerusalem three days earlier had compelled him to run away. He could no longer condone the murder of innocent people, nor could he tolerate the constant pressure to become a shahid.
He wiped the sweat away and shortened his steps, stumbling across the rocky ground, his jeans and T-shirt covered with dust, his body reeking from two days without a bath. A family of bats flew out, sending him diving for cover. He felt his insides lurch as he began to crawl, careful not to touch the rough stone walls and the scorpions that patrolled them. Under his breath he cursed the Israeli occupiers for forcing his family to live in poverty and despair. Then he cursed the Imams and Mullahs for convincing young men like him to die as shahids. Karim’s cursing continued over the remaining ten feet until he reached the back of the cave. Then he sat and listened for voices, fingering the scroll.
The papyrus was in good condition, the result of being wrapped in linen and buried in a sealed pottery jar. He had unfurled the scroll to find a long document that looked like a letter, written in a steady hand and signed boldly at the end. The writing reminded him of Hebrew, square in appearance and read from right to left, but less cluttered somehow, with fewer dots. The papyrus was soiled in places and somewhat brittle, which meant it must be ancient. He planned to take it to the Balad marketplace in Amman, Jordan, to sell to the highest-bidding antiquities dealer. His heart leapt with excitement. Finding the scroll was a sign of Allah’s favor!
Like the Bedouin shepherds who had discovered the Dead Sea Scrolls in these caves, Karim had stumbled upon his treasure unexpectedly. When he had arrived yesterday, the sun was turning the barren cliffs from dull beige to glorious gold. A mist was rising off the Dead Sea, creating a salt smell so pungent it burned his lungs. He had planned to hide out in a cave overnight and then continue his flight to Amman. As he lay on the dusty floor, a hard object pressed against his back. He thought it was a stone and tried to brush it aside, but it wouldn’t move. He began to dig with his hands and, to his amazement, he unearthed a tall pottery jar sealed with cork. When morning came, he opened the jar and discovered the linen-wrapped scroll.He fingered the scroll again, reassuring himself that it was real, that selling it would give him a new life in Amman or even Petra, far from the despair of his squalid neighborhood in Bethlehem. The despair came back as he remembered the words of a music video broadcast on Palestinian TV: "How sweet is the fragrance of the shahids, how sweet is the scent of the earth, its thirst quenched by the gush of blood, flowing from the youthful body."
Karim refused to die as a suicide bomber. Not for Palestinian freedom. Not for Yasser Arafat. Not for Allah. Not for anyone. It wasn’t that he was afraid. It was that his mother had taught him a different version of Islam, the true Islam, which condemned both suicide and the murder of innocent people. He had read in the Qur’an, "Do not throw yourselves to destruction with your own hands," and had memorized a powerful "hadith" of the Prophet Muhammad: "If people do good to you, do good to them; and if they mistreat you, still refrain from being unjust."
Besides, he knew that true Islam honors Jews, as well as Muslims, as children of Abraham. The thought of murdering sixteen of his brothers and sisters and injuring one-hundred and seventy-eight, as two shahids had in the Mahane Yehuda market, repulsed Karim. And he didn’t want to die—he had too much to live for. His tongue went dry and his throat ached as he thought of Samya, the girl in Bethlehem who had become his secret love. She was more precious to him than the seventy-two virgins that supposedly awaited shahids in heaven. How he longed for her. How he yearned to make a new home in Amman and send for her.
The footsteps were growing louder. He ducked behind a section of stone that jutted out from the wall. Then he searched the floor with a hand until he found a sharp rock that fit into his palm. He remained still, vowing to fight if necessary. Please, God, don’t let them find me! He believed that Allah answered prayers and would protect him, as Allah had protected the prophet Muhammad and Ishmael and Hagar in the desert.
Flashlight beams darted into the cave. Voices murmured. Karim squeezed the rock, ready to hurl it with savage precision, as he and his friends did at Israeli soldiers in Bethlehem. The voices got louder, the light flashes closer to him. As he held his breath and waited, his blood ran colder than a desert night.
Then he noticed that the voices were speaking several languages, not just Arabic or Hebrew. The intruders couldn’t be Palestinian militants nor Israeli soldiers. He exhaled quietly in relief. They were probably tourists or researchers of some sort. Still, he gripped the rock, prepared to fight to the death.
Then he heard the intruders begin to leave. When they were all gone, Karim dropped the rock, tiptoed to the front of the cave, and sat near the entrance. As he waited for the footsteps and voices to fade, he found himself wondering about the scroll. Who had written the letter? What did it say? Who had buried it? The questions were impossible to answer, but thinking about the people who were determined to save the letter for future generations gave him strength. Whoever the people were, he was sure their story would inspire all who heard it...