Thorns of Glory, page 58
Like many Christian fundamentalists, members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints have frequently leaned toward the first category of scriptural inerrancy. Our Eight Article of Faith, which states: “We believe the Bible to be the word of God as far as it is translated correctly . . .” is traditionally interpreted to mean that the Bible’s original text, as composed by its inspired authors, was inerrant and flawless but became corrupted over time by a long line of incompetent scribes and wicked, designing priests. This view might distress some who read the title page of the Book of Mormon, which suggests the sacred volume may contain “the faults of men.” Even as this caveat is followed up by the explicit warning not to “condemn the things of God,” it is sometimes used by critics of the Church to contrast the Book of Mormon with the Bible, which they see as infallible (see title page of the Book of Mormon).
Those who support this viewpoint, especially American Christian evangelicals and conservatives, are classified as advocates of “Biblical inerrancy” or “Biblical infallibility.” For millennia, well-meaning believers have expended considerable effort harmonizing, or explaining away, inconsistencies in scripture, particularly those associated with the four canonical Gospels—Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. Studious and complex arguments have been proposed in response to critics who point out discrepancies to discredit the veracity of scripture and, consequently, the core tenets of the Christian faith. Varying standards have been applied in defining Biblical inerrancy or Biblical infallibility, but the root belief is that God would not have “allowed” His servants to make errors while composing the original Biblical manuscripts. Some, such as proponents of the King James Only movement, extend this divine protection to the translation process. Absent such conviction, some believe the authority of scripture is “inescapably impaired” (Chicago Statement on Biblical Inerrancy, International Council on Biblical Inerrancy [ICBI], 1978).
English-speaking Latter-day Saints have sometimes applied this inerrancy or “preferential” standard to the KJV (King James translation) of a.d. 1611 (Richard N. W. Lambert and Kenneth R. Mays, “400 Years of the King James Bible,” August 2011). Human beings, in their tendency to favor absolutes over vagaries, seem naturally drawn to the idea of inerrancy. However, the Lord’s prophets, ancient and modern, have cautioned us against such rigidity. While God is perfect, human beings are not, and the act of writing and rendering scripture is ultimately a very human affair, leaving the process open to flaws. Some Christians consider this understanding incompatible with faith. For Latter-day Saints, faith is buttressed by multiple foundations: scripture (ancient and modern), latter-day prophets, and personal revelation. Depending upon his or her circumstances, an individual may, at different times, lean upon one foundation over another. Ideally, we ought to rely upon more than one simultaneously.
Rather than harmonization, fictionalization of a gospel event is better compared to creating a diatessaron. A diatessaron is an effort to combine all four Gospels into a single coherent manuscript. The most famous of these efforts is the Diatessaron of Tatian, circa a.d. 170. Tatian’s rationale for creating his Diatessaron is not explicitly recorded. Did he hope to supplement the four Gospels or to replace them? Both outcomes have been embraced in different congregations. Tatian’s Diatessaron was the preferred lectionary gospel text in Syriac-speaking churches until the fifth or sixth centuries. There are two related motives for why Tatian, or any other author, might combine the four Gospels into one: 1. A singular manuscript simplifies missionary work. 2. A singular manuscript reduces the possibility of misunderstanding or controversy arising from four disparate accounts.
In this novel, my intent is merely to supplement Biblical Gospels, not to provide any kind of official or authoritative account of how things really “went down.” To depict what occurred that fateful night on Olivet, I had to choose which details from a particular Gospel to follow. Sometimes I selected dialogue and details from one Gospel at the expense of another. Sometimes (rarely) I added details based on research, supposition, and (occasionally) instinct.
With a few notable exceptions, the narrative of what occurred and what was said prior to the Savior’s arrest are similar in the three Synoptic Gospels: Matthew, Mark, and Luke. The Gospel of John, however, records details that are strikingly unique. For example, none of the material from John 14–17 are found in Matthew, Mark, or Luke. Additionally, John describes no event wherein the Savior withdraws from His disciples to engage in private prayer and communion with the Father. John neglects to mention any physical pain, shedding of blood, or pleas from Jesus that His suffering (i.e., “this cup”) might be removed.
Those who hold to Biblical inerrancy conclude that John “skipped” that part. Modern scholars suggest John is the latest Gospel, or the last one written. If so, its author may have been familiar with the content of other Gospels and deliberately decided to include significant details, or make subtle corrections, that were missed by other Gospel authors. Five possibilities might explain why John’s Gospel doesn’t include the same details that are found in Matthew, Mark, and Luke: 1. It didn’t happen the way other Gospels say it did. 2. The author of John’s Gospel felt what was already written about Christ’s suffering sufficed and didn’t wish to restate it. 3. John felt Christ’s personal prayer and suffering was too sacred and deliberately left it out. 4. John didn’t remember this event or didn’t take note of it at the time. 5. Early transcribers of the Gospel of John removed this scene, letting it be lost.
Before composing the initial draft of these events for my novel, I hadn’t read any of the extant translations of the Diatessaron of Tatian. Interestingly, my instincts for what to incorporate and how events ought to be sequenced is similar to that of Tatian 1,900 years ago. We both preserved the bulk of material from John’s Gospel, including Christ’s intercessory prayer (see John 17), but also preserved the details of His suffering in the garden, making these into two distinct events in (slightly) different locations. Like Tatian, I elected to place His intercessory prayer before His suffering in Gethsemane. Admittedly, this choice was for dramatic convenience. It feels anti-climactic to have it the other way around, although, presuming both events occurred, there’s no reason Christ’s suffering could not have happened before His intercessory prayer.
The most notable omission in my fictional account may be Judas’s kiss—not Judas’s intent, but his failure to deliver. As to whether Judas kissed His Master’s cheek, the Gospel accounts are equally divided. Matthew and Mark declare definitively that Judas kissed the Savior to identify Him to the arresting party (see Matthew 26:48–50 and Mark 14:44–45). Some might wonder why this token was necessary since the arresting party included chief priests and Pharisees who’d likely disputed with the Savior in public and should have easily recognized Him. The Gospel of John suggests the arresting party included a cohort of Roman soldiers. This is consistent with provincial policy, as an independent armed Jewish mob would not have been tolerated without Roman consent.
A cohort consisted of as many as six hundred men. As Roman military units experienced losses and attrition, it retained its designation even if it actually consisted of far fewer soldiers. A cohort would have been commanded by a chiliarch. This Roman officer and his staff likely wouldn’t have recognized Jesus on sight, necessitating Judas’s unambiguous confirmation.
The Gospel of Luke presents a somewhat different scenario than Matthew and Mark. While Luke attests that, indeed, Judas’s plan was to identify Jesus with a kiss, Judas only manages to “draw near” (Luke 22:47). At that point, the Savior interrupts his approach by asking, “Judas, betrayest thou the son of Man with a kiss?” (Luke 22:48) Luke doesn’t say if Judas followed through and successfully delivered the kiss.
The Gospel of John does not mention any plan by Judas to kiss Jesus, but simply names Judas as a member of the arresting party (John 18:2–3, 5). John’s account implies a moment of hesitation and confusion, causing Jesus to step forward and ask the mob, “Whom do you seek?” (John 18:4) They answered, “Jesus of Nazareth,” and the Savior declared, “I am he.” From Greek, the Savior’s words can also be translated “I am” (compare Exodus 3:14), which would mean He used this moment to reassert His identity to devout Jews in the mob that He was, in fact, their Lord and God. This explains the Jews’ reaction, pulling back and falling to the ground (see John 18:6) in astonishment or indignation. John records that Jesus asked a second time, “Whom do you seek?”, evoking the same reply: “Jesus of Nazareth” (John 18:8). The original objective of the arresting party might have been to arrest not only Jesus but His disciples. Jesus appears to leverage this confusion in an effort to incline the arresting party to focus upon Him alone as he says, “If ye seek me, let these men leave” (John 18:8, Wayment translation).
Why would the Savior inquire twice, “Whom do you seek?” if Judas had already identified Him with a kiss? This gives further plausibility to details presented in Luke. If the boldness of the Savior’s declaration, “Judas, betrayest thou the son of Man with a kiss?” caused Judas to falter, the scene depicted by John makes more sense. Judas’s failure to execute the kiss would have provoked bewilderment.
Considering this momentary confusion, it’s understandable why different witnesses might present disparate accounts. Many, including Malchus (the soldier whose ear Jesus healed), would have known of Judas’s plan to kiss the Savior in order to set Him apart. The report by some witnesses that Judas completed the kiss reveals the understandable tendency of human nature. Negative sentiments of the early Church toward Judas would readily induce a Gospel author, or an early textual transcriber, to punctuate feelings of bitterness and hostility toward Judas by having him complete the kiss. The error might also be attributed to misremembering. Or simply that having this Christian “antagonist” finish the kiss makes for better storytelling. The scene is suddenly more impactful and iconic, even if not quite accurate.
This view is obviously contrary to scriptural inerrancy or infallibility. Since it’s impossible to prove the argument either way, believers are invited to decide for themselves. While some highlight such disparities to undermine faith, in my view, it seems more enticing—even miraculous—to contemplate how consistently the four New Testament Gospels confirm each other. The existence of faults, which ought to be expected and anticipated in any manuscript recorded by imperfect human beings, can also be interpreted as a powerful testimonial of the reliability and truthfulness of the basic historicity, central message, and redemptive theme of which the Gospels testify.
Chapter 20
Brock
Gidgiddonihah sprang from our hiding place behind the two dead warriors, his shattered helmet rolling off his back. The dude was like a whirling dervish, a cinematic superhero. Was this the same Commander Gid who’d been senseless only ten minutes earlier after getting thwacked in the head? That squad of six Lamanites, including a Red officer decked out in feathers, looked up in surprise. It’s not like we were their only living enemies along this ridge—just the only ones, or so it appeared, still fit enough to fight. Gid gutted the feathery Red before his guards had time to react.
I’d only been given one job, one thing to do. Gid’s orders were to focus on the smallest Knotty furthest on the left. I carried only a pitiful club made from a deer antler. The points had been ground sharp, but three of the five of ‘em were broken. Not sure what that bozo Lamanite who had wielded it was thinking. Looked cool, I ’spose, but it was too darn light to be taken seriously. I did as I was told, rushing the warrior on the left. He glared at Gid, intent on joining his comrades who craved revenge. ’Cause I was a boy, he ignored me till it was too late. I stabbed toward his bare chest with one of the only points that might still be considered a point. Stuck him pretty good, except the other prongs on the antler interfered and kept it from penetrating more than an inch or two. He was plenty peeved though—batted away my antler club like it was an irritating mosquito and directed all his fury at me. That swipe had thrown me off-balance, and I plopped onto my butt. Kept ahold of the antler though. Fact, I raised it up to shield my face. So dumb! He let me know it, too, by cackling like some kinda deranged clown. Might as well’ve been trying to protect myself with a coat hanger. His weapon was a macuahuitl with a long obsidian tip that made it double as a kind of spear. He closed in and stood over my face, ready to plunge that tip into my gullet. I screamed (seemed like a natural thing to do) and stabbed that antler hard as I could into his kneecap. This injury somehow worked out better than the first one I inflicted. He wailed in agony as his leg gave out. His other knee—his good knee—clomped down on my stomach, knockin’ me breathless. That spear tip came down, but I must’ve twisted my head just right ’cause it stuck in the dirt beside my chin.
I’d really connected on some kinda nerve or funny bone, ’cause the dude seemed to deflate like a balloon animal; he wilted down over the top of me. I kept stabbin’ that antler like a psycho freak and got lucky again, meanin’ the point gouged his eye. He released his weapon to bring up both hands. The tip dropped right on my face, but on its flat side, so I didn’t get a nick. I don’t know where I got the wherewithal to seize the hilt of that sword and thrust it toward his head, exactly as he’d planned to do to me. It was like the weapon had a mind of its own and I just happened to be holdin’ it. The duel was over. Knotty went limp.
I pushed him off and clumsily got to my feet. Gidgiddonihah had dispatched two more attackers, but just like I predicted, two additional Knotties who’d been scavenging among the corpses joined in the fray. Then I realized one of those new fighters wasn’t a Knotty or a Red. He was a Nephite, and he was fighting on Gid’s side. I recognized his uniform. A Fox trooper from the division commanded by Becky’s brother.
This guy’s fighting style was almost as chaotic as Gidgiddonihah’s. Blades and bodies were whipping around so fast I didn’t dare close in. Anything I could contribute would’ve hindered more than helped, likely gettin’ me sliced and diced in the process.
Turned out my help wasn’t needed. Gid and the Fox soldier operated in sync, readin’ each other’s cues and attacking accordingly. In less than a minute they’d handily dispatched every enemy. After Gid stabbed downward to put the last Knotty out of his misery, he looked up to take in his new comrade’s face. Both men were pretty spackled in blood, but they recognized each other anyway and gripped hands.
“You stood with Joshua at the base of the escarpment,” said Gid.
The warrior nodded. “I am Nompak. I was his Snake Seeker.”
“Was?” asked Gid.
Nompak looked perplexed. He was a weird-looking hombre. Big barrel chest, knobby legs, and spooky eyes. No color besides white and gray. “Captain Josh is dead,” said Nompak. “You were there. Did you not . . . ?”
“I saw him fall into the crevice,” said Gid. “I didn’t see him die.”
“The crevice was deep. His body was not recovered.”
Gid made an odd expression. Nompak studied it. I knew what Gid meant. He had reservations about Nompak’s report of Joshua’s final fate. Maybe it was a secret hope. Nobody could know for sure.
Thing is, Nompak was a “Snake Seeker.” I didn’t really know what that meant. Special bodyguard of some kind. They did secret things and knew about magic. I wouldn’t have known the difference between a witch and an antiwitch. Lumped ’em all into the same box. Besides, his eyes gave me the heebie-jeebies. Whatever he was, Nompak had a creepy sixth sense. He seemed to see things beyond what most other people could see about the world. He sensed the meaning in Gid’s expression better than I might’ve guessed.
“You believe Captain Josh is alive?” asked Nompak.
This melted away any confidence in Gid’s expression, replaced by uncertainty. He would only say, “I don’t know.”
Suddenly, Gid reawakened to our own dire situation. Whether Becky’s brother was alive or not hardly mattered if we ended up like the rest of these corpses. A dozen or more scavenging Knotties had homed in on the fighting and were moving toward us cautiously. Or should I say sluggishly? None of ’em had a lotta oomph. Every soldier on this ridge—’cept for Gid, who’d just awakened from a nice nap, and cowardly me, who’d spent that time learning the art of meditation (i.e., not moving or breathing)—was plum tuckered out. Nompak didn’t count. I figured his powers came from voodoo or black magic. Everyone else was the walking dead. The fact that we all looked ready to rumble (okay, just Gid and Nompak) kept ’em loitering at a distance. They hurled a few growls and curses, but nobody seemed overanxious to engage two fit warriors—officers, no less—standing amidst a heap of still-twitching bodies.
One of the oncoming Knotties even carried a bow but no arrows. He paused to yank and twist at one stuck in a dead Nephite’s ribs. Unfortunately for him, Gid still had his hatchet. I never ceased to marvel at the accuracy of that man’s aim. After seeing their comrade split like firewood, the other Knotties shut up and stood in their tracks.
“Let’s depart,” whispered Gid.
Not one to argue, I backed away alongside Nompak. Seconds later, all three of us turned and ran. We scampered for a full minute through death and carnage toward Cumorah’s easternmost slope.
Then, outta nowhere, somethin’ caught my eye. Somethin’ that chilled my blood and made me skid to a halt.
* * *
Steffanie
SaKerra trembled and shivered as if the day’s blistering heat was, instead, as cold as a summit in Antarctica. Her mind had darkened. Her senses were numb.
We sat against a soot-smeared boulder. Below us lay hundreds of corpses, mostly silent. Some still moving. I heard cries for help, moans for water, and weeping.
The majority of regular Lamanite and Teotihuacáno warriors had moved on from this vicinity, either west, into the heart of the settlement, or higher up the slopes of Cumorah. Some squads were already gathering back to their original encampments beyond the river, arms overflowing with plunder. Military discipline among the Reds had lapsed. Plenty of capable Nephites were left to conquer, but the ultimate triumph of the exterminators of Cumorah appeared inevitable. It was obvious that most Lamanites had no orders beyond that morning’s initial assault. Their platoons, regiments—whatever they called smaller units—were now intermixed and disintegrating into leaderless chaos.
