The Lost Epistle
What if the Apostle Paul, author of 13 New Testament books and the theological father of orthodox Christianity, had succumbed to doubt in his old age? And what if he had penned a letter retracting everything he had said about the person and work of Jesus – a letter so dangerous that it gave rise to a secret society whose sole purpose was to guard the controversial text and preserve the rule of Mother Church?
And what if you discovered it?
When conservative seminary student Gail Jackson and liberal church history professor Jeremy Chadford team up on a quest to find the lost Pauline manuscript, their academic foray quickly morphs into a sinister saga of mystery and murder involving ancient Jewish Kabbala, Templar lore, Roman Catholic orthodoxy, and Protestant fundamentalism.
These competing interests grapple with a deadly effect to get their hands on the explosive ancient letter. But every discovery leads to new questions and renders the truth more elusive. Gail must find the Lost Epistle of Paul or risk the implosion of 2,000 years of Church history and the faith of millions.
Excerpts:
1.
“After all these years, after all the research and the ridicule, after all the sleepless nights and the gnawing despair that it didn’t exist, I’ve found an answer that no other biblical scholar or historian has even formulated a question for.” Gail felt the Professor’s hand tighten on her arm, but she remained silent and still.
“What have you found?” she whispered, not sure she remained silent and still.
“I’ve found a document that I believe to be an original writing by Paul himself,” came the stunning answer.
“What? One of his original biblical epistles?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Better. A thousand times better! I’ve discovered the existence of a lost epistle – what I’m certain is a letter written by Paul himself which is either his confession that he made it all up or that upon reflection he simply got it all wrong. And I’m convinced it’s written in his own hand.”
2.
The church seemed foreign to Gail’s sense of Protestant simplicity, and despite a sudden misgiving, she stepped across the threshold and walked into the narthex. The door swung closed behind her, echoing with a muted, reverberating thud. She walked forward a few steps, then, catching movement out of the corner of her eye, turned with a start and saw a darkly hooded figure receding silently into the deeper shadows of an alcove. It was probably just the parish priest on his nightly rounds.
She gazed upward above the door and saw a tall triangular stone relief carving, the centerpiece of which was a statue of Mary Magdalene. The statue was set on a pedestal standing out from the wall, flanked on either side by rose bushes. Mary’s face was serene though somber. Below her was a Latin inscription of some sort. Gail moved forward a bit and squinted into the gloom. She could just make it out.
“Terribilis est locus iste.” She mouthed the words. It took her a moment to fathom the meaning. “This place is terrible,” she whispered with a shudder and a foreboding sense of agreement.
3.
One by one, the old men fell, their swords and shield clattering to the floor, their dark blood puddling or tracing the seams in the stone. Finally, only Charles Veronne was left. In spite of dark wounds in his arms and side, he continued to chop and stab at Martin, who had by now also fallen. Martin still held the Glock, but he was covered from head to toe with grisly, angrily bleeding gashes. Gordon barely recognized Martin. His neck and face wept blood from a score of deep lacerations, and the red spatter from his wounds cascaded over Charles to cleanse him of his rage like the washing of the baptismal font. He was clearly dying, but so was the wounded Veronne, who staggered as if drunk under the weight of his sword and armor.
With both hands, Charles lifted his bloody sword above his head for one final, killing blow. “This is for the Order,” he croaked.
“And this for the Priory!” answered Martin through mangled lips. He swung the Glock upward.