Burial instructions for a woman in the early church community in Ephesus. It mentions two daughters, Elizabeth and Rebecca. The woman asks that the burial instructions be kept at the house of the Ephesus church’s Chief Elder. And get this: she says the instructions are to be kept with the account by Mark. Different handwriting at the end: ‘I sign this with my own hand. The Rabbi’s Daughter, M.’”
“Burial instructions? For a woman? That’s odd.”
“Obviously a woman of importance.”
“And together with the other scroll, you say.”
“Yes,” answered Tom. “The Greek characters of the last part are shaky. An old woman.”
“An important elderly woman in Ephesus.”
“Yes. I may be jumping to conclusions, but—oh, never mind.”“What?”
“The letter ‘M.’”
There was a long pause. At last he asked, “The dating is the same?”
“Yes.”
“But surely she died years before.”
“I know. She would have had to be seventy-five or older.”
“Tom, these two finds are incredible!”
“That’s why I want you to take a look. I’ll send the facsimiles by overnight express. We’re six hours ahead of you. If Logan Airport is open you should get the packet by tomorrow afternoon.”
“This is amazing! Possibly two monumental discoveries in first century documents!”
On the other end of the line, Tom laughed.
“You got it! I’m in Ankara for a couple of days. I’ll call you on Friday to make sure the package has arrived. Is that okay?”
“Sure. Try to get me around this same time. I have two medical appointments on Friday.”
“Will do. And Frank, one more thing. Thank you for all that you taught me.”
“My pleasure.”
“Bye now.”
“Bye.”
The elderly man’s hands were shaking from so much excitement that it took him three attempts before he could replace the handset in its cradle.
Outside his house the winter clouds shifted and suddenly bright morning sunlight shone through his living room windows. He sat in the chair for a long time, musing as he watched the sunbeam slowly move across the room.
A Gospel of Mark fragment or perhaps the full gospel from the first century! And possibly a note signed by Mary, Mother of Jesus!
One
The old woman’s gnarled fingers grasped at the weeds along the edge of her vegetable garden. She muttered to herself, as she always did, “Time for younger fingers to do this work.”
But she never asked for help. Weeding beneath a warm springtime sun was one of the few pleasures she had after the chill of winter.
She glanced toward the foot of the long garden. Yes, she could almost make out the form of old Lazarus sitting in the worn wooden chair that once had been her husband’s. Lazarus had sat there often before he went to Cyprus to escape rumored plots on his life. When the guardians rode up from the city to tell him he must go, he had laughed, a great hearty roar. But he had heeded their warnings in the end. He was proof, after all, of a second life that could not be denied.
“Mary, Mary,” he gently chided now in her remembrance of his ways. “If it is more burden than pleasure, my nephew from down the hill can help. Or one of the young maidens from The Community in Ephesus.”
He paused for a moment and then chuckled. “You would be doing the young maiden a favor. She would have such a tale to tell.” He paused and peered about to see if other ears were listening. “Helping the Rabbi’s Daughter.”
She sighed. Still, after all the years, the code name used for her that began the day she was hurried away by John, one of her son’s disciples, from the tragic carnival atmosphere on the hill. The terrible day of suffering and death with words of mockery flung about along with the cries of the hucksters and the vendors. The final sight as she looked back to her dying son was of the six men on horseback surveying the crowd, their calculating eyes watching for signs of resistance to the cruel execution. And one of the horsemen, the Chief Priest’s man, kept his eyes always on her.
“Don’t look back,” John had murmured as he pulled her forward. “Don’t look back.”
She shook her head to rid herself of the awful memory and concentrated on the next weed in the garden.
The vegetables were sustenance for her and her daughter through the autumn, and the garden flowers, placed in a large vase from Nazareth in her simple bedroom, brought memories of her early days. The garden in Cana, lovingly tended by her mother and herself. The garden where her life had changed abruptly.
“Mary,” called the Lazarus of her memory, his form growing dimmer as the sun rose. “You have a doleful countenance today.”
Yes, she did. Yesterday the message had come from the head of The Community in Ephesus that she was to have a visit today with two travelers returning from the North on their way to Antioch. They were on a special mission from Simon Peter that involved her son. What could it be? Simon Peter had been crucified in Rome a year ago. On the tenth anniversary of Nero’s accession to Emperor.
Two
Adam and Benjamin came running up the hill as only young children can run. “Grandmother, Grandmother, men are coming!”
She rose from the garden and called to Elizabeth inside the house. “Our visitors are arriving.”
Elizabeth appeared at the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Yes, yes, Mama. All is prepared.”
The two youngsters circled Mary, excited with their news.
“Papa is keeping their horses by the gate to give us time to come tell you.” Benjamin exclaimed.
“There are three of them,” stated Adam.
“Two are simply dressed,” continued Benjamin.
“The other has a fine cloak,” shouted Adam.
“And a sword this long!” Benjamin stretched his arms out wide.
Mary peered down the path. “They’re walking up. I’ll go wash my hands and put on my apron. Now, calm down, you two.”
She made her way toward her small house as the boys ran back down the path to greet the three men.
Mary, wearing a new apron, was standing outside the door alongside Elizabeth as the trio approached. The two plainly dressed men stopped into the clearing and bowed to Mary. The swordsman wore a military cloak. He gave Elizabeth a smile and a nod. His eyes turned to survey the area surrounding the cottage.
“Shalom,” said the younger of the two men. He then addressed Mary in the old tongue.
“Mistress, we are grateful for your kindness in receiving us. Shall we speak in the old language or in Greek?”
She realized she was staring at the other man. He closely resembled her second son, James, who had died in Jerusalem five years before.
She responded in Greek to the older man. “Forgive my rudeness. You bear the likeness of one of my sons.”
“I am honored. I knew your son James in the early days. I regret his death.”
He bowed. “I am Barnabas.” He gestured to his companion. “Mark. I am his cousin and scribe.” His cousin bowed again. “And our watchful guardian from the Chief Elder’s household is Felix.”