Luke 7:1-10
When I first heard about my posting to the backwater of Palestine, I was aghast.
I was a member of the Praetorian Guard, charged with protecting the emperor. It was perhaps the best that a third son from a noble family could aspire to and I was a model soldier.
It is true that in my secret heart what I really longed to do was to study and learn. I was captivated by the philosophy of the Greeks thanks to my tutor Demetrius. Perhaps I was not wise enough to keep my learning to myself for I found myself one day in front of a tribunal accused of atheism and lack of respect for the gods. Of course, the charges were inflated and misleading, yet there was in them a grain of truth. And when I say a grain, I really mean a bushel! I did not respect the gods. Indeed, who could? What kind of god worthy of worship spends all his energy trying to have sex with maidens, as Jupiter did? Our gods were merely men with superhuman abilities: proud, impulsive and violent.
So now I command a hundred men here in this hot dusty land full of religious zealots and wild-eyed priests. It is as unlike proud, cosmopolitan Rome as a pig is from a horse and yet I am content. For one thing, the people here, the Jews, follow one God whose name cannot be spoken and they live their lives attempting obedience to their Law which sets out ethical behaviour in a bewildering array of situations.
Because I know that ruling a people is easier when you understand what drives them, I made it my new study to learn as much about these Jews as I could. In this, Demetrius was my willing accomplice. Together we would go to the town square of Capernaum to listen to their scholars debate and discuss their sacred teachings.
Their God does not resemble our gods in the slightest. This God rules over his people like a shepherd with his flock. They speak of him being full of undying love. Love? A God whose lives to love his creation? Demetrius turned to me and nodded in that quick Greek way of his. “This is a God worth serving.”
What work is there for a soldier in Palestine? Oh much, my friends! You must know that these Jews see themselves as a Chosen people. You can understand this when you hear their stories. Consider their father, Abraham, the founder of the race. He was walking in a field one day and he heard the voice of this God telling him to pack up his whole family and all of his portable possessions and strike out for a country he had never seen before. Here is another of their stories. These Jews were captives in Egypt many years ago, enslaved to a pharaoh who treated them like scum. A shepherd named Moses is walking in the desert when he sees a burning bush. From out of this bush, he hears the voice of God telling him to set free the Jews, his people. He goes straightaway to the Pharaoh and demands freedom for his people and he gets it! And the Jews have many such stories of divine intervention: marching around a walled city until the walls of themselves come tumbling down, a shepherd boy slaying a huge giant with only a sling. I could go on and on.
Where was I? Oh yes, you can see why they see themselves as a chosen people. As a people special to God’s heart, you can imagine that they do not see Rome as a worthy ruler. Are they grateful for Roman roads, Roman culture and Roman peace? My friends, they are not! They are a people given to rebellion and stiff-neckedness, eager to send we Romans packing. And now the talk of Capernaum is all of their Messiah.
What is a Messiah? As nearly as Demetrius and I could understand, the Messiah is a sort of God-King come to earth to build a holy Kingdom. Bad news for Rome, you say? Ah, we will see, we will see.
My task, as I see it, is to deprive rebels of any cause to rebel. I am not the governor it is true, but I have it in my power to do good to these Jews. It was Demetrius, subtle, cunning Greek that he is, that first put the idea into my head to build them a meeting place, a synagogue. As he pointed out, a grateful people are slower to rebel. I will say that my visits to the synagogue were more than just a show of support; I was truly fascinated with the idea of a loving God and as a military man, I liked the idea of a God who rewarded good behaviour and punished sin instead of indulging in it himself.
One day Demetrius came to me all excited about a strange tale he had heard in the streets. There was a Jewish miracle worker who was in the countryside amazing scholars with his teaching and overwhelming the poor with healings and deliverances. The talk was that this could be, must be, the Messiah long promised.
“I can’t say I like the sound of that,” I said gruffly. “Every time these Jews find a new Messiah, it means rebellion against Rome!”
“This man, Jesus, might be a different kettle of fish,” said Demetrius, his eyes twinkling. “He teaches his followers not to resist oppression. He told him that when they are struck on the cheek, to present the other one for a smack.”
“That doesn’t sound like a very Jewish sentiment,” I said. “I thought their scripture taught to take an eye for an eye or a tooth for a tooth.”
“His teachings are as strange to my ears as they are to yours, master. But all the same...I find them profoundly exciting!”
“I’ll tell you what, Demetrius. Why don’t you join with this Jew’s entourage and keep your ears open for any whiff of rebellion?”
Over the next few weeks, Demetrius would come back for our little symposiums and he would share with me what he’d learned. It was the most amazing blend of rustic story-telling and powerful preaching. But the amazing thing, according to Demetrius, was this man’s authority. Sick men and women presented themselves to him and with a few words or a touch, all signs of sickness would flee.
“He cures men without medicine,” said Demetrius in a hushed voice. “I saw him heal a blind man by simply telling him to see! I tell you, the man has the spirit of Asclepius on him!”
“Every magician worthy of his salt has hidden tricks,” I suggested.
“I am not an easily gulled peasant,” said Demetrius, highly affronted. “Believe me master, this man is different. What if he is the Messiah?”
“Oh Demetrius, they are making a Jew out of you!” I laughed.
“I wonder...” he said.
One day, I got out of bed to break my fast, but to my surprise Demetrius was nowhere to be seen. It was unlike him to miss a meal. I went to his room to berate him for lollygagging in bed. To my shock, his face was as white as milk and an acrid smell filled the room.
“Demetrius,” I cried. He groaned hollowly but could not speak. Immediately I summoned a slave to run for a doctor.
The doctor, another Greek, poked Demetrius in his abdomen and checked his saliva. He turned to me and shook his head. “He will surely die. It is the plague from the East.”
I dismissed the doctor with a piece of silver and called my optio in.
“Take some men with you and go to the Jewish healer Jesus and ask him to heal my servant Demetrius.” I commanded. He saluted without comment and quickly marched away.
+++++++++++++
I looked up from the fire where I was grilling a fish. Romans! What were they doing here? I must protect my master, I thought. I picked up a staff and ran to where Jesus was resting.
“Master, wake up! Romans are coming!” I shouted.
“What do they want, Simon Peter?” he asked yawning and stretching.
“I don’t know yet. I came to you first!”
“Well, let’s find out what they want.” He smiled at me in that way that makes you love him.
The Romans had come to ask Jesus to heal one of their slaves. I knew that he would refuse to do such a thing because these were Gentiles, but to my surprise he just nodded and got up to go with them.
We started to walk the long dusty road to the villas of Capernaum when another Roman soldier came to us and saluted.
Jesus smiled and waited. He did not return the salute!
“My centurion greets you and begs you not to come to his villa. He has told me to tell you just to speak a word. He knows that it will be sufficient to heal his servant. He, himself, is a man under authority so he understands that you have the authority to do this.”
I tell you, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Jesus look surprised before but his eyes were wide and a shocked smile was playing about his mouth.
“You Romans amaze me!” he said. “I haven’t seen this kind of faith before among my own people and now you foreigners come to me and demonstrate true faith. I tell you, your servant is healed from this very moment!”
The Roman saluted again, turned on his heal and marched back into the early morning.
+++
Demetrius’ eyes opened slowly. His face was starting to get its colour back. He looked up and me and grinned.
“I dreamed that I was about to cross the river Styx,” He said “When suddenly a man with a loud voice called to Charon and said, ‘You have no authority over this one! He belongs to me!’”
“What happened then?” I asked.
“Charon nodded and turned the ship around and brought me back to the land of the living souls.” He clapped me on the shoulder and told me that he would pick me up another time!
“Who was the man who called to you from the land of the living souls?”
“It was that Jewish healer Jesus. I tell you, sir, there is something very different about him.”
“I’m inclined to agree with you. Now get out of bed you lazy slave. My breakfast awaits its usual companion!”
+++
What a charming story. But there is a very interesting point to it which I hope you picked up on. It has to do with authority.
I remember many sessions where some unfortunate soul would come to me and ask that I pray for their healing. I always felt that somehow I had to drum up the faith to heal them, somehow I had to psyche myself and the sick person up so that God would see our faith and bring healing. I rather resented Jesus for doing it all so effortlessly! He would speak a word or touch the sick person and boom they would recover! No fair, Jesus! Why can’t I do that?
How is it that Jesus was able to operate in such authority? Is it because he knows who he is? Is it because he is so intimately tied to his Father that he can perceive what his Father is already doing and climb onboard with it?
Authority is not a star that falls from heaven and creates a crown on our heads. It is a closeness, an intimacy with God so that we know we have permission to join him in healing people. As long as I think that I (gifted soul that I am) am the healer, I will never bring healing. But if I see that God is already at work, I am welcome to join him, to come under the canopy of his authority.
Amen
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Leo Rex
I am the ugliest man ever to ascend to the Seat of St. Peter.
It is my ears: they explode from my head like gull’s wings, giving me the appearance of an aircraft coming in for a landing. This effect is not improved by the squatness of my nose, rudely hewn and plopped down like a potato under my watery grey eyes.
I have heard it said that appearance is destiny so my celibacy seemed like a foregone conclusion. After all, what woman would link the happiness of her future children to so homely a sire?
They call me Leo Rex, King Lion, and what a jungle I am lord over! The Vatican is dense, steamy and full of pitfalls and hungry carnivores. How did I come to be here?
I am here because of Cardinal Vicini. He knew that his many enemies would block his bid for the papacy, so he put all of his considerable guile and strength to plucking this little Carmelite abbot from obscurity and making me his candidate. Vicini is well-hated but then so were all of the other contenders for the triple-crown. I alone had no enemies. They say that a man without enemies is a man with only friends. So it proved, for when the white smoke streamed into the Vatican sky, it was this humble Carmelite who was anointed Pope.
Does this strike you as being an Ugly Duckling story? How I wish it were. How wonderful to see ugly Maximo transform into beautiful Leo and live happily ever after! Alas. My story is more like Goldilocks and the Three Bears, if Goldilocks had an iron grey tonsure and there were at least a thousand bears.
I hear you protest: but Maximo, you are il Papa, the Supreme Pontiff! Surely all must bow before your decrees! How can you call yourself a Goldilocks? I smile grimly at your assumption. You must be in my shoes to know how I must navigate this Latin swamp.
Vicini is chief of my bears. Imagine a bruin with silver hair, well-manicured claws, a dulcet growl and you have the illustrious Cardinal. He had hoped that bringing me to the throne would allow him to control its power. I’m afraid that he thought he would be Geppetto to my Pinocchio, pulling the strings and naming the tune that I would dance to. Sadly for Vicini, Pinocchio is turning out to be a real boy.
I am a man of prayer. Of course, it is assumed that all Popes must be devoted to divine intercourse, but Lord Acton’s words are reflected in most papal histories: absolute power corrupting absolutely. Popes of necessity become politicos.
No doubt, it was my books of meditation and prayer that attracted the Cardinal’s attention. Oho, thought he, a holy fool to make a papal puppet!
But I was and remain a man of prayer, thank God.
Of course, God himself is my biggest bear.
He has put it on my heart to take our Holy Church and put it into a rock tumbler. I am to deprive the Church of her celibate priesthood.
Oh, I know, I know! What is the Church without her abstentious leadership? Is it still the Holy Catholic Church? How then are we different than the Protestants or the Eastern Church? You don’t have to tell me.
And yet.
I was praying in my private chapel. Oh no, not that private chapel. Private? Moths pinned under glass have more privacy than the Holy Father at prayer. No, my chapel is a certain hillside near Siena, the grassy slopes where the trees mass together at the bottom like village women gathering at the well. This was my private place with God, my resting place.
My chauffeur, Antonio, longs to be a spy, working for the CIA or M16 perhaps. It is a wonderful for me to have a co-conspirator like him. He can whisk me away without any of my so-called servants knowing where their pope is. I don’t know how he does it, but no sooner do I give him my pleading sign than we are roaring down the road in a sporty Fiat toward the Tuscan hills.
Antonio stays with the smoking car while I walk through the golden grass and pray.
So it was last Tuesday in the middle of the afternoon on an almost warm day in early April. I was walking and listening. Listening? Was the Pope hearing voices? Was the homely Carmelite becoming a mystic like Francis or Teresa? Do not make me blush.
But God’s lambs hear his voice says John the Divine and this lamb was listening.
What does God sound like, you are wondering? He is never what you’d expect. He is always more stern and more loving, more joyous and more terrifying than the safely crucified Christ, pinned to his cross. Do I blaspheme? Please understand me, I am a lover of God, but my Jesus is not the meek Victorian schoolgirl painted by so many: the pale Jesus with haunted eyes and long blond hair. My Galilean is more of a whirlwind, a desert storm! When I walk with him, I am stirred, shaken, calmed and directed. I am not placated, spoiled or spoken down to. What is it you Americans say? Jesus is not my shrink.
I was walking on that fateful Tuesday and listening.
“What am I to do?” I prayed. I was full of concern for my poor benighted Church. I had heard rumours of yet another sexual scandal involving priests and children. My heart was torn with rage and anguish. I was desperate to receive some consolation, a ‘there, there Maximo’ from my Jesus.
“What should you do?” asked Jesus.
“What can I do?” I muttered.
“What did I do?” he asked.
I remembered the account of the Temple Cleansing. Jesus saw his Father’s house given over to money-changing and the sale of sacrificial animals. His lip did not tremble; his eyes did not tear up; he did not sigh with sorrow. No, Jesus took a whip and cleared the money-changers out. He physically removed those who adulterated the Temple. “My house shall be a house of prayer!’ he cried.
I was shaken. I pictured myself wielding a whip and driving the fallen priests out of the Holy Church.
“I will drive them all out of your house!” I promised.
“You are looking at fruit; I want you to deal with roots,” he said.
“I don’t understand,” I pleaded.
But he had said all that he would. I was left to meditate over the whole affair. I pondered a priesthood that could hide pedophiles. Would a married priesthood be less of a haven for broken men? Was that what I needed to do?
I needed to talk to a wise counsellor, so I flagged down Antonio and directed him to drive to Napoli and the office of my spiritual director.
Catherine is the most beautiful woman I know, and she is as wise as she is lovely. Her nut brown skin is caught up in laughing wrinkles. She is textured and noble. She outweighs me by about fifty pounds and she laughs like a wave coming over the seashore.
“You want to do what?” she asked, her eyes wide.
“I know!” I cried. “Tell me that I’m delusional! Tell me that I’m not a realist! But what can I do?”
“You really think that removing celibacy as a condition for the priesthood will make pedophiles choose another vocation?”
“I don’t know if it will,” I said more quietly. “I think that some choose the priesthood because they hope it will be a safe haven from the urges that tear them up and perhaps they reason that God will heal them if they prove themselves to him?”
“So you would change the requirement of celibacy to strain out a few offenders?”
“It takes only a little yeast to leaven the whole lump of dough.” I could quote Scripture with the best of them. But then so could the Devil. This was why I needed the wisdom of my director.
“Have you spoken with anybody else about this?” she asked.
“Good God, no.”
“That is well,” she said. “Maximo, you must make this a matter of urgent prayer and study. Consult with the best minds and stay malleable in God’s hands. Come back to me in two weeks and we will discuss it further.”
+++
What are you up to, Leo Rex, slippery feline that you are? What are you doing when my spies lose sight of you? Your dismissive answers to my questions fill me with the deepest of suspicions. You say you need privacy to pray? I wonder.
I don’t trust you. I cannot understand you or your motives. I should have been Pope! All my life, I was groomed for the supreme post. I would have made the Church glorious again. A true power such as the world has not seen since Innocent III! What have you accomplished? You refuse my advice, saying “Oh Vicini! Our call is to be in the world but not of it. You want to be the world!” What nonsense! How is it possible to be a governor without bearing the burden of governing: protecting your back, knowing your enemies, placating your allies?
I will speak with Antonio again. A simple man like him will not long keep secrets from one such as I. Brother Feo, my first confessor, always said that I would have made a better lawyer than a priest. He should know! His cross examinations were always a model of Jesuit fine-toothed combing. I seldom left his presence without a surfeit of penances.
So, Antonio, what was the Pope doing in Napoli?
+++
Herr Doktor Carlinus Tropp has blue eyes that twinkle when his mind is racing from thought to thought. When I was in St. Piex Seminary, I was lucky enough to have Linus as a room-mate and a chess adversary.
It was glorious to watch him pull out the professor’s presuppositions and smite them with Teutonic wrath during our philosophy of religion classes. His dogged determination to find the truth delighted half of our teachers and terrified the rest. Woe betide the instructor who tried to palm off Linus by pulling out such chestnuts as “But, that is what the Church teaches, so you must accept it as true, Tropp!”
Linus has an office in the University but I needed to find a solitary place to meet. We met in an apartment that Antonio rents for my private meetings. I fear his spy-games mindset is beginning to rub off on me.
“So Leo XIV will be known as the pope who did away with celibacy, eh?” said Linus, pausing to drain the rest of his Dunkel Weizen. When he looked up at me, I smiled to see that a bit of foam was clinging to his moustache.
“Why would you do such a thing, Maximo?”
“I don’t intend to do away with celibacy, per se, but only to remove it as a prerequisite for the priesthood.”
“But why?” he repeated.
I told him about my vision and watched him shrug his shoulders. “I am no mystic Maximo. If you are planning to do such a thing you must be prepared to debate!” This was the Linus that I needed.
“Teach me then, Herr Professor! Illuminate your pope.”
He put his fingers together in a steeple and I could see his eyes sparkle as he marshalled his soldiers in ranks.
“We start with our first Pope, St. Peter. Married. In fact, there was no requirement for celibacy until the 12th century. Are we saying that a millennium of priests were all heretics?” On went the good Doktor dissecting and examining the issues. He dealt cleanly with the Pauline dogma that an unattached believer is more free to serve God, and chewed over the interesting idea that an unmarried man would give excellent advice as a marriage counsellor to his parishioners. By the time he had summed up, I was even more certain that I needed to do the unthinkable.
He looked at me with concern. “Have you considered how your enemies will attack you Maximo?” he asked.
“Go ahead. Tell me.”
“At the very least they will call you a hypocrite. ‘The Pope demands a married clergy but is unwilling to get a bride himself!’ they will say.”
“I told you already, I do not intend to foist marriage on my priests; I simply want to give them the choice!”
“You will still be called to practice what you preach, you know. If you remember your Church History, Luther fought priestly celibacy and his reward was a wife!”
“Can you imagine a woman near-sighted enough to marry me?” I laughed. He did not share in my mirth, instead he sighed. “You are making jokes? So might a chicken do as it is put in the stew pot.”
“This bird is tough enough, I assure you,” I said. He shrugged as if to say, we shall see.
+++
I only knew Dr. Althuis by her reputation. She was a clinical psychologist working with issues of sexual identity and imprinting. I needed to know how it was that people became pedophiliacs. We spoke of brain structure and past traumas, of alcohol and violence. I asked her whether removing celibacy as a condition of priesthood would keep them out of the priesthood.
“You misunderstand the nature of pedophilia if you think that marriage will offer a solution,” she said, her lips pressed tightly together. “Protestant ministers have pedophiliacs in their number too. It is a myth to think that only the unmarried can be offenders.”
“Is a cure hopeless then?” I asked, my heart leaden within me.
“Perhaps the solution lies with a different approach to screening potential priests,” she said. She had a haunted look in her eyes like one who has seen too much suffering. “The Church must do a better job of uncovering men who have a genuine vocation for the priesthood and those fleeing from their own torn psyches.”
I thanked her and made my way back to Antonio.
+++
It was clear that I had made a profoundly impulsive leap with not enough information. My assumption that all I had to do was to offer the option of marriage to discourage pedophiles from entering the priesthood was flawed. Perhaps that is why Jesus’ last words to me were about roots rather than fruit.
How could I make my Church safe? How could I ensure that pedophiles did not become priests? Unfortunately, there is no unified theory as to why men become child-abusers. Dr. Althuis was clear about this. Theories abounded: perhaps it was a problem with the brain chemistry, or a question of abuse, or could it be spiritual in nature. How could the Church screen this? Was it necessary to make every candidate take an MRI? I needed to confer with my director again.
+++
“I am the pope, Catherine. If I cannot find a way, how will my Church fare?” I jumped up from my chair and paced through her office, prodding her many leather bound books and fidgeting.
“You are not listening to me, Maximo. What was the last thing Jesus told you?” She remained as calm as ever.
“He told me to concern myself with roots not fruit.” I picked up a statue of St. John and began to polish it with my sleeve.
“And how do you interpret his command?” She took the statue from me and pointed to a chair.
“The fruits are abusive priests; the roots are the cause of this sin.” I sat down again, chastened.
“Very well then. Your task is not just to protect your Church but also to bring healing to its damaged members. The Shepherd bears not only a rod and staff but also oil for healing.”
+++
“Oh come, Antonio, surely you can tell me something more than that?” I said with what I hoped was a sad smile on my lips. A father pleading with his son to be a man and tell the truth.
“It is the truth, your Eminence,” he responded, his palms upturned in the classic Sicilian gesture of feigned truthfulness; a gesture which said ‘would I lie?’ and ‘can you prove it?’ simultaneously.
“You are saying that the Holy Father leaves the Vatican and pleasure drives? That he holidays? Now Antonio, you will forgive me if I am extremely doubtful?” Now my face wore the expression of an uncle who catches his beloved nephew in a bordello and is listening to a cock and bull story about being there by accident, a faulty road map perhaps.
“Oh, your Eminence,” says the Sicilian. “It is God’s own truth! The Holy Father needs to leave his responsibilities every so often. He gets so stressed.” Now his prayerful gesture is mean to illicit my pity and also to paint himself as devout and free of carnal subterfuge. Oh Antonio, you missed your calling; you should have become an actor.
I waved him away and went back to the papers cluttering my desk. At least, there was one man in the Vatican pulling his weight.
+++
I realized that if I was going to reform my priests that I would need to do some recruiting. My problem comes down to a bit of a Catch 22: those cardinals who most inclined to a call to holiness were precisely those who most identified with the most conservative point of view, whereas those cardinals who were inclined to reforming the church were most fixated on social reform. To them, holiness was all about feeding the poor and bringing in a Marxist heaven on earth.
Of course, now you are shrugging your shoulders and saying, ‘But Maximo, you are the Pope! Surely all you need do is publish a bull from your lofty throne and all will obey you! Why this skulduggery and plotting?’
How little you know of life in the jungle. In such a sweeping reform, I cannot simply speak ex cathedra and say “thus sayeth the Lord.” I must create a climate for changing perceptions. I must speak with Vicini.
+++
“Holy Father! To what am I indebted for your august presence?” Vicini is at his charming best, a bear who shows you his beautiful smile with all of his teeth on display.
“Ah, Cardinal, you have always been such a support to me! I know that I can come to you with any problem and you will see solutions where all I see is confusion.”
“Please Father, you must sit down and tell me everything. Would you like a glass of wine?”
“Thank you, Cardinal.” I continue to use his title to register a tiny protest against his deliberate switch in address from ‘Holy Father’ to ‘Father’.
“Tuscans are all rascals, but you cannot argue against their wine. It is always superb.” Vicini is from Milan and feels that all areas south of Lombardy are full of rogues and Mafiosi. Together we tasted our wine and nodded our approval.
I decided to grab the bear by his paws.
“Cardinal Vicini, I am called by God to reform our priesthood.” He said nothing but raised his eyebrows.
“We must make sure that all pedophiles are weeded out of the priesthood before they can do damage to our children,” I continued.
“How do you intend to do that?” he asked quietly, almost respectfully.
“I am unsure. I believe that we must screen potential priests more stringently...” I said.
“But already we lack enough priests to lead our congregations.” The Cardinal was on his feet pacing. “We are desperate to increase candidates not further limit them!”
“What if we were open to married priests?” I said. “What if we investigated allowing women to be priests?”
“You want me to help you cast Mother Church into chaos?” he said. “Our people would be appalled! They will leave the Church in droves. You will cause the conservative wing of the Church to split away! It will be another Babylonian captivity. You cannot be serious!” Vicini continued to pace around, thoroughly exercised. I was seeing the real man now, not the smooth politician.
“Sometimes it is necessary to go through pain to achieve healing,” I said. “Jesus said that he would shake everything that could be shaken.”
“So let the Christ shake his Church,” spat Vicini. “You are its Shepherd, not its cement mixer!”
“You will not help your Pope?”
“I am helping you, Your Holiness. I am giving you excellent advice: leave well enough alone!” With that, the bear stormed out of my room.
+++
So. Now I know. The poor misguided fool will throw my Church into a volcano. How could I have misjudged him so? How does a simple abbot become so dangerous? It’s too bad that the Borgia’s are no longer with us. One of them would surely have poisoned the fool by now.
But, I would never do such a thing, would I?
+++
“What are you talking about, Antonio?” I sat in what I hoped was a posture of complete unconcern. My chauffeur, on the other hand, was vibrating like a cheap alarm clock, his hands making rapid arabesques in the air around his head and heart.
“You listen to me, your Holiness! This Cardinal Vicini is no good! He has the heart of a rotten oak, beautiful on the outside but black inside. He means you harm, Holy Father! Please let me hire you some more muscle.”
“You are being ludicrous, Antonio! You would surround your pope with armed guards?” With a supreme effort, I softened the harshness of my voice and pleaded. “I’m supposed to be the solid rock on which the Church is built, you know.”
“You are a good and holy man, your Holiness,” said my guardian, in a tone that suggested ‘but not too terribly aware of the risks of the real world.’
“What am I going to do with you, Antonio?” I waved my hand in dismissal. He left the room shaking his head.
Alone, I slumped in my leather chair. What if he was right?
+++
“You heard me.” Vicini’s mouth was a hard line. He sat behind the large black desk as though he were carved there.
“I did hear you. I just don’t believe what I heard.” Don Francisco was not a religious man, but even he had limits. “You want me to poison the Pope?”
“I understand that you are a man who can get things done, Don Francisco. You aren’t squeamish, are you?” Well, this was nonsense. Don Francisco had made murder an art form. Squeamish? The Pit-Viper of Palermo?
“It’s a hell of a thing to ask a Catholic to do.”
“Trust me. If this man doesn’t die, he will destroy the Holy Catholic Church.” This, Vicini believed with all his heart. Leo Rex had to go.
+++
Antonio set up the tiny video camera. I marvelled that so small a thing could do what Antonio assured me it could do.
“All you got to do is look at the camera and talk, your Holiness. It does everything else for you.”
“Now, you understand my desire, Antonio?”
He sighed and recited my orders: “Do nothing while you are still alive. If you should die before your work is done, it goes on Youtube and every other social network immediately.”
“That’s right, Antonio.”
“You know what this is, Holy Father?”
“Tell me, Antonio.”
“This is fatalism. You know that that pig Vicini has it in for you and you don’t let me help you. It’s suicide, Holy Father, and that’s a sin.” He stood with his arms folded across his chest and his lower lip trembling just a bit. The nuns had done a good job catechizing him.
“Oh, Antonio. I know how you feel, but I am in God’s hands.”
He switched on the camera and I read a prepared statement.
+++
I picked up the paper and frowned at the respectful headline: “Pope Declares a New Reformation.” The journalist went on to delineate all that the Pope wanted to do to address the problem with our clergy: mandatory screening for candidates to the priesthood, opening a dialogue to bring married men and women into the priesthood, and ordering all current priests to attend counselling to determine their fitness to lead.
I crushed the paper in my hands and ground my teeth together. What was taking Don Francisco so long? I looked down at my mobile phone to see all of the buttons flashing in alarm. As a Cardinal, it would be my job to reassure the conservatives and keep a muzzle on the radicals. Octopi didn’t have enough arms to do that.
My secretary buzzed me.
“Your Eminence, it’s the Archbishop again.”
“I told you, already. The CDF does not get through to me. I need time to think.”
“Yes, Your Eminence. But as Prefect, you are the one who...”
“Are you telling me my job, brother?”
“No, Your Eminence.”
“I am in meetings. That is all.”
“Yes, Your Eminence.”
+++
I smiled as I read the headline. What a hornet’s nest I had stuck my ferula into. I could tell by Vicini’s face during my Wednesday morning audience that he was furious with me. So furious that he would hereafter leave me alone? That was unlikely. I am still the pope and men like Vicini cannot stay away from power for long. What other choice does he have than to dialogue with me? Even if only to talk me out of my plans.
A rap at my door. My secretary entered, bearing a cream envelope. I recognized Vicini’s crest and opened it eagerly. It was to the point. He wanted a private meeting at my convenience. I smiled at the last word; I could imagine Vicini saying it with acid in his mouth. I called his office and invited him to take coffee with me at eleven.
+++
“It is madness and you know it,” he sputtered.
“It is our only hope and you know it,” I riposted.
“Read the papers, Pope Leo, they predict a split in the Holy Church. If this happens, you will go down in infamy as the Pope who divided Rome! Even Luther could not say as much from his bed of suffering in Purgatory.”
“What would you do if you were Pope?” I asked, waving the meat in front of the bear.
“I would shore up the Church, not destroy her. I would concentrate on the many, many faithful priests who serve and ignore the tiny percentage who are unfit. I would not demoralize the many for the sins of a few. What sort of a message do you think you are sending your priests, forcing them all into counselling?”
“I cannot shore up a structure if I see that there is rot in the timbers, Vicini. Surely you can see that?”
“You do not have the freedom to be an idealist, your Holiness! Your task is to keep your Church whole.”
I lifted up my mug to give me time to consider his words; he hadn’t touched his espresso. The bitter taste seemed to clarify some things.
“The difference between you and me, Vicini? You would rather keep something cracked held together with a strong grip and pretend that it is whole. I would rather let it fall to pieces that something good can be built in its place. It is bitter and painful but ultimately the pain can usher in healing for our Church.” I spread out my hands to him in a gesture of pleading.
“I should never have lifted you from obscurity!” said Vicini bitterly. “You are unsuited to be Pope!”
“Probably,” I said, and I fled.
+++
I was walking through my private chapel by myself. How bright the sun was this morning! How blue the sky! It was as though April was taking a coffee break and July was filling in for her. Did I smell jasmine on the breeze? I looked down at the grass and it was all golden and dancing in the wind. I was surprised to see that I was walking barefoot. My feet glowed as though they were burnished copper. What unseasonable warmth! Was I dressed in a robe?
I heard singing in the distance, like all of Rome’s choirs singing all together. It was a Gloria unlike any that I’d ever heard before. I could feel tears filling my eyes and it felt like a huge load had been taken from my shoulders. I straightened my back from its usual slump and took a deep, deep breath. I began to run for the sheer joy of running. I flew through the tall grass.
A voice called out to me and I pulled up and turned around. It was Antonio, not the Antonio of the pursed lips and deeply etched frown, but a youthful Antonio, his face relaxed into a smile.
“Antonio? What are you doing here?”
“Where is ‘here’?” he said laughing. “I don’t think I was ever here before!”
“This isn’t Tuscany?”
He just laughed again and pointed at me. “You aren’t yourself, Holy Father!”
I touched my face where he was pointing and everything on it felt strange. I could feel no wrinkles, no wattles around my throat. That was when I really looked at Antonio. He was glowing like one of Caravaggio’s apostles. “You look like an angel, Antonio!” I gasped.
“Are we dead, Holy Father?” he asked. The thought struck me. Yes, that was it; we were dead. But piggybacking on that thought was another question.
“But why would we both be dead?” I asked. At this the beautiful Antonio almost blushed.
I understood perfectly. “You were tasting my food for poison!” He shrugged.
“It must have been a slow-working poison,” he admitted.
“And now we’re dead.”
“I don’t know about you, Your Holiness. But I’ve never felt more alive!”
And we ran together into the golden heights laughing like schoolboys.
+++The End+++
It is my ears: they explode from my head like gull’s wings, giving me the appearance of an aircraft coming in for a landing. This effect is not improved by the squatness of my nose, rudely hewn and plopped down like a potato under my watery grey eyes.
I have heard it said that appearance is destiny so my celibacy seemed like a foregone conclusion. After all, what woman would link the happiness of her future children to so homely a sire?
They call me Leo Rex, King Lion, and what a jungle I am lord over! The Vatican is dense, steamy and full of pitfalls and hungry carnivores. How did I come to be here?
I am here because of Cardinal Vicini. He knew that his many enemies would block his bid for the papacy, so he put all of his considerable guile and strength to plucking this little Carmelite abbot from obscurity and making me his candidate. Vicini is well-hated but then so were all of the other contenders for the triple-crown. I alone had no enemies. They say that a man without enemies is a man with only friends. So it proved, for when the white smoke streamed into the Vatican sky, it was this humble Carmelite who was anointed Pope.
Does this strike you as being an Ugly Duckling story? How I wish it were. How wonderful to see ugly Maximo transform into beautiful Leo and live happily ever after! Alas. My story is more like Goldilocks and the Three Bears, if Goldilocks had an iron grey tonsure and there were at least a thousand bears.
I hear you protest: but Maximo, you are il Papa, the Supreme Pontiff! Surely all must bow before your decrees! How can you call yourself a Goldilocks? I smile grimly at your assumption. You must be in my shoes to know how I must navigate this Latin swamp.
Vicini is chief of my bears. Imagine a bruin with silver hair, well-manicured claws, a dulcet growl and you have the illustrious Cardinal. He had hoped that bringing me to the throne would allow him to control its power. I’m afraid that he thought he would be Geppetto to my Pinocchio, pulling the strings and naming the tune that I would dance to. Sadly for Vicini, Pinocchio is turning out to be a real boy.
I am a man of prayer. Of course, it is assumed that all Popes must be devoted to divine intercourse, but Lord Acton’s words are reflected in most papal histories: absolute power corrupting absolutely. Popes of necessity become politicos.
No doubt, it was my books of meditation and prayer that attracted the Cardinal’s attention. Oho, thought he, a holy fool to make a papal puppet!
But I was and remain a man of prayer, thank God.
Of course, God himself is my biggest bear.
He has put it on my heart to take our Holy Church and put it into a rock tumbler. I am to deprive the Church of her celibate priesthood.
Oh, I know, I know! What is the Church without her abstentious leadership? Is it still the Holy Catholic Church? How then are we different than the Protestants or the Eastern Church? You don’t have to tell me.
And yet.
I was praying in my private chapel. Oh no, not that private chapel. Private? Moths pinned under glass have more privacy than the Holy Father at prayer. No, my chapel is a certain hillside near Siena, the grassy slopes where the trees mass together at the bottom like village women gathering at the well. This was my private place with God, my resting place.
My chauffeur, Antonio, longs to be a spy, working for the CIA or M16 perhaps. It is a wonderful for me to have a co-conspirator like him. He can whisk me away without any of my so-called servants knowing where their pope is. I don’t know how he does it, but no sooner do I give him my pleading sign than we are roaring down the road in a sporty Fiat toward the Tuscan hills.
Antonio stays with the smoking car while I walk through the golden grass and pray.
So it was last Tuesday in the middle of the afternoon on an almost warm day in early April. I was walking and listening. Listening? Was the Pope hearing voices? Was the homely Carmelite becoming a mystic like Francis or Teresa? Do not make me blush.
But God’s lambs hear his voice says John the Divine and this lamb was listening.
What does God sound like, you are wondering? He is never what you’d expect. He is always more stern and more loving, more joyous and more terrifying than the safely crucified Christ, pinned to his cross. Do I blaspheme? Please understand me, I am a lover of God, but my Jesus is not the meek Victorian schoolgirl painted by so many: the pale Jesus with haunted eyes and long blond hair. My Galilean is more of a whirlwind, a desert storm! When I walk with him, I am stirred, shaken, calmed and directed. I am not placated, spoiled or spoken down to. What is it you Americans say? Jesus is not my shrink.
I was walking on that fateful Tuesday and listening.
“What am I to do?” I prayed. I was full of concern for my poor benighted Church. I had heard rumours of yet another sexual scandal involving priests and children. My heart was torn with rage and anguish. I was desperate to receive some consolation, a ‘there, there Maximo’ from my Jesus.
“What should you do?” asked Jesus.
“What can I do?” I muttered.
“What did I do?” he asked.
I remembered the account of the Temple Cleansing. Jesus saw his Father’s house given over to money-changing and the sale of sacrificial animals. His lip did not tremble; his eyes did not tear up; he did not sigh with sorrow. No, Jesus took a whip and cleared the money-changers out. He physically removed those who adulterated the Temple. “My house shall be a house of prayer!’ he cried.
I was shaken. I pictured myself wielding a whip and driving the fallen priests out of the Holy Church.
“I will drive them all out of your house!” I promised.
“You are looking at fruit; I want you to deal with roots,” he said.
“I don’t understand,” I pleaded.
But he had said all that he would. I was left to meditate over the whole affair. I pondered a priesthood that could hide pedophiles. Would a married priesthood be less of a haven for broken men? Was that what I needed to do?
I needed to talk to a wise counsellor, so I flagged down Antonio and directed him to drive to Napoli and the office of my spiritual director.
Catherine is the most beautiful woman I know, and she is as wise as she is lovely. Her nut brown skin is caught up in laughing wrinkles. She is textured and noble. She outweighs me by about fifty pounds and she laughs like a wave coming over the seashore.
“You want to do what?” she asked, her eyes wide.
“I know!” I cried. “Tell me that I’m delusional! Tell me that I’m not a realist! But what can I do?”
“You really think that removing celibacy as a condition for the priesthood will make pedophiles choose another vocation?”
“I don’t know if it will,” I said more quietly. “I think that some choose the priesthood because they hope it will be a safe haven from the urges that tear them up and perhaps they reason that God will heal them if they prove themselves to him?”
“So you would change the requirement of celibacy to strain out a few offenders?”
“It takes only a little yeast to leaven the whole lump of dough.” I could quote Scripture with the best of them. But then so could the Devil. This was why I needed the wisdom of my director.
“Have you spoken with anybody else about this?” she asked.
“Good God, no.”
“That is well,” she said. “Maximo, you must make this a matter of urgent prayer and study. Consult with the best minds and stay malleable in God’s hands. Come back to me in two weeks and we will discuss it further.”
+++
What are you up to, Leo Rex, slippery feline that you are? What are you doing when my spies lose sight of you? Your dismissive answers to my questions fill me with the deepest of suspicions. You say you need privacy to pray? I wonder.
I don’t trust you. I cannot understand you or your motives. I should have been Pope! All my life, I was groomed for the supreme post. I would have made the Church glorious again. A true power such as the world has not seen since Innocent III! What have you accomplished? You refuse my advice, saying “Oh Vicini! Our call is to be in the world but not of it. You want to be the world!” What nonsense! How is it possible to be a governor without bearing the burden of governing: protecting your back, knowing your enemies, placating your allies?
I will speak with Antonio again. A simple man like him will not long keep secrets from one such as I. Brother Feo, my first confessor, always said that I would have made a better lawyer than a priest. He should know! His cross examinations were always a model of Jesuit fine-toothed combing. I seldom left his presence without a surfeit of penances.
So, Antonio, what was the Pope doing in Napoli?
+++
Herr Doktor Carlinus Tropp has blue eyes that twinkle when his mind is racing from thought to thought. When I was in St. Piex Seminary, I was lucky enough to have Linus as a room-mate and a chess adversary.
It was glorious to watch him pull out the professor’s presuppositions and smite them with Teutonic wrath during our philosophy of religion classes. His dogged determination to find the truth delighted half of our teachers and terrified the rest. Woe betide the instructor who tried to palm off Linus by pulling out such chestnuts as “But, that is what the Church teaches, so you must accept it as true, Tropp!”
Linus has an office in the University but I needed to find a solitary place to meet. We met in an apartment that Antonio rents for my private meetings. I fear his spy-games mindset is beginning to rub off on me.
“So Leo XIV will be known as the pope who did away with celibacy, eh?” said Linus, pausing to drain the rest of his Dunkel Weizen. When he looked up at me, I smiled to see that a bit of foam was clinging to his moustache.
“Why would you do such a thing, Maximo?”
“I don’t intend to do away with celibacy, per se, but only to remove it as a prerequisite for the priesthood.”
“But why?” he repeated.
I told him about my vision and watched him shrug his shoulders. “I am no mystic Maximo. If you are planning to do such a thing you must be prepared to debate!” This was the Linus that I needed.
“Teach me then, Herr Professor! Illuminate your pope.”
He put his fingers together in a steeple and I could see his eyes sparkle as he marshalled his soldiers in ranks.
“We start with our first Pope, St. Peter. Married. In fact, there was no requirement for celibacy until the 12th century. Are we saying that a millennium of priests were all heretics?” On went the good Doktor dissecting and examining the issues. He dealt cleanly with the Pauline dogma that an unattached believer is more free to serve God, and chewed over the interesting idea that an unmarried man would give excellent advice as a marriage counsellor to his parishioners. By the time he had summed up, I was even more certain that I needed to do the unthinkable.
He looked at me with concern. “Have you considered how your enemies will attack you Maximo?” he asked.
“Go ahead. Tell me.”
“At the very least they will call you a hypocrite. ‘The Pope demands a married clergy but is unwilling to get a bride himself!’ they will say.”
“I told you already, I do not intend to foist marriage on my priests; I simply want to give them the choice!”
“You will still be called to practice what you preach, you know. If you remember your Church History, Luther fought priestly celibacy and his reward was a wife!”
“Can you imagine a woman near-sighted enough to marry me?” I laughed. He did not share in my mirth, instead he sighed. “You are making jokes? So might a chicken do as it is put in the stew pot.”
“This bird is tough enough, I assure you,” I said. He shrugged as if to say, we shall see.
+++
I only knew Dr. Althuis by her reputation. She was a clinical psychologist working with issues of sexual identity and imprinting. I needed to know how it was that people became pedophiliacs. We spoke of brain structure and past traumas, of alcohol and violence. I asked her whether removing celibacy as a condition of priesthood would keep them out of the priesthood.
“You misunderstand the nature of pedophilia if you think that marriage will offer a solution,” she said, her lips pressed tightly together. “Protestant ministers have pedophiliacs in their number too. It is a myth to think that only the unmarried can be offenders.”
“Is a cure hopeless then?” I asked, my heart leaden within me.
“Perhaps the solution lies with a different approach to screening potential priests,” she said. She had a haunted look in her eyes like one who has seen too much suffering. “The Church must do a better job of uncovering men who have a genuine vocation for the priesthood and those fleeing from their own torn psyches.”
I thanked her and made my way back to Antonio.
+++
It was clear that I had made a profoundly impulsive leap with not enough information. My assumption that all I had to do was to offer the option of marriage to discourage pedophiles from entering the priesthood was flawed. Perhaps that is why Jesus’ last words to me were about roots rather than fruit.
How could I make my Church safe? How could I ensure that pedophiles did not become priests? Unfortunately, there is no unified theory as to why men become child-abusers. Dr. Althuis was clear about this. Theories abounded: perhaps it was a problem with the brain chemistry, or a question of abuse, or could it be spiritual in nature. How could the Church screen this? Was it necessary to make every candidate take an MRI? I needed to confer with my director again.
+++
“I am the pope, Catherine. If I cannot find a way, how will my Church fare?” I jumped up from my chair and paced through her office, prodding her many leather bound books and fidgeting.
“You are not listening to me, Maximo. What was the last thing Jesus told you?” She remained as calm as ever.
“He told me to concern myself with roots not fruit.” I picked up a statue of St. John and began to polish it with my sleeve.
“And how do you interpret his command?” She took the statue from me and pointed to a chair.
“The fruits are abusive priests; the roots are the cause of this sin.” I sat down again, chastened.
“Very well then. Your task is not just to protect your Church but also to bring healing to its damaged members. The Shepherd bears not only a rod and staff but also oil for healing.”
+++
“Oh come, Antonio, surely you can tell me something more than that?” I said with what I hoped was a sad smile on my lips. A father pleading with his son to be a man and tell the truth.
“It is the truth, your Eminence,” he responded, his palms upturned in the classic Sicilian gesture of feigned truthfulness; a gesture which said ‘would I lie?’ and ‘can you prove it?’ simultaneously.
“You are saying that the Holy Father leaves the Vatican and pleasure drives? That he holidays? Now Antonio, you will forgive me if I am extremely doubtful?” Now my face wore the expression of an uncle who catches his beloved nephew in a bordello and is listening to a cock and bull story about being there by accident, a faulty road map perhaps.
“Oh, your Eminence,” says the Sicilian. “It is God’s own truth! The Holy Father needs to leave his responsibilities every so often. He gets so stressed.” Now his prayerful gesture is mean to illicit my pity and also to paint himself as devout and free of carnal subterfuge. Oh Antonio, you missed your calling; you should have become an actor.
I waved him away and went back to the papers cluttering my desk. At least, there was one man in the Vatican pulling his weight.
+++
I realized that if I was going to reform my priests that I would need to do some recruiting. My problem comes down to a bit of a Catch 22: those cardinals who most inclined to a call to holiness were precisely those who most identified with the most conservative point of view, whereas those cardinals who were inclined to reforming the church were most fixated on social reform. To them, holiness was all about feeding the poor and bringing in a Marxist heaven on earth.
Of course, now you are shrugging your shoulders and saying, ‘But Maximo, you are the Pope! Surely all you need do is publish a bull from your lofty throne and all will obey you! Why this skulduggery and plotting?’
How little you know of life in the jungle. In such a sweeping reform, I cannot simply speak ex cathedra and say “thus sayeth the Lord.” I must create a climate for changing perceptions. I must speak with Vicini.
+++
“Holy Father! To what am I indebted for your august presence?” Vicini is at his charming best, a bear who shows you his beautiful smile with all of his teeth on display.
“Ah, Cardinal, you have always been such a support to me! I know that I can come to you with any problem and you will see solutions where all I see is confusion.”
“Please Father, you must sit down and tell me everything. Would you like a glass of wine?”
“Thank you, Cardinal.” I continue to use his title to register a tiny protest against his deliberate switch in address from ‘Holy Father’ to ‘Father’.
“Tuscans are all rascals, but you cannot argue against their wine. It is always superb.” Vicini is from Milan and feels that all areas south of Lombardy are full of rogues and Mafiosi. Together we tasted our wine and nodded our approval.
I decided to grab the bear by his paws.
“Cardinal Vicini, I am called by God to reform our priesthood.” He said nothing but raised his eyebrows.
“We must make sure that all pedophiles are weeded out of the priesthood before they can do damage to our children,” I continued.
“How do you intend to do that?” he asked quietly, almost respectfully.
“I am unsure. I believe that we must screen potential priests more stringently...” I said.
“But already we lack enough priests to lead our congregations.” The Cardinal was on his feet pacing. “We are desperate to increase candidates not further limit them!”
“What if we were open to married priests?” I said. “What if we investigated allowing women to be priests?”
“You want me to help you cast Mother Church into chaos?” he said. “Our people would be appalled! They will leave the Church in droves. You will cause the conservative wing of the Church to split away! It will be another Babylonian captivity. You cannot be serious!” Vicini continued to pace around, thoroughly exercised. I was seeing the real man now, not the smooth politician.
“Sometimes it is necessary to go through pain to achieve healing,” I said. “Jesus said that he would shake everything that could be shaken.”
“So let the Christ shake his Church,” spat Vicini. “You are its Shepherd, not its cement mixer!”
“You will not help your Pope?”
“I am helping you, Your Holiness. I am giving you excellent advice: leave well enough alone!” With that, the bear stormed out of my room.
+++
So. Now I know. The poor misguided fool will throw my Church into a volcano. How could I have misjudged him so? How does a simple abbot become so dangerous? It’s too bad that the Borgia’s are no longer with us. One of them would surely have poisoned the fool by now.
But, I would never do such a thing, would I?
+++
“What are you talking about, Antonio?” I sat in what I hoped was a posture of complete unconcern. My chauffeur, on the other hand, was vibrating like a cheap alarm clock, his hands making rapid arabesques in the air around his head and heart.
“You listen to me, your Holiness! This Cardinal Vicini is no good! He has the heart of a rotten oak, beautiful on the outside but black inside. He means you harm, Holy Father! Please let me hire you some more muscle.”
“You are being ludicrous, Antonio! You would surround your pope with armed guards?” With a supreme effort, I softened the harshness of my voice and pleaded. “I’m supposed to be the solid rock on which the Church is built, you know.”
“You are a good and holy man, your Holiness,” said my guardian, in a tone that suggested ‘but not too terribly aware of the risks of the real world.’
“What am I going to do with you, Antonio?” I waved my hand in dismissal. He left the room shaking his head.
Alone, I slumped in my leather chair. What if he was right?
+++
“You heard me.” Vicini’s mouth was a hard line. He sat behind the large black desk as though he were carved there.
“I did hear you. I just don’t believe what I heard.” Don Francisco was not a religious man, but even he had limits. “You want me to poison the Pope?”
“I understand that you are a man who can get things done, Don Francisco. You aren’t squeamish, are you?” Well, this was nonsense. Don Francisco had made murder an art form. Squeamish? The Pit-Viper of Palermo?
“It’s a hell of a thing to ask a Catholic to do.”
“Trust me. If this man doesn’t die, he will destroy the Holy Catholic Church.” This, Vicini believed with all his heart. Leo Rex had to go.
+++
Antonio set up the tiny video camera. I marvelled that so small a thing could do what Antonio assured me it could do.
“All you got to do is look at the camera and talk, your Holiness. It does everything else for you.”
“Now, you understand my desire, Antonio?”
He sighed and recited my orders: “Do nothing while you are still alive. If you should die before your work is done, it goes on Youtube and every other social network immediately.”
“That’s right, Antonio.”
“You know what this is, Holy Father?”
“Tell me, Antonio.”
“This is fatalism. You know that that pig Vicini has it in for you and you don’t let me help you. It’s suicide, Holy Father, and that’s a sin.” He stood with his arms folded across his chest and his lower lip trembling just a bit. The nuns had done a good job catechizing him.
“Oh, Antonio. I know how you feel, but I am in God’s hands.”
He switched on the camera and I read a prepared statement.
+++
I picked up the paper and frowned at the respectful headline: “Pope Declares a New Reformation.” The journalist went on to delineate all that the Pope wanted to do to address the problem with our clergy: mandatory screening for candidates to the priesthood, opening a dialogue to bring married men and women into the priesthood, and ordering all current priests to attend counselling to determine their fitness to lead.
I crushed the paper in my hands and ground my teeth together. What was taking Don Francisco so long? I looked down at my mobile phone to see all of the buttons flashing in alarm. As a Cardinal, it would be my job to reassure the conservatives and keep a muzzle on the radicals. Octopi didn’t have enough arms to do that.
My secretary buzzed me.
“Your Eminence, it’s the Archbishop again.”
“I told you, already. The CDF does not get through to me. I need time to think.”
“Yes, Your Eminence. But as Prefect, you are the one who...”
“Are you telling me my job, brother?”
“No, Your Eminence.”
“I am in meetings. That is all.”
“Yes, Your Eminence.”
+++
I smiled as I read the headline. What a hornet’s nest I had stuck my ferula into. I could tell by Vicini’s face during my Wednesday morning audience that he was furious with me. So furious that he would hereafter leave me alone? That was unlikely. I am still the pope and men like Vicini cannot stay away from power for long. What other choice does he have than to dialogue with me? Even if only to talk me out of my plans.
A rap at my door. My secretary entered, bearing a cream envelope. I recognized Vicini’s crest and opened it eagerly. It was to the point. He wanted a private meeting at my convenience. I smiled at the last word; I could imagine Vicini saying it with acid in his mouth. I called his office and invited him to take coffee with me at eleven.
+++
“It is madness and you know it,” he sputtered.
“It is our only hope and you know it,” I riposted.
“Read the papers, Pope Leo, they predict a split in the Holy Church. If this happens, you will go down in infamy as the Pope who divided Rome! Even Luther could not say as much from his bed of suffering in Purgatory.”
“What would you do if you were Pope?” I asked, waving the meat in front of the bear.
“I would shore up the Church, not destroy her. I would concentrate on the many, many faithful priests who serve and ignore the tiny percentage who are unfit. I would not demoralize the many for the sins of a few. What sort of a message do you think you are sending your priests, forcing them all into counselling?”
“I cannot shore up a structure if I see that there is rot in the timbers, Vicini. Surely you can see that?”
“You do not have the freedom to be an idealist, your Holiness! Your task is to keep your Church whole.”
I lifted up my mug to give me time to consider his words; he hadn’t touched his espresso. The bitter taste seemed to clarify some things.
“The difference between you and me, Vicini? You would rather keep something cracked held together with a strong grip and pretend that it is whole. I would rather let it fall to pieces that something good can be built in its place. It is bitter and painful but ultimately the pain can usher in healing for our Church.” I spread out my hands to him in a gesture of pleading.
“I should never have lifted you from obscurity!” said Vicini bitterly. “You are unsuited to be Pope!”
“Probably,” I said, and I fled.
+++
I was walking through my private chapel by myself. How bright the sun was this morning! How blue the sky! It was as though April was taking a coffee break and July was filling in for her. Did I smell jasmine on the breeze? I looked down at the grass and it was all golden and dancing in the wind. I was surprised to see that I was walking barefoot. My feet glowed as though they were burnished copper. What unseasonable warmth! Was I dressed in a robe?
I heard singing in the distance, like all of Rome’s choirs singing all together. It was a Gloria unlike any that I’d ever heard before. I could feel tears filling my eyes and it felt like a huge load had been taken from my shoulders. I straightened my back from its usual slump and took a deep, deep breath. I began to run for the sheer joy of running. I flew through the tall grass.
A voice called out to me and I pulled up and turned around. It was Antonio, not the Antonio of the pursed lips and deeply etched frown, but a youthful Antonio, his face relaxed into a smile.
“Antonio? What are you doing here?”
“Where is ‘here’?” he said laughing. “I don’t think I was ever here before!”
“This isn’t Tuscany?”
He just laughed again and pointed at me. “You aren’t yourself, Holy Father!”
I touched my face where he was pointing and everything on it felt strange. I could feel no wrinkles, no wattles around my throat. That was when I really looked at Antonio. He was glowing like one of Caravaggio’s apostles. “You look like an angel, Antonio!” I gasped.
“Are we dead, Holy Father?” he asked. The thought struck me. Yes, that was it; we were dead. But piggybacking on that thought was another question.
“But why would we both be dead?” I asked. At this the beautiful Antonio almost blushed.
I understood perfectly. “You were tasting my food for poison!” He shrugged.
“It must have been a slow-working poison,” he admitted.
“And now we’re dead.”
“I don’t know about you, Your Holiness. But I’ve never felt more alive!”
And we ran together into the golden heights laughing like schoolboys.
+++The End+++
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