A week later, something happened that shocked not only Jon and Shannon, but much of the Western world as well. It was a very pleasant shock. Sheikh Abbas al-Rashid—probably the most influential Muslim theologian in the world—came down on Jon’s side. Al-Rashid was the grand sheikh and imam at al-Azhar Mosque and University in Cairo, the number one Islamic theological school and the oldest university in the world. Before giving the commencement address at al-Azhar, he had alerted Al Jazeera, as well as network reporters and stringers from other nations, that they might find his remarks rather more newsworthy than was usually the case for commencement addresses.
This was enough to attract a small army of media sorts, all festooned with cameras of every description, to cover the occasion. Thousands of miles away in Weston, Massachusetts, Jon and Shannon joined the international audience in watching the televised address, which was titled “Freedom for Truth.” Al-Rashid opened by telling of an observer that the Sung dynasty in China dispatched in the year 987 to survey life in the West. When he returned home, the observer reported that the Roman Empire had fallen and been replaced by two great civilizations in the West: one was Byzantine, the other Islamic. The latter, however, was far superior to the former. Then, as an afterthought, he also told of a third—that of the Frankish kingdoms in Europe. “But they are sunk in barbarism,” he concluded.
Al-Rashid continued—in Arabic, of course, but with simultaneous translations. “The observer from the Sung dynasty was absolutely correct. Today, all scholars, both East and West, agree that Islam was the foremost culture in the entire world during the tenth through twelfth centuries. Our cities had the first universities, the first hospitals, the first public libraries, even the first fire departments. We were at the forefront of all branches of human knowledge: astronomy, physics—all the sciences, in fact—mathematics, medicine, literature . . . The list is endless. We preserved manuscripts of the ancient Greek and Roman philosophers that were lost in the West. Their scholars learned from us.
“Yet this is not the case today. Some even regard Islamic nations as ‘backward’ and in need of foreign help. What happened? The reasons are many, but perhaps two dominate the others. One, we were brutalized by the Mongol invasion when Baghdad, the center of the Islamic world, fell in 1258. But the second reason, I think, is even more significant: our academic freedoms were curtailed from that time on. In later centuries, our most creative minds were constrained by intellectual blinders, fresh ideas were suspect, and our scholars were no longer at liberty to pursue truth for its own sake. Islam and the teachings of the Prophet—may Allah’s peace and blessing be upon him—were by no means responsible for this, but narrow minds that claimed to speak for Islam were.”
Al-Rashid went on to cite passages from the Qur’an that stressed the importance of free inquiry and tolerance, such as Sura 2:256—“In religion, there is no compulsion”—and how later on, stringent mullahs tried to explain away such verses. He then lashed out at the current fanaticism and violence fostered by Islamic fundamentalists and jihadists that not only endangered the world but were an insult to Islam itself.
He capped his argument with a powerful illustration. “Lest you think that this is not the case today, I would call your attention to what happened very recently. The Arabic edition of a book by a well-known American professor, Jonathan P. Weber of Harvard University, contained a misprint or innocent error that has since been corrected. And yet this professor was instantly attacked by today’s mullahs, and fanatic mobs inspired by them caused riots in various countries that led, tragically, to some deaths. Not only that, but straining all canons of logic, a fatwa was even issued against the professor, which should immediately be lifted. We call on our Shiite brothers in the faith to nullify that fatwa.”
“Jon, did you hear that?” Shannon asked unnecessarily.
Jon himself was speechless. What a magnificent development—in fact, a true answer to prayer! If the fatwa were lifted, their summer plans were intact once again.
The university imam closed with an appeal that Islam resurrect its past glories and world cultural leadership by returning to the path of free inquiry, which alone could lead to truth itself in all fields of human knowledge. His final words, of course, were the formulaic “All praise be to Allah, the Lord Sovereign of the universe, and may Allah praise his Prophet Muhammad and his household.”
Moments of stunned silence followed, and then deafening applause erupted, especially from the students, with shouts of “Allahu Akhbar! Allahu Akhbar!” “God is great! God is great!” Of the seventy-five al-Azhar faculty members sharing the platform that day, some were smiling, while others wore frowns of deep concern.
Jon shook his head. “It’s the finest address by a Muslim that I’ve ever heard—and certainly the best since 9/11. This is the voice of moderate Islam that should have been much louder following what happened in New York and Washington. What a man! I’ll bet the archconservatives in the Islamic world cordially hate him.”
“Do you think it’ll take some of the heat off of us?”
“It certainly should, Shannon. It looks like we may be heading for Greece and Turkey after all.”
They called Washington the next morning and discussed the matter with Morton Dillingham of the CIA. He was his usual cautious—perhaps paranoid—self. Jon was sure there must be a plaque on his office wall that read, The light at the end of the tunnel is an approaching freight train. Yes, he admitted that the climate had improved for Jon since the now-celebrated commencement address by al-Rashid. He also reported that the CIA operatives in Tehran had reported very little public follow-up on the fatwa issue. It was no longer news there, and there were no further riots.
“Then it should certainly be safe for my wife and me not to alter our plans for Greece and Turkey, right?” Jon asked.
“Oh, I’m not sure that’s the case,” he demurred. “It only takes one fanatic, one unstable—”
“We’re fully aware of that threat, Mr. Dillingham, but our decision is to go ahead with our plans in any case.”
There was a long silence at the other end of the line. Finally Dillingham replied, “Well, you’re free citizens, and we can’t stop you. But please fax me your specific itinerary, along with dates, after which I’ll dispatch you a complete protocol of procedures to avoid danger, CIA contacts overseas, and other security measures.”
“Thank you, Mr. Dillingham. That will be very helpful.”
“But while you’re abroad, always look behind you. Always.”
A fortnight later, Jon and Shannon were on an Olympic Air jet, flying from JFK to Athens. As the plane settled into its cruising altitude, she turned to him and said, “You know, Jon, despite all the traveling we do, this trip is the first one in a long time that almost feels like a vacation.”
Jon squeezed her hand. “Whoever said that business and pleasure can’t be mingled?”
Shannon was almost prepared for “no dancing in the aisles” on their plane, based on Olympic’s ads, but she was quite content to settle for tasty introductions to Greek cuisine. They were served calamari (“almost like chewing rubber bands,” Jon commented), angarodomata salata, pastitsio, souvlaki, dolmas nicely drenched in a thick avgolemono sauce, with a main course of either baked lamb or chicken and potato slices bathed in lemon olive oil. To be sure, there were also olives from first to last—not the modestly flavored Spanish sort cored with pimento, anchovies, or nuts. No, these were dark and salty Greek olives—totally salty—the kind that took command of your mouth and provided a day’s suggested sodium intake apiece. It took several glasses of retsina wine—Jon intentionally mispronounced it “rinsina”—to “rinse” the palate for the deliciously sweet baklava that followed. Cups of steaming elliniko kafe capped off the gustatory marathon.
Suddenly, and apropos of nothing, Shannon sat up straight and asked, “Jon, the case with the manuscripts from Pella—where is it?”
He stared at her, wide-eyed, and seemed to grope for words. “I . . . I thought I . . . I hope I . . . didn’t leave it at the JFK security line.”
When Shannon gaped at him in horror, Jon quickly stood, opened the overhead compartment, and extracted the case. Holding it overhead as some sort of trophy, he returned it to the compartment and sat back down.
“Are you proud of yourself, Professor Prankster?” she asked.
“Sorry, dear. Someday I’ll grow up.”
“Doubtful!” She gave him a playful poke in the ribs.
Over the snowy Alps, down the long peninsula of Italy, and then eastward across the Adriatic, they flew until Pelops’s vast “island” came into view, hung on the Greek mainland by the slender isthmus of Corinth. Now their jet lost altitude, glided across the Saronic Gulf, and curved northeastward over Laurium Mountain to land smoothly at Venizelos International Airport, the vast new structure built just in time for the Olympic Games at Athens in 2004.
“I wonder what ‘Venizelos’ means in English, Shannon,” Jon wondered, tongue in cheek, as they disembarked.
“It means ‘Venizelos,’ you dunce!” she laughed. “It’s a proper name and you know it!”
“Ah yes, Elefthérios Venizélos, the prime minister of Greece in the early 1900s, a statesman with so much charisma he’s often called ‘the father of modern Greece.’”
“Enough lecture for now, Jon.”
They breezed through passport control at Venizelos to the reception concourse, which was festooned with welcoming signs in both Greek and English. They spotted their guide even before reading the Dr./Mrs. Jonathan Weber sign he was holding, a bearded young man dressed from head to toe in ecclesiastical black. He doffed his cylindrical hat and bowed slightly as he said, with studied formality, “In the name of Christodoulos II, archbishop of Athens and all of Greece, I bid you a most cordial welcome, Professor and Mrs. Weber.”
“Kalimera,” Jon replied. “You must be Father Stephanos Alexandropoulis?”
“Nai, nai!” he said, nodding in response.
Shannon smiled, recalling her first encounter with the Greek language when she learned that something so negative-sounding in fact meant “Yes, yes.”
“Please to follow me and get your luggage,” Father Stephanos said.
En route to their hotel, Jon acted as self-appointed tour guide to sights along the way, since Shannon had never visited Greece. “This is where chapters 17 and 18 in the book of Acts really come to life,” he commented as they drove through the heart of Athens and along the western side of the Acropolis on the Odos Apostolou Pavlou—the Street of the Apostle Paul. “There’s the Parthenon atop the Acropolis.” He pointed to the right. “And just northwest of it—see that rocky rise?—that’s the Areopagus, where St. Paul gave his famous Mars Hill address. And we’re just passing the agora, where he met the philosophers who invited him to give that speech.”
Father Stephanos was nodding proudly, almost as if he had arranged all the sites for their benefit. He told them how other tourists who had money but not culture infuriated him with inane questions: “Why don’t they tear down all those ruined buildings on top of that big hill?” Moments like that made the holy man want to strangle the inquirer, he admitted.
Now they drove through the Plaka to Syntagma Square and their hotel, the Grande Bretagne. Father Stephanos helped them with their luggage as they checked into Athens’s most famous hotel, frequented by the crowns of Europe and greats of the past and present.
“I hope you have good rest after your flight,” he said. “And I pick you up in the morning at ten o’clock. Will that be all right? Our appointment with the archbishop is at ten thirty.”
“Excellent, Father Stephanos,” Jon said. “You’ve been most kind. Ef charisto!”
“Parakalo.”
Next morning at the appointed hour, they arrived at the headquarters of Hey Ekklesia Hellenike—known more commonly as the Greek Orthodox Church. A smiling Christodoulos II received them, the holy archbishop of Athens and all of Greece. He was a tall, imposing figure, attired, like Stephanos, in solid black. His salt-and-pepper beard provided a modest contrast, reflecting a man of sixty-seven maturing years. In many ways, because of a very lofty forehead, Jon thought he looked like Pericles himself, though without the helmet.
“Welcome, Professor and Mrs. Weber,” he opened in excellent English.
“Ine megali timi Makariotate, na’houme afton ton hrono mazi sas,” Jon returned in Greek, which he hoped would pass for “It’s a great honor, Your Beatitude, to have this time with you.”
“Your Greek is excellent, Dr. Weber,” the archbishop replied, “but please to use English. I love the English language and don’t have chance enough to use it.”
“I’m grateful for that, Your Beatitude,” Shannon said. While his wife’s New Testament Greek was as good as any scholar’s, Jon knew she was not familiar with modern, conversational Greek, which was markedly different.
“I am glad,” the archbishop continued, “that the fierce Muslim debate over that translation matter in your book seems to have ceased. When the news first reached Athens, I looked up that passage in the Greek edition of your book—and I saw that it was rendered correctly.”
Jon expressed his thanks, then came to the point of their meeting: the biblical manuscript project, which he explained in full detail. Would the archbishop be kind enough to look over a preliminary list Jon and Shannon had compiled of libraries and archives in Greece known for their ancient manuscripts, and provide any corrections or addenda? He easily agreed.
Jon’s next request, he worried, was more daunting. Might the archbishop be generous enough to provide them a letter of introduction that would be useful in establishing their credibility when they or their teams arrived at a given archive and desired permission to photograph the biblical manuscripts in their collection? Jon had prepared a list of safeguards, which he handed to the archbishop:
1. The librarian or archivist on location may always exercise his veto, with or without explanation.
2. All photography will be undertaken with utmost care so as not to inflict damage in any way on the precious materials involved. No flash photography will be employed in the process so as not to cause any fading of the texts. (Digital photography obviates any such need, provided that normal light sources are available.)
3. Full credit lines will be added to all photo collections and in all publications thereof.
4. A complete set of the resulting photographs will be deposited at all libraries and archives kind enough to permit such photography.
5. All commentary accompanying the collections involved will first be checked with the authorities at each location prior to publication.
Archbishop Christodoulos II studied the list and then excused himself to show it to the general secretary of the archdiocese in another office.
Jon smiled nervously at Shannon as they waited for what seemed like an hour but was probably only a few minutes. What if they couldn’t pass even first base on their venture? Should they have done more preliminary correspondence first? Yes, they whispered to one another, they probably should have. Would have, in fact, had the translation crisis not commandeered all of their time.
Christodoulos reappeared with another document in his hand. “Please to forgive me, honored friends, for making you wait,” he explained. “Our general secretary called in several other advisers, and a debate followed. And wouldn’t you expect that of Eastern Orthodox theologians?”
“Of course,” Jon chuckled, relieved to learn what had caused the delay. He was well aware that even in the ancient church, it was the eastern half of it—the Greek-speaking East—that always loved to split theological hairs in debates that could rage on for decades, even centuries, compared to the more practical Latin church in the West that quickly came up with reasonable solutions.
Now the archbishop’s smile faded into a frown. “Unfortunately, we cannot approve your list as it now stands.”
Jon shot a glance at Shannon that said, Well, our worst fears are nicely confirmed.
“But there will be no problem,” the archbishop added, a twinkle in his eye, “if you will add a sixth condition, which we have written out. It is similar to provision five, but stronger.” He handed Jon and Shannon the second document.
6. Except in the case of heretical writings, if upon reading the ancient texts in the photographs, a word, phrase, or paragraph appears that seems in any way to contradict, threaten, or imperil the holy, ecumenical beliefs of Eastern Orthodoxy, the text or translation editor(s) must report this immediately to the offices of the archbishop of Athens rather than making that text public. Nor shall they in any way publicize this text but instead promise to keep this information absolutely confidential until it is released by the archbishop.
When Jon frowned a bit while reading, Christodoulos commented, “Please understand, dear friends, that this is not intended as censorship, but rather as a measure that will alert us to give a proper answer for such an item, should it arise.”
Jon brightened. “In that sense, we can certainly sympathize with your concerns, Your Beatitude, since worthless reinterpretations of Jesus and the church that he founded are all the rage in the print and electronic media today. Our sensationalist novelists and theologians would just love to twist some obscure line in an ancient source to discredit Christianity. We’ll gladly accept stipulation six.”
“Fine, then. We shall be happy to write your letter of introduction with the stipulations listed and send it by courier to . . . Where are you staying?”
“At the Grande Bretagne.”
“Excellent. It will be done.”
As they were standing to leave, Jon, in a carefully rehearsed afterthought, asked, “By the way, Your Beatitude, among the many fine textual scholars in the Church of Greece, who, in your estimation, is the foremost authority on early Greek orthography?”
“Classical Greek or koine?”
“Koine. I should have specified that.”
“Ah, the language of the New Testament and the early church fathers. Well, this question is very easy to answer. Our outstanding authority here is Father Miltiades Papandriou at Oros Agiou.”
Jon concurred with a smile. “Had you replied with any other name, I would have asked you, ‘Why not Papandriou at Mount Athos?’”
“So then, you were only ‘testing me,’ as it were?” he asked. If Christodoulos had been frowning, it would have been a sure sign that Jon had stepped over the line. But the genial archbishop had a broad smile.
“No, it was just a case of reconfirmation. Father Miltiades is famed the world over for his ability to scan Greek lettering and slot it accurately into the nearest half century.”
“Probably the nearest quarter century or even decade!” the archbishop chuckled. “Do you plan to consult with Father Miltiades?”
Shannon quickly replied, “We’d be delighted to do that, Your Beatitude, if that were possible.”
Christodoulos shook his head sadly. “Unfortunately, Madame Weber, that is not possible. Not possible . . . for you,” he emphasized, then smiled. “But I can easily arrange it for your husband.”
“Oh, that’s right; do pardon my error!” she replied. “No female can enter the monastery enclave on Mount Athos!”
“Quite right, Madame Weber. Perhaps someday that will change, but that someday has not yet arrived. Shall I prepare a letter of introduction also for Father Miltiades, Professor Weber?”
“I would then be doubly grateful to you, Your Beatitude. We would also like his evaluation of a Greek text my wife found at Pella in Jordan some months ago.” The words were out before Jon quite realized what he was saying. What if the archbishop wanted to know more about that text? At least, thank God, he had not used the term manuscript.
“Kalos,” Christodoulos replied. “I shall do so and send the letter along with the other material.”
Jon breathed a sigh of relief and asked, “Do you think Father Miltiades will be amenable to my visit?”
The archbishop chuckled. “Amenable? He will be grateful to me for sending him an internationally known scholar on the life of Christ, though he will not know he was denied a visit by this very lovely archaeologist who wished to accompany him.”
“You are very generous, Your Beatitude,” Shannon said with a shade of blush, “and we are deeply in your debt. Ef charisto.”
“Parakalo, my friends. Parakalo.”