I finally moved into my Tudor mansion in Flushing, Queens. It was a bright March morning, so I carried my coffee outside to enjoy it.
Standing in my pyjamas on the brick driveway in the nippy air, I admired my house—even stepped back onto the lawn for a better view, so I could take it all in. I love beautiful things in their proper settings.
It was lovely. A mountain of cumulus clouds towered above the grey stones and branches of nearby trees scored the sky with black cross-thatched lines.
I told myself I was at last where I was meant to be—and half-believed it too, until my cell rang.
“Paul—thank goodness—I phoned the College, but they said you were on a short sabbatical.”
It was Jerrod Mason, an old friend and colleague, from the Antiquities Branch of the Smithsonian.
“Hey Jerrod—what’s gotten you rattled so early in the morning?” I glanced at my watch—it was just past ten.
“We need to talk. Can we meet?”
“Sure,” I answered, “How about Coro’s for lunch?”
“Sounds good—Oh, and by the way, bring your Bible.”
I chuckled. “Coro’s hardly the place for Bible study, pal.”
“Believe me, you won’t be disappointed.”
Jerrod and I rarely disappoint each other. It had only been six months since I contacted him to authenticate an artifact that turned out to be the lost tablets of The Book of Mormon.
He had been excited then—but he sounded even more excited now. What could possibly excite Jerrod more than that?
At noon, I got my answer.
“Nehushtan? —You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I’m serious, Paul. Noam Shanks is unscrupulous, but he’s not about to lie and burn his bridges with me.”
Jerrod’s intent gaze convinced me. He was sold on the dealer’s story.
“How did Shanks find out about the artifact?”
“Apparently he’s known about it for forty years. His father worked with the Nazis when they were scouring the Middle-East for Biblical treasures. He made the discovery, but kept the knowledge from the Nazis—He finally told Noam about it, just before he died.”
“So, the elder Shanks helps the Nazis back in the late thirties, but keeps something back and then sits on it for thirty years?”
Jerrod sipped his Shiraz. “It was1972 when Noam knew where the brass serpent was hidden, but at the time, it was too dangerous to attempt to recover it.”
“Surely, you know, Jerrod, that Hezekiah destroyed the brass serpent along with all the pagan idols and high places." I quoted to him from 2 Kings 18:4, and he broke in pieces the brazen serpent.
“I know all about Hezekiah’s iconoclastic reforms, Paul, but I don’t think it happened exactly the way he claimed.”
“What are you saying, Jerrod—that Hezekiah lied?”
Jerrod shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Here’s where it gets tricky. People get upset if you say the Bible contains an untruth. But people lie in the Bible all the time. The Bible’s not just God’s word—it contains the lies of murderers and even the Devil, for Pete’s sake.”
“I don’t know, Jerrod—it does say Hezekiah did what was right in the sight of the Lord.”
Jerrod leaned in across the table and asked in a harsh whisper, “Did God command Hezekiah to destroy the Brazen Serpent?”
I blinked, realizing where he was going. “Uh, no—not exactly.”
“That’s right. Hezekiah hated the idolatry. He dismissed The Serpent as, ‘that brass thing’. Hell, the Jews were burning incense to it in the temple precincts! —It was blasphemous.”
I played devil’s advocate. “I know they regarded it as an amulet and some even used it for divination. But why wouldn’t Hezekiah grind it to a powder and scatter it to the wind?”
“Why?” Jerrod raised his voice, attracting attention from neighbouring tables.
He coloured slightly and lowered his voice, almost to a whisper. “He wouldn’t destroy it because it was a memorial of God’s mercy—it’d be like destroying the pot of manna or Aaron’s rod, or the stone tablets of the Ten Commandments.”
I nodded. He made his point.
He went on, “The Egyptians adored serpent idol gods as emblems of health or immortality. Hezekiah removed this temptation for the Jewish people and it had political benefits for him—he wanted a closer alliance with the Assyrians who hated Egypt. He simply hid it away, just as the Ark was hidden away and not destroyed.”
“So, why is Noam sharing this good news with you?” I asked pointedly.
“Because he’s dying, Paul—he’s got stage four lung cancer and probably only has a few weeks to live.”
“But why you, Jerrod?”
“He’s got no relatives and liked the article I wrote about the Brazen Serpent in the Biblical Archaeology Review.”
I shook my head in wonderment.
Jerrod gulped his Shiraz and looked at me, eyes shining. “You know what got me, Paul? He told me Hitler searched for it because he wanted to reign for the thousand years of the Third Reich—that’s what that was all about—personal immortality for the Fuhrer.”
“So, where is the talisman now?”
He laughed nervously. “Right where you’d expect—on the Temple Mount—right under the Al-Aqsa Mosque.”
My jaw dropped.
He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I didn’t say it would be easy.”
I countered, “You also didn’t say it’d be impossible.”
“Not impossible, my friend—just tricky.”
I chugged my Shiraz as if it were a draft beer. Jean Paul, our waiter, brought us another carafe.
“So, what are you proposing?” I asked.
“Well, it just so happens I have a Mormon connection…”
My eyebrows arched. “What have the Mormons got to do with this?”
He dismissed my objection with a wave of his hand. “Oh, the Mormons have always been interested in the brass serpent—they’ve been trying to draw connections between the Bible and Mesoamerica.”
“What?” I sputtered, almost choking on my wine.
Jerrod simply grew patient. “The Mormons think Nehushtan relates to serpent worship in Mesoamerica—they see parallels between the symbol and Biblical name and the Aztec god Quetzalcoatl.”
“Wow! So, they’d be willing to take on this project?”
“No—not the Church of the Latter Day Saints—let’s just say, certain elements would—in particular, my friend, Johoshua Channer.
“What does he intend to do—go in there, guns blazing?”
Jerrod smiled. “I don’t think that’d get him very far. However, we have mutual friends in the Waqf, the Muslim authority in charge of the Al-Aqsa Mosque. He thinks he can bribe his way in.”
“And suppose this Johoshua gets inside and obtains the amulet—how would he get it out of the area?”
Again, Jerrod’s inscrutable smile. “The same we get all our finds out of the area, Paul.”
It seemed too good to be true, but knowing Jerrod’s resourcefulness, I felt the mission had a good chance of succeeding.
Two months later, Jerrod summoned me, late at night, to a private showing at the Smithsonian. It was the brazen serpent—the very artifact Hezekiah supposedly destroyed.
He had dimmed the lights and erected the brass serpent on a pole. A single spotlight lighted it dramatically. It glowed a bright red.
“You can see why the Israelites adored it and burnt incense before it,” Jerrod whispered. “It really is a fiery serpent.”
I stared open-mouthed at the last miracle of the Exodus—at the object Solomon brought back from Gibeon and the Jews worshipped for five hundred years.
Jerrod was talking in the dreamy voice people use when sitting before a fire staring into the flames. “I kind of hoped the Ark might be located in that chamber too, but no such luck.”
“It’s beautiful,” I said.
Words didn’t do it justice though.
I stood there, awe-filled, in a hushed room with six other people, mostly academics and civil servants and wondered if we’d be struck down for handling a holy thing the way Uzza was smitten for daring to touch the Ark.
It seemed appropriate though, and I almost wished we’d be destroyed too. It was so profane to be standing watching an object of reverence being subjected to an electric glare.
It’s wrong to take things from their places. I always believed in that—in respect for things.
“Does it do anything?” asked a bald man who was some representative from the government.
We ignored him, although I did wonder what would have happened if Noam lived long enough to be here tonight. Would standing before the object heal him of his cancer?
I’ll never know.
Two days later, a frantic Jerrod woke me from my sleep. “It’s gone,” he moaned.
I knew what he meant.
“I should have put it in the vaults—I’m such a fool—I was mesmerized by its beauty.”
I commiserated with him. “I’m not immune to being mesmerized by beauty,” I told him.
Although I felt bad for my friend, I’m really not sorry though. I keep seeing the bored face of that bland government representative and I detest him.
Maybe I’m guilty of some idolatry too—assuming God shares my offence about these things. As if God hates all the same people I do.
On the other hand, maybe I don’t hate that official or even the people like Johoshua Channer or the corrupt members of the Waqf, who were left in charge of the Mosque.
All I know is, it’s wrong to take things from their places. I have a respect for the sacred and a need to see objects restored to where they belong. I’d go to any lengths to ensure that.
I love beautiful things in their proper settings.
