on Joseph of Arimathea using the most convenient and relevant handbook available.” He held up a book.
Razak’s eyes bored into the copy of the New Testament he held. “More legend,” he said cynically.
Knowing that the New Testament would be a touchy matter, Barton expected this reaction. Any discussion of Jesus had to recognize that Muslims revered him as one in a long series of human prophets that included Abraham, Moses, and Allah’s final servant, Muhammad. Under no circumstances would Islam accept any man or prophet as an equal to God himself. It was this pillar of Islamic faith that to Muslims rendered the Christian concept of the Trinity absolute blasphemy, creating the most significant rift between the two faiths. And this book was considered by Muslims as a gross misinterpretation of Jesus’s life.
Ignoring the jab, Barton forged on, “Of the twenty-seven books in the New Testament, four give detailed historical accounts of the prophet Jesus: Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. Each specifically mentions Joseph of Arimathea.” Barton flipped open the Bible to a section marked by a Post-It note, trying his best to steady his now trembling fingers. What he was about to propose was amazing. He leaned closer across the table. “All four accounts essentially say the same thing, so I’ll just read this first excerpt from Matthew twenty-seven, verse fifty- seven.” Then he slowly read the passage:
As evening approached, there came a rich man from Arimathea, named Joseph, who had himself become a disciple of Jesus. Going to Pilate, he asked for Jesus’s body, and Pilate ordered that it be given to him. Joseph took the body, wrapped it in a clean linen cloth, and placed it in his own new tomb that he had cut out of the rock. He rolled a big stone in front of the entrance to the tomb and went away.
Barton raised his eyes from the pages. “I’ll read that one sentence again. ‘Joseph took the body, wrapped it in a clean linen cloth, and placed it in his own new tomb that he had cut out of the rock.’ ”
Razak’s mouth gaped open. “Surely you don’t think—”
The waiter suddenly appeared and Razak stopped mid-sentence, waiting for the young man to set down the plates and leave before continuing.
Razak took a deep breath. “I see where you’re going with this, Graham. It is a very dangerous theory indeed.” He took some bread and scooped hummus onto his plate. It smelled spectacular.
“Please hear me out,” Barton continued softly. “We have to at least entertain the idea that the thieves may have truly believed that the missing ossuary contained the remains of Jesus. And this scroll we found in the ninth ossuary clearly references the messiah. It’s far too precise to ignore.”
As he explained this to Razak, Barton was beginning to feel the full weight of Father Demetrios’s subtle warning. The words on this scroll could potentially undermine traditional commemoration of Christ’s mysterious benefactor, because the loculi deep beneath the Church of the Holy Sepulchre were believed to have belonged to Joseph.
Razak stared at the archaeologist. “You should eat your bread while it’s hot.”
“Look. I’m not saying I believe all this.” Barton tore off some bread and spooned some hummus onto his plate. “I’m simply suggesting a motive. If we’re dealing with a fanatic who believed all this to be true, it would make that missing ossuary the ultimate relic.”
Razak finished chewing, swallowed, and said, “I’m sure you’ll understand that I can’t possibly accept the idea that this missing ossuary contained Jesus’s body. Remember Mr. Barton, unlike the misguided men who wrote that book,” he pointed at the Bible, “the Qur’an speaks the literal words of Allah using the great prophet Muhammad— peace be upon him—as his messenger. As Muslims we’ve been told the truth. Jesus was spared the cross. Allah protected him from those who sought to bring him harm. He didn’t die a mortal death but was reclaimed by Allah and ascended to Heaven.” He raised his eyes skyward. “And remember, the men to whom I am accountable will react much worse than me. They won’t hear of such ideas.” He dipped his bread in hummus and popped it into his mouth. “Besides, don’t the Christians claim Jesus rose from the dead and ascended into heaven? Isn’t that what the Easter holiday is all about?”
“Absolutely,” Barton said.
Chewing, Razak looked at him quizzically.
Barton grinned. “The Bible says a lot of things,” he admitted. “But the gospels were drafted decades after Jesus’s ministry, following a long period of oral tradition. I don’t need to tell you how that can affect the integrity of what we read today. Since Jesus’s disciples were themselves Jews, they incorporated a midrashic storytelling style, which, quite frankly, focuses more on meaning and understanding—often at the expense of historical accuracy. I might also point out that ancient interpretations of resurrection had much more to do with a spiritual transformation than a physical one.”
Razak shook his head. “I don’t understand how anyone could believe those stories.”
“Well,” Barton carefully countered, “you need to keep in mind that the target audience for the gospels were pagan converts. Those people believed in divine gods who died tragically and resurrected gloriously. Life, death, then rebirth was a theme common to many pagan gods including Osiris, Adonis, and Mithras. Early Christian leaders, particularly Paul of Tarsus— a Hellenistic, philosophical Jew—knew Jesus needed to fit these criteria. He was selling this new religion in a very competitive environment. We can’t discount the idea that he embellished the story. And of twenty-seven books in the New Testament, he alone is thought to have written fourteen of them. Quite influential, I think you’d agree. It’s prudent, therefore, for us to put these accounts into their proper historical and human context.”
Razak eyed him approvingly. “You’re a very complex man Graham. Your wife must enjoy you very much,” he said, half sarcastic. He pointed to the gold wedding band on the archaeologist’s right hand.
“If you think I’ve got a lot to say, you should hear her. Jenny is a barrister.”
“A lawyer?” Razak’s eyebrows raised up. “A professional debater. I’d hate to see the two of you fight.”
“Luckily that’s an infrequent occurrence.” The truth was, outside the courtroom she was anything but a contender. Lately, they’d been drifting apart across an ever-widening sea of silence.
“Do you have any children?”
“A son, John, twenty-one. Good-looking lad, with more brains than both his parents put together. Attends university at my alma mater in Cambridge. We also have a lovely daughter, Josephine, twenty-five years old. She lives in the States, in Boston. She’s a lawyer, like her mum. And you? Wife and children?”
Razak smiled shyly and shook his head. “Unfortunately Allah has not granted me a suitable wife as of yet.”
Barton thought he detected something in the Muslim’s eyes. Pain? “Maybe it’s not Allah’s will, but because you’re stubborn,” Barton said.
