Embedded. Marc Knutson
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our sources at the Jerusalem Journal tell us that you are raising the hackles of King Herod again with your political remarks, please be careful. You remember the old adage about Herod’s reputation, “It’s better to be one of Herod’s pigs than it is to be one of his son’s.” Be careful not to rile him too much, he is a crazy one — quite unpredictable also. We need you; we need you in one piece and in good health. Good luck Steve, have fun with this and be safe!
Then I turned my thoughts to the formal assignment:
Special Assignment Notice
To: Steve Stanton, Jerusalem Bureau
From: Roger Darby, Chief Publisher
Mr. Stanton, word has it that there is quite a fuss about a Jewish messiah. It appears that much of the Judean countryside is exploding with the word that their messiah is alive and living in Judea today and walking around - somewhere. We are not sure how long this has been going on, where this ‘messiah’ lives or even exists, nor are we sure that this really is a messiah. If you establish that these rumors have merit, find out where he is, and what he is up to, get permission to tag along with him. Find out what he’s up to, where he’s headed and what is causing such a stir in Judea. See if he or his staff, if he is so organized, will allow you to embed yourself with him and his troupe, then file reports with us along the way.
We are taking a serious look at this. If it pans out to be a story, we intend on running it as you feed us data. It may become serialized. Bottom line: Just find out what is going on there and get back to us. Snoop around, uncover the truth, roll away stones, do what you have to do to get the story, but, be warned Steve, if our publication is perceived by the readership as being accomplices to, or found to be perpetuating any ancient myths, then we will pull the plug on the story. We don’t want to be seen by our readers as supportive of ancient lore or myths. Simply investigate and report the impact and its apparent affects on the profundity of the people of Judea. Watch out for Herod. He’s not to be messed with. Neither the publishers of the Gazette, nor the heads of state want to rankle Herod’s hackles.
Roger
It wasn’t a matter of where do I go with this one, but, where do I start? I love goals, especially ones that are just slightly out of my reach, but even as an award winner for my accounts of the Battle of Actium, this is already developing into a task that was going to tax all my award-winning capabilities.
Dabbing residual water from my hair, I could sense that my mental gears were beginning to swing into motion. Then it hit me. If anyone would know what this means it would certainly be Kahan, the maître’d in the hotel dining room. He always seems to have an uncanny insight with what’s going on in Jerusalem and the country in general. His reputation is well known throughout town. Need info; “Ask Kahan.”
Winding my way down the spiraled staircase to the dining room, I flipped through my notepad reviewing the questions that I had jotted down to ask Kahan. It seemed that one question would generate another three. By the time my notes of questions flowed over to page four, it was beginning to look like logic flow on a matrix chart. “If yes, then go to . . .” “If no then go to . . .”
Historically speaking, I have always been aware that for centuries the Jewish writings in their Holy books of the Torah, spoke of a coming messiah. Apparently, this savior was to be sent by God to be an entreaty between God and a sinful human kind. According to their holy writ, man had fallen from the graces of God, allegedly as far back in human history as the Garden of Eden.
However, to many, that seemed like some sort of excuse for modern man’s awful behavior. Sinful deeds done of man perpetuated upon other men, all with an alibi of some devilish influence, and some so-called “forbidden” fruit, an apple that Eve was supposedly to have eaten in the garden. Then, as the fable goes, an angry God shakes his fist at them and kicks them out of the Garden because they violated one of His “do-not’s”, and they get a godly eviction notice. As a result, the balance of humanity gets to pay for their misdeeds, and suffer God’s wrath forever. Does the human race have to pay for the sins of the original parents?
Therefore, to overcome this misstep on the garden path, man has created a mythical way to bridge the canyon of separation, the so-called division between God the creator, smug and prideful on one side, and man the creation, flippant and arrogant on the other side. Both with arms folded across their chests, God turning his back, saying that he can’t look upon his evil creation. Then man, snubbing his nose at a God, who would so capriciously create something then toss it aside, defiantly states that he doesn’t need a God anyway. However, as the fable goes, the plan was that God wasn’t going to allow man to flounder like that, straying aimlessly through history without hope of a greater outcome; in the form of some sort of “after-life,” where man and God can be rejoined in harmony.
Heaven is to be where man is lovingly grateful to God for his graciousness, and God, in return, gushing over repentant man who had apologized for his folly, and together they would stride through the universe happily ever after. The bridge to accomplish all that was to be a coming one, a messiah that would fill in the chasm between God and man, created by that ancient garden party apple strudel incident.
Meanwhile, all women of the Jewish faith were indoctrinated into believing that God would provide this all-encompassing savior from their very wombs. In addition, for many centuries, each woman would pray for and hold out hope that they could be the “lucky lady,” the chosen maiden, to provide the incubator for such a messiah. They could win the heavenly lottery, receive the golden touch from God, and announce to any one of them, that at any given time, typically at God’s choosing, the winner. I smiled as I retraced the story. God was going to use a manufactured item, such as a human, to save man from God’s own wrath of judgment and eternity in some oven box. I believe some would call that irony; I wasn’t quite sure what to call it. Is it mythical? Folklore? Or, ancient man’s way to appease himself with an artificial God?
Two more right turns down the stairs and I will be at the dining hall entrance. Already I could smell whiffs of breakfast foods wafting up the staircase. My mind was beginning to go into multitasking mode; smelling food aromas that were stimulating my saliva glands and poring over questions at the same time. Almost as if on cue, my left knee buckled slightly on its downward path to the next step. I felt the conspiracy developing. My mind was feigning exhaustion by virtue of being over taxed with aromatic smells, mingled with work, and the cooperative body parts that joined the conspiracy to weaken at opportune moments, causing me to focus on satisfying my human lust for food. Oh, geesh, now I have to fight the internal struggles of filling my gut with food, or laying out a logic trail to unravel this myth. For a fleeting instant, I wondered if this is part of what the apple incident created.
Stepping off the staircase landing, the panoramic view of the hotel dining and lobby area filled my eyes with instant colors and ostentatious opulence. I love this hotel.
Faithfully staffing the podium, Kahan was at his assigned post. Any patron could count on Kahan, diligent, suave and always the diplomat. Those qualities have earned him high honors and, knowing him, probably big tips.
As I approached, he seemed to have caught movement with his peripheral vision and looked up to see me coming toward him. His huge mustachioed face became animated as he offered his hand.
“Mr. Stanton, good very morning to you.” His English still needed a little work, but he was learning. I considered him one of my best students, albeit, not a full time one. I only really saw him at mealtimes, but the time that I have invested in him was paying off as he has become quite fluent in English. Even though his thick middle-Eastern accent caused many of the English words he spoke to sound so dramatic, his debonair appearance in his snappy tuxedo, and his “Always happy to see you” look on his face made up for what was lacking in verbal eloquence.
“That’s ‘very good’ morning Kahan.” I corrected, “A ‘very good’ morning to you Mr. Kahan,” I returned his greeting with the correct phrase.
His hands immediately went into the air and fell back along the sides of his face. Holding his face in his hands he playfully repeated his morning greeting with a sheepish tone, “A very good morning to you Mr. Stanton. I did