Cover

“STOP, MATTHIAS! PLEASE!
YOU MUST NOT DEFILE THE GRAVE!”

“How can one defile a grave in which there are no bodies?” I roared between pulls. “Listen to me, please. Earlier you said that I was the investigator and you were my guide, did you not?”

He nodded sadly.

“And you brought me here, after I made that dumb wish on the Carson program, so I could discover the truth for myself, whatever that may be, correct?”

He nodded again and without turning, he pointed back over his shoulder toward the tomb of Lazarus. “And you expect to find the truth in there?”

“I don’t know.”

“All you will find in there, Matthias, are three empty shelves and a few worms. What are you looking for, my son?”

“I’m looking for the remains of a body.”

“A body? Whose body?”

“The body of Jesus.”

Other Books by This Author

Bantam Books by Og Mandino

A BETTER WAY TO LIVE

THE CHOICE

THE CHRIST COMMISSION

THE GIFT OF ACABAR (with Buddy Kaye)

THE GREATEST MIRACLE IN THE WORLD

THE GREATEST SALESMAN IN THE WORLD

THE GREATEST SALESMAN IN THE WORLD,

PART II: The End of the Story

THE GREATEST SECRET IN THE WORLD

THE GREATEST SUCCESS IN THE WORLD

MISSION: SUCCESS!

OG MANDINO’S UNIVERSITY OF SUCCESS

THE RETURN OF THE RAGPICKER

Title Page

Copyright

This edition contains the complete text
of the original hardcover edition.
NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.

THE CHRIST COMMISSION
A Bantam Book

PUBLISHING HISTORY
Lippincott edition published April 1980
Bantam paperback edition / May 1981

All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1980 by Og Mandino.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
For information address: Bantam Books.

eISBN: 978-0-307-78089-8

Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.

v3.1_r1

Dedication

For two men named Silvio,
my father and my brother.

Epigraph

If a man will begin with certainties,
he shall end in doubts;
but if he will be content to begin with doubts,
he shall end in certainties.
Francis Bacon

one

I SETTLED BACK into the crushed ebony velour of the Cadillac limousine’s spacious rear seat and checked my Omega. The ride to NBC’s Burbank Studios, according to the public relations people handling my tour, would take at least fifty minutes in the late-afternoon traffic.

This was the big one, a perfect climax to three weeks of newspaper interviews, personal appearances on radio and television talk shows, and autograph parties in bookstores from coast to coast. If only I had known how big this night was going to rank in my life, I might have remained in my room at the Century Plaza, double-locked the door, and watched television in my pajamas.

“Ever been on the Carson show before, Mr. Lawrence?”

I shook my head at the inquisitive brown eyes squinting back at me from the distant rearview mirror. Although I was heading for my sixty-first media appearance in twenty days, I felt tense for the first time. I had already managed to conduct myself on the Donahue show with some measure of aplomb, visited with Merv, joked with Snyder, and even held hands with Dinah. So why the butterflies now? I closed my eyes and tried to relax, hoping the Tanner limo people had sent a chauffeur who was not a talker. No such luck.

“I’ve read a lot of your books, Mr. Lawrence. Ter-r-r-r-ific! My wife and I, we both love ’em.”

“You’re very kind,” I replied, before I could stop myself. Reflex action. A simple phrase used repeatedly by many authors to acknowledge the heady and often embarrassing praise heaped on them by their fans. I had never realized how banal those words sounded until I shared an autograph session with Erma Bombeck and we caught each other mouthing the same response as we signed our weary signatures. Erma thought it was hilarious, but we both decided to be more creative in the humility department from then on.

My driver skillfully eased his glistening chariot out of the hotel’s Mercedes-cluttered circular driveway and onto the Avenue of the Stars. “You must be some kind of smar-r-rt man, Mr. Lawrence, yessir! A genius! Don’t know how you think up all those impossible crimes and then put all the pieces together. Never have been able to figure out who the murderer is until the very last pages. Never! Your stuff is even better than those old Sherlock Holmes things—yessir!”

“Thank you.”

I tilted my head back and closed my eyes again, taking care not to cross my legs and wrinkle the Calvin Klein brown tweed that my wife, Kitty, had insisted I wear for the “Tonight Show.” Sherlock Holmes, did the man say? As we glided on our radial cushions toward Burbank, I tried to keep my mind off the show by recalling all the masters of mystery fiction I had been compared with during the tour. Rex Stout and Agatha Christie had been mentioned often, as well as my favorite, S. S. Van Dine. John Dickson Carr’s name had also come up frequently, and Ellery Queen had been suggested by a Chicago Sun-Times reporter who didn’t know that two cousins, Manfred B. Lee and Frederic Dannay, had written under the Queen pseudonym and that Mr. Lee had now gone on to that great inner sanctum in the sky. One intense young woman from Writer’s Digest had even compared what she gushingly called the “vivid realism” of my writing to France’s best, Georges Simenon. The temptation had been strong to tell her that she was being “very kind,” but I resisted. Everyone enjoys a little flattery, even when they know it’s not true.

With all twenty-six of my detective novels still available in paperback and selling as well as when they were first published, both Kitty and my publishers had argued against my going on tour. She had insisted that it was an unnecessary intrusion on my time and energy and they agreed, maintaining that every Matt Lawrence book always made the best-seller lists anyway. Still, I prevailed. I had never been on an author’s promotional merry-go-round before, and I thought the experience would be a good change of pace. It might even supply me with some fresh story material.

Looking back, I had enjoyed every silly day and night of it, as Elia Kazan had said I would. I had no idea whether my appearances had helped or hurt the sales of my latest effort, Where Weep the Silver Willows, but now that it was ending for me, after Carson, I almost regretted having to return to the quiet serenity of our Camelback Mountain home, high above the city of Phoenix.

Exactly forty-eight minutes after I entered the limousine it turned off West Alameda into a forest of high wire fencing, paused at an inner gate long enough for the guard to recognize my driver, and then eased alongside an unmarked door. I thanked my enthusiastic fan behind the steering wheel and went in, immediately recognizing the small, anxious blonde from my publisher’s public relations firm. She had almost given me a coronary yesterday morning, by expertly demonstrating the high-speed cornering ability of her Porsche 924 after we had fallen behind schedule for a taped interview in the posh patio coffee shop at the Beverly Hills Hotel.

“Hi, Mary—or should I start calling you Mario?”

She ignored my weak attempt at humor. “Oh, Mr. Lawrence, we were beginning to worry. Gee, you look great! Just like that handsome hunk in the Wind Song perfume commercials!”

“Well, young lady, never having seen those commercials, I don’t know whether I’m being complimented or placed in a category that I doubt would appeal to me.”

She tossed her head saucily and laughed. “Oh, yes you do! Follow me. I’ll take you to the famous green room. The other guests are all there, I think. Taping will begin in about thirty minutes.”

Inside the green room—that isn’t green—Mary introduced me to a young man on Johnny Carson’s staff whose name was Alfred. Then she kissed me lightly on the cheek, wished me luck, and was gone. Alfred asked if I would like to meet the other guests on the show, and I said I would. First I shook hands with Charles Nelson Reilly, comedian and director. Reilly admitted to having been a Lawrence fan for years and proved it by rattling off at least a dozen titles of mine. I responded by complimenting him for his sensitive direction of the Julie Harris tour de force portraying Emily Dickinson’s troubled life.

Next, Jimmy Stewart, looking bigger than life, came over and introduced himself. We found our common ground quickly, having both served in the Eighth Air Force during World War II. Finally, I shook hands with a ravishing brunette singer, Donna Theodore, who reminded me very much of our old squadron’s favorite pin-up girl, Jane Russell.

Eventually the friends of the guests were courteously asked to leave, and the four of us were left to uplift each other’s waning courage. We failed miserably. There’s something so mind-boggling, even to show-biz personalities, in knowing that what you say and do will be shown to fifteen million people that only a lunatic or a complete fool would not feel inhibited. Except for a few throwaway remarks about the ubiquitous smog and California’s Jerry Brown, little was said by any of us until we heard Ed McMahon exclaim, “He-e-e-re’s Johnny!” and everyone gratefully directed their undivided attention toward the huge RCA television set.

Johnny’s monologue chided the Los Angeles Dodgers for their long losing streak, needled the current Congress for its inability to pass any legislation except another raise for its members, and unloaded on used-car dealers whose opinion of their own sales abilities is so inflated that they insist on appearing in their own obnoxious television commercials with props ranging from boa constrictors to Dolly Parton look-alikes. Charles Nelson Reilly almost made me forget my nervousness when he described his run-in with a coast guard cutter while desperately trying to bring a runaway engine on his small boat under control. Then Jimmy Stewart showed film clips of a forthcoming special he was hosting, on another network, dealing with unidentified flying objects, and Donna Theodore belted out two rock hits that seemed completely implausible, to me, coming from such a regal and lovely woman.

Alfred startled me. “You’re in luck, Mr. Lawrence!”

“Oh? How is that?”

“You’re on right after the next two-minute station break, and it looks as if you’ll have as much as fourteen or fifteen minutes with Mr. Carson.”

“Wonderful! That will put me right up there with Carl Sagan and Paul Ehrlich!”

“What? Oh, yes … that’s funny. Fun-ny.” He wasn’t smiling. “Can you handle that much time okay?”

Having done nearly two hours, only three nights earlier, on Larry King’s network radio show, I patted Alfred’s fuzzy cheek and replied, “I’ll try, son, I’ll try.”

“Follow me, sir … and please watch your step. It’s rather dark, backstage.”

The band was playing on the other side of the curtain, entertaining the studio audience while the viewers across the nation were being instructed on the benefits of Alpo dog food and Jaymar slacks. Alfred leaned close to my right ear and shouted, “Stand here, please, until I pull back the curtain. Then—step out, take three steps forward, and turn right toward Mr. Carson. Careful you don’t stumble when you step up onto that platform around his desk!”

I nodded, wishing as I always did, just before making an appearance on any program, that I was back on Camelback Mountain, sitting by my pool with my basset hound and a good book. Suddenly Alfred, who had his ear close to the curtain separation, tugged at the heavy drapery and patted my back. The lights momentarily blinded me as I stepped forward and smiled. I waved to an audience I still could not see, turned right as instructed, stepped up on the platform, and grasped Johnny’s hand. Then I turned, kissed Donna’s cheek, and shook hands with Jimmy and Charles and Ed.

“Mr. Lawrence,” Johnny said warmly, “I’ve been a fan of yours for years. Welcome!”

“Thank you. It’s a pleasure to be here.”

“Why haven’t we had you on before?” Johnny frowned, cocking his head so that the question was directed to me and also to director Freddy DeCordova, sitting off camera in the left front row with his headphones and face mike.

“I’ve never done much radio or television, Johnny. Fortunately for me, the books have always sold so well I think my publishers suspected that all I could possibly do by making personal appearances would be to foul up a good thing. Most authors, from what I’ve seen, should be locked up as soon as their books are published anyway, because every time they open their mouths their book sales drop.”

Johnny grinned and nodded. “I’ll buy that. How many of your books have been sold—do you have any idea?”

“Not exactly, because they’re also in so many foreign languages, but I would estimate somewhere around eighty million copies in all editions.”

The audience moaned admiringly.

“Eighty million? Let’s see now.” Johnny picked up a pencil and wet its lead tip on his tongue. “If your royalty is a quarter apiece, that would be twenty-five cents times eighty million … good heavens!” The audience giggled.

We discussed several of my books that had become motion pictures. Johnny’s favorite had been The Century Plant, and Jimmy said he had most enjoyed the Academy Award winner, Scarecrow. Then Johnny checked his notes and briefly touched on several real-life crimes where police had called me in to act as consultant. My most celebrated case, of course, had been the solution of the terrible Houston hammer murders, five years after they had been committed.

Following another break for commercials, Johnny shifted his discussion and moved to a first-name basis. “Matt, have you ever started a book that you couldn’t finish—one where your own plot got so complicated that you couldn’t even unravel it yourself?”

I hesitated. All my little internal self-preservation bells were ringing, warning me that we were approaching perilous waters. My instincts told me to shut up and just answer in the negative, but instead I replied, “Yes, as a matter of fact I’ve been struggling with that kind of a book since long before I wrote my first murder mystery—for more than twenty years.”

“Twenty years! Wow! Can you tell us about it?”

Now it was too late to retreat. “Well, Johnny, I’ve always been fascinated by biblical novels—you know, Ben Hur, The Robe, The Silver Chalice—and for many years I’ve been studying books dealing with the life of Jesus. I probably have one of the most complete collections of its kind in the world—at least, privately owned. My unfinished work deals with a fictional investigation into the last week in Jesus’ life, a week filled with suspense, drama, mystery, and many personalities who either hated him or loved him. Of course, in those times, there were no detectives as we know them now, but history tells us that fact-finding commissions were used often, by both the Romans and the Jews, similar in character and purpose to those we still assemble today for investigative purposes.”

“You mean … like our Watergate Commission or the Warren Commission?”

“Exactly—and, most recently, the House Committee on Assassinations that re-examined the Kennedy and King deaths. My still incomplete manuscript, a biblical mystery novel if you will, concerns an investigation conducted by a commission comprised of three Roman tribunes, all learned men, into the death of Jesus, and I have it taking place six years after his crucifixion.”

“Six years after …?”

“Yes. By then the Roman governor of Syria, Lucius Vitellius, had become greatly concerned about the growing number of Jesus’ followers, who were now calling themselves Christians and stirring up the people in the province under his command, a large territory that included Israel—or Judaea, as Rome called the small nation of conquered Jews. In my book I have Vitellius forming a commission which he dispatches to Judaea with one objective: to put to rest, once and for all, the rumors being circulated by this potentially dangerous new wave of troublemakers that their crucified leader has risen from the dead, after his execution, and is the long-awaited Messiah who will soon return to free the people from the chains of Rome.”

Johnny frowned, and the audience became as still as if we were in an empty studio. “How on earth would you have them do that?”

“My commission’s plan of action is simple. They set out to prove that Jesus did not rise from his tomb but that his body was stolen, instead, by parties unknown, who moved it to another grave, thus enabling his disciples to capitalize on a miraculous event that never took place. I selected the sixth year after his crucifixion for the time setting of my book because history, as well as the New Testament, confirms that most of the main participants and witnesses to the events of the last week were still in Jerusalem. The commission would intend to hear testimony from everyone involved with Jesus and to investigate every possible lead until they finally learn the identity of the culprits who removed the body and where they have hidden it. Then they would obtain signed confessions, by any means necessary, from those who deceived the people, after which they intend to crucify them with their signed confessions posted prominently below their bodies for all to see. The remains of Jesus would also be recovered and displayed, thus destroying this dangerous new movement before it gets completely out of hand and threatens the peace of Rome. In my book I even give the panel of three tribunes a name: the Christ Commission—which, by the way, is also the book’s title.”

Johnny looked puzzled. For several moments he nervously tapped a pencil on his desk top before he reached over and touched my arm. “Matt, I’m not sure I follow you. Do you mean that for twenty years you’ve been writing a book where you expect to prove, through the testimony of those who knew Jesus, that he did not rise from the dead?”

From out of the corner of my eye I could see Ed McMahon leaning forward. I was certain that the big guy was glaring at me. I shook my head. “No, Johnny. I was writing it so that as the plot develops, and the commission examines such witnesses as Pontius Pilate, Peter, Matthew, James, the high priest Caiaphas, and several more, they would gradually begin to realize that the evidence is pointing in a direction other than they had anticipated and they will never be able to recover the body of Jesus, or apprehend any culprits involved in a grave robbery, because none has taken place. At the end of my book, according to my original plans, both the Christ Commission and my readers would, I hoped, come to the same conclusion: that Jesus did indeed rise from his tomb in the garden sometime before dawn on that Sunday long ago.”

“Fascinating … fascinating,” Johnny murmured, interrupting a smattering of nervous applause. “Why don’t you finish it, Matt? It would make a great book, especially with your ability to make complicated facts and clues so easy to understand. It would be the detective mystery to end all detective mysteries.”

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