Truth Conspiracy—chapter 20

15 min readMar 25, 2023

Chapter 20

A pudgy dwarf of a man no taller than four and a half feet high waddled out of the tent — olive-brown skin, a sunburned bald spot atop cropped black hair, and a ragged mantle draped across his hunched shoulders. His undyed woolen tunic stopped at his bulbous knees, and a pair of well-worn sandals corralled two stubby feet. A slight stubble graced his chin, but he wore no beard.

Frank started laughing harder than I’d ever heard him laugh.

“Is this some kind of sick joke?” I zoomed in on the dwarf’s face and was instantly drawn by two extraordinarily kind chestnut-brown eyes. Though misaligned and mismatched, they surveyed the crowd with an unblinking compassion, hinting at a profound depth. As I moved closer, I realized they were the same shade as Angelica’s.

Mary fell to her knees and bowed her head — which only brought her slightly below the dwarf’s standing height. Jesus placed his right hand atop her head and whispered a blessing. It looked straight out of a Monte Python skit.

Frank said, “No one could make this up!”

It was all too much. I paused the VH, opened my eyes, and consulted a higher authority — Wikipedia.

It turns out that there’s actually a number of early sources reporting Christ’s physical unattractiveness. The second-century philosopher Celsus described Jesus as “ugly and small,” while Tertullian wrote that his outward appearance was despised because of the “abject condition” of his body. Irenaeus describes him as a physically “weak and inglorious man,” and The Acts of Peter also referred to him as small and ugly. Others went on to say he was bent, crooked, bald, and abnormally small.

One might expect put-downs from the enemies of Christians, like Celsus, but why would Christ’s own devotees and the very founders of his church repeat unflattering depictions unless it was a known and accepted fact at the time?

“All the church painters didn’t seem to get the memo,” Frank said.

According to Google, the earliest primitive paintings of Jesus appear in the Roman catacombs two hundred years after his death — depicting a clean-shaven and short-haired shepherd. At least that was an improvement on a short, hunchbacked, ugly dwarf! But where had the modern image of the tall, poetic-faced man with dreamy eyes, hippie hair, and a neatly trimmed beard come from?

After further Wiki-diving, I learned that it wasn’t until the fourth and fifth centuries that writers like Saint Jerome and Saint Augustine theorized that Jesus, having represented perfection in all aspects of his spiritual being, must exhibit the perfect physical manifestation as well. This was around the time that the church started commissioning artists to decorate the growing franchise of churches, and subsequent paintings and sculptures reflected this view from then on.

Lacking any description to draw upon in the Bible, artists modeled Christ’s appearance on existing depictions of heroic emperors, kings, and Graeco-Roman gods like Zeus, Jupiter, Serapis, and Neptune as the tried-and-tested model for divine embodiment. By then, it seemed all those ancient writings about him being short and ugly had been forgotten — or possibly hidden away out of embarrassment — leaving the perfect blank slate for the artists to perform their divine makeover.

The Roman togas of these previous god-men and emperors morphed into the long, flowing robes of this newly minted Son of God (with the sun-halo of Apollo added as the recognized mark of divinity).

Except, only Hebrew women (or the occasional ostentatious man of wealth and stature) wore robes down to their ankles in first century Judea. Men’s tunics ended around their knees. The Gospel of John even mentions Jesus wearing such a one-piece tunic, while Mark reports Jesus saying, “Beware of the scribes, who prefer to walk in long robes and to be greeted in the marketplace, and to sit in the first chairs in the synagogues, and to have the first seats at the feasts . . .” Making it clear what Jesus thought of men who wore long robes!

Frank said, “I wonder if Angelica would have been as eager to marry Jesus if she’d seen this balding dwarf with his sagging potbelly hanging on the cross in the girl’s chapel instead of that underwear model version with those six-pack abs?”

I even found quotes from early church fathers like Tertullian and Irenaeus that rationalized Jesus’ repulsive appearance as God’s ways of testing his followers’ ability to see beyond mere physical conceits and recognize the divine nature and message of Christ despite the physical vessel containing it. A handsome Messiah might attract followers for the wrong reasons, they argued.

But, if that were truly God’s intention, why hadn’t the Gospels reflected this? Maybe it hadn’t occurred to the writers to waste time on such frivolous matters as looks. Or maybe they followed the old adage, ‘If you can’t say anything nice . . .’

I unfroze the scene and watched the crowd digest the appearance of the self-proclaimed miracle-man standing in front of them.

“If you’re such a great healer,” someone called out, “why don’t you heal yourself?”

Everyone laughed, and a few people at the back started walking away. Jesus didn’t dignify the question with a response, but simply gazed at them, seeming in no hurry.

The older man at the front said, “My cousin claims you turned water into wine at a wedding in Cana.”

“I am simply the vessel through which the Lord my Father acts,” Jesus said.

“I don’t believe it,” the younger man said.

“Do you trust your own eyes and tongue?” Jesus asked.

“I suppose so.”

On cue, Mary handed the young man a large bowl made of clear glass.

“Syrian blown glass,” the old man said. “It’s a new process and very expensive.”

Mary lifted a tall clay amphora with a narrow-fluted top, and poured clear liquid into the bowl.

The young man lifted the glass bowl to his lips and took a taste. “It’s water,” he said.

A few others stepped forward and sampled the liquid, each confirming that the pitcher contained plain water.

When empty, Jesus handed the bowl back to the young man.

Mary lifted the clay amphora and began pouring a thin stream of water into it.

Jesus extended his right hand over the liquid and said, “Oh, mighty God, bless us with the sweet nectar of your grace!”

The clear stream of liquid turned crimson.

The crowd gasped.

Jesus steadied the bowl to keep the young man from dropping it.

When the bowl was nearly overflowing, Mary stopped pouring and set the amphora on the ground, off to the side.

Jesus said, “Drink and behold the glory of Almighty God!”

The young man again raised the bowl to his lips and drank. He swallowed a mouthful and his eyes widened. “It’s wine!”

Mary took the bowl from the man, and he fell to his knees. “Forgive me for doubting you, oh great and powerful Jesus!”

The diminutive miracle worker placed a hand on the man’s head and blessed him. Mary carried the glass bowl from person to person, letting each take a drink to verify the miracle. The expressions of awe revealed all doubts banished by this firsthand witness.

Word spread through the village, and the crowd grew.

I felt a tingle of supernatural awe ascend my spine. It’s one thing to read stories of miracles, but another to witness one firsthand.

“What a crock of nonsense,” Frank said.

“The evidence is indisputable,” I replied.

“That’s what you said about flying saucers at Area 51.”

“And I admitted I was wrong when I saw the truth. Why can’t you do the same?”

“Because water can’t turn into wine!”

“Now who’s doubting the crystal when it challenges their preconceived beliefs?”

“I’m through arguing with someone as gullible as you,” Frank said like a pouting child, “but I guarantee that this is a scam.”

“Why can’t you just admit — ”

I felt a gentle pressure on my arm and opened my eyes.

Sexy-robot guy said, “I don’t mind you rehearsing your lines, but you might want to lower your voice.” He nodded toward a few of the other passengers glancing back at us.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’ll keep it down.”

I closed my eyes and watched as a beggar beside the road cried out, “Lord Jesus, thou Son of David, have mercy on me. I am called Bartimaeus and have been blind since birth.”

Mary led the beggar through the ever-growing crowd to Jesus.

The self-proclaimed Son of God examined the wrinkled flesh crisscrossing the man’s eye sockets.

“What would thou ask of me, Bartimaeus?”

“Lord, that I might receive my sight.”

Jesus addressed the crowd. “I know you think this man is blind and all the rest of you can see, but I say to you that any that do not accept me as your savior are just as blind. I have come so all may see.”

Jesus bent down, gathered dirt in his hands, spat into it, and mixed it into a wet paste. The diminutive savior stood on tiptoes and rubbed the mud over the blind man’s eye sockets, saying, “Father in Heaven, pour your loving spirit onto this man so he might serve as an example to others seeking the light of your presence.”

Mary poured water from another jug onto the man’s eyes as Jesus continued caressing them.

I moved my viewpoint closer and watched the water magically carry the deformed flesh away. Underneath, two closed eyelids appeared.

Mary and Jesus stepped back from the man.

“Thy faith has made you whole,” Jesus said. “Open your eyes and receive the Light of the Lord.”

Blind Bartimaeus opened his eyes and looked around in astonishment. “This world of light is a miracle! You are truly the Messiah!”

The crowd murmured in astonishment, and many fell to their knees while proclaiming the dwarf’s divine nature.

I could feel my own heart racing at the wonder of it. This is what Angelica must have felt when she saw the Virgin Mary appear in her kitchen.

As word spread, more people joined the crowd to witness the miracle worker in their midst.

Frank said, “And I suppose you believe that’s an actual miracle as well?”

“Why can’t you just accept the truth?”

“Because there’s no such thing as magic!”

When Jesus had rinsed his hands clean, Mary held out a small clay jar to him.

Jesus said, “I want to say a few words, first.”

Mary frowned, but stepped back obediently.

Jesus raised his hands to quiet the ever-growing crowd. “Now that you have seen the power of the Lord, I say unto you, love your enemies. Do good to even those who hate you, for God will have mercy on those who have mercy on others.”

I’d heard these words spoken in church many times, of course, but now, hearing them from the source — a proven, divine source — they took on new significance. How could I have been so blind for so long?

“What if someone strikes me first?” said a man whose face showed the signs of a street brawler. “The Torah says an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.”

“I say to you, if a man strikes you on the cheek, do not strike him back, but offer him the other cheek also.”

The brawler looked dissatisfied with this answer, but kept quiet, possibly hoping for more free wine.

“The true test,” Jesus declared, “is loving your enemies as much as your own brother or sister. That will elevate you in the eyes of the Lord.”

This radical idea was met by much grumbling.

Jesus frowned. “Why is this so difficult to understand? Whatever you wish someone else would do to you, also you should do the same to them.”

The Roman soldier pointed at Mary. “I can tell you exactly what I wish she would do to me!”

The crowd roared with laughter.

Frank said, “Dwarf Jesus should have seen that coming.”

“Be quiet,” I said. “I want to hear what Jesus says.”

The Savior’s rosy face flushed a deeper shade of crimson. A vein rose in his forehead as he pointed an accusing finger at the crowd. “I say unto you all, I am the son of God, and woe unto you who ignores the word of the Lord, for you will suffer eternal flames worse than those in the great trash heap of Gehenna on the edge of Jerusalem.”

“It sounds like you’re threatening us,” a large man in the front said.

Mary leaned low and whispered in Jesus’ left ear. “Enough moralizing. They’re getting upset. You know what they want.”

Jesus sighed, and his shoulders slumped. “What’s the use? No one gets my message anyway.”

He took the small clay vessel from Mary’s hand and held it aloft. Jesus spoke with the bored monotone of an airline attendant reciting the pre-flight safety announcement for the thousandth time. “This is my Holy Anointing Oil. If taken once a day — along with prayer and a sensible diet — it can cure leprosy, infertility, blindness, warts, and every malady under the sun.”

The members of the enormous crowd hung on each word, their eyes locked onto the small jar like wolves salivating over a wounded rabbit.

A few of the apostles carried over a crate packed with the clay jars.

The crowd surged forward, fighting for their opportunity to obtain this miracle elixir before it ran out. Men and women thrust silver coins into Mary’s hand as she distributed jars as fast as she could.

“There’s enough for everyone,” she called out, trying to calm the near stampede.

Jesus stood off to the side, looking depressed.

The first crate emptied in a matter of seconds, and the apostles rushed to unload another from one of the donkeys.

“Please, be patient!” Mary shouted.

But fear of missing this once-in-a-lifetime chance fueled a violent shoving match.

“Mark, Mathew, Luke, and John!” Jesus called out. “Get moving or we’ll have a riot on our hands.”

The four men, whose names would be spoken of with reverence for the next two thousand years, struggled to restrain a panicked donkey loaded with two crates of miracle oil. John shouted obscenities when the animal began bucking, expelling clay jars like waves crashing against rocks.

The nearest onlookers dived for the jars, while others scrambled to avoid the hooves of the braying beast.

Mary lunged out of the way as the donkey veered in her direction, scattering everyone in its path.

As the donkey bucked, one of it’s hooves connected with the water-into-wine amphora, splitting it in two pieces and spilling the dregs of miracle wine onto the ground.

The ass finally broke free of John and charged down the road, screaming like a fire engine. Once free of its masters, it halted and went silent, at a loss for what to do with its unexpected liberation.

The crowd stilled as all eyes gazed into the innards of the broken jug. Inside the clay vessel, a smaller jar was joined to the top of the fluted spout. This jug-within-a-jug had a circular opening halfway down one side.

Everyone stared at the odd contraption.

“He conned us!” exclaimed the young man who first tasted the wine.

While everyone was focused on the crockery, Jesus slowly backed away. Two men noticed his creeping escape and grabbed hold of his pudgy arms.

The young man held up the broken jar. “When they poured the water, the hidden hole in the inner jar must have been at the top, keeping the wine in the outer jar separated from the water in the inner jar.” The man rotated the bifurcated vessel in his hands. “When you turn the jug, wine flowed through the hole and mixed with the small amount of water left in the inner jar, making it appear like the water transforming into wine!”

Frank said, “Hercule Poirot would be proud.”

My cheeks grew hot. I’d fallen for the simple magic trick along with all these people from two thousand years ago.

Mary stood tense, her eyes darting over the angry faces of the crowd, but Jesus acted as if he’d expected this for a long time.

His twelve apostles used the confusion to slip away.

An old woman threw one of the vials of holy anointing oil at Jesus and shouted, “What have you to say for yourself, dwarf?”

Jesus straightened as much as his undersized figure allowed. “I only wanted to offer you hope and a better world.”

“You wanted to trick us out of our money!”

“Where’s that blind beggar?” another woman asked.

Several men dragged Bartimaeus to the center of the mob, where he stood trembling like a stalk of wheat facing an approaching tornado.

“It was a genuine miracle, I swear!” the beggar insisted.

The woman pulled off bits of the scar tissue clinging to the edges of his eye sockets and rubbed the remains between her fingers. “It’s plaster!”

Mary stepped forward, and the crowd wilted back slightly under the power of her imperious gaze. “I’m also shocked that this man I’ve put my faith in is a fake, but the law — ”

The brawler shouted, “The Law of Moses decrees death by stoning for false prophets!”

A roar of agreement met this suggestion. The aggrieved mob snatched rocks from the road.

The men holding Jesus stepped back, out of the line of fire.

Mary ran in front of Jesus and stretched her hands wide, shielding the disgraced miracle worker. “I say to you all, he that is without sin among you, let him cast the first stone.”

Everyone in the crowd glanced at their neighbors, then flung their stones at the con man and his would-be protector. Mary turned her back and embraced Jesus, shielding his body with her own. After the first volley, several men pried her loose and dragged her aside.

The barrage of stones recommenced.

“Halt in the name of Caesar!” shouted the Roman soldier as half a dozen Legionaries rushed toward the disturbance. Once they’d shoved their way through the crowd, the fusillade ceased.

The brawler said, “We’re capable of dealing with this con man on our own.”

The captain of the Roman soldiers walked to within an inch of the brawler. “Rome is the law here.” His eyes were as hard as the gladius sword in his right fist. “We will transport this thief to Jerusalem, where Pontius Pilate, the legally appointed Prefect of Judea, will determine his punishment. Do you have a problem with that?”

“N-No, sir,” the brawler stammered as the gleaming tip of the blade hovered near his chest.

Jesus, bloody and dejected, was lifted onto one of his own donkeys, then led off toward Jerusalem under the guard of four Roman soldiers.

I exited the VH.

Frank’s head poked out of my shirt pocket. “You skipped the best part.”

“I have no desire to watch dwarf Jesus crucified,” I said. “Though it would be interesting to see if the empty tomb was — ”

“You aren’t seriously wondering if this con artist rose from the dead?”

Before I could reply, I noticed a stainless-steel robot reading a book in the seat beside me. Except for the subtle seams and rivets, her gleaming body was a perfect reproduction of a beautiful naked woman, right down to the raised metallic nipples. Her polished form glistened with reflections of the plane around her.

“Are you seeing this, Frank?” I whispered.

“You mean the guy reading the book?” Frank asked.

The incredibly sexy robot turned her gorgeous face toward me and said in a man’s voice, “How’s the play coming?”

Which rendered me temporarily speechless.

“You’re hallucinating again, aren’t you?” Frank asked.

I closed my eyes, shook my head, and opened them to look again. The sexy robot had turned back into the German with the goatee.

“Are you feeling okay?” he asked me.

“Uh, yeah,” I said. “I’m just a bit tired from studying my lines so hard.”

“What’s the name of the play?”

“It’s called the Eye of Horus,” I said without thinking.

“Cool name,” he said, and went back to reading his book.

“You could always start taking your meds, again,” Frank said.

“Where would I get a prescription filled on a plane?” I whispered.

“You still have that last bottle in the side zipper of your backpack.”

“I don’t have any side zipper in my — ” I reached down to my backpack at my feet and felt the zipper along the side. I opened it, reached in, and removed a plastic vial of my meds.

Creepy Robot guy was eyeing the bottle of pills in my hand.

Before he could say anything, I got up and made my way toward the back of the plane. Trying to control my trembling muscles, I asked a motherly flight attendant for a cup of water.

She nodded with a kindly smile and went into the galley.

I gazed down at the vial of pills, wondering what Angelica would do if I showed her the truth about Jesus.

Seemingly reading my mind once again, Frank said, “I wouldn’t show her the truth around any sharp objects.”

A man in a nearby seat said to the woman beside him, “Before getting on the plane, I heard a news report that the Chicago police identified the Gold Coast Serial Killer.”

I grabbed hold of a seat-back to steady myself. My tremors intensified.

“Did they catch him?” the woman asked.

“Not yet, but they raided this abandoned warehouse where he was living and found all sorts of evidence connecting him with the murders.”

“Did they give a name?”

“Anon,” the man said. “Short for Anonymous, I suppose.”

“Oh, shit,” Frank said.