Father Elijah

by Michael D. O'Brien

  “Through Aristotle?”

  “Not Aristotle as we have known him. Aristotle stolen and pressed through a filter. Aristotle lined up beside alluring distortions of spirituality without the absolute demands of the one true God, and beside the President’s own pseudomystical social writings. Drawing upon Averroës and other non-Christian mystics, he believes that religion and reason can be in conflict with each other and yet both be right.”

  “In other words, the concept that all divisions, and all distinctions, are ultimately illusions.”

  “Correct. And thus is formed a philosophy that posits unity above truth.”

  “Yet we too believe in unity.”

  “Ah, yes, but unity can be authentic only if it is founded upon truth. We cannot pretend that there are two conflicting truths, both of which are right. This is madness. It destroys the interior unity of the human person and the meaning of personhood.”

  “Holy Father, may I ask, is there such grave danger in the codex? Would it not simply remain an object of academic discussion, among philosophers?”

  “Philosophers have students, and students who love their teachers spread their ideas into every realm of human endeavor. Abstract academic discussions have a way of leaving their mark on entire civilizations, as the events of this century have proved all too well. In another age this codex might have been relatively harmless, especially if we were to be blessed with the original Greek text, against which it could be measured. But the true text eludes us, and thus we must now contend with a chimera that has come back from the dead and that uses Aristotle’s great name as a charm and a passkey into men’s minds.”

  Still, Elijah wondered if the Pope were not making more of the danger than was warranted.

  “I hear your silent reservations, Father Elijah. But you must understand that the arrival of this document is no accident. It can be understood only within the larger context of this present struggle. Iustitia is not, in the end, about justice. Its purpose is to reconcile men to an ultimate bondage, but it does so—oh, bitterest of ironies—it does so in the name of freedom.”

  “And so, you are faced with a dilemma?”

  “Indeed. Should the manuscript be quietly placed in the archives, awaiting a better time in history? Or should we open it to the world and bear the burden of knowing that some souls may be misled by it?”

  “Have you decided?”

  “I have. The manuscript will be open for study by all serious scholars. Translations will be made and published in various languages, in editions that carry an explanation of its background, its shortcomings, and the danger of misinterpretations.”

  “If I may be frank, Your Holiness, I think your decision is wise. The modern age has styled us as anti-intellectual.”

  “Modern man ignores the fact that the Church, virtually alone, preserved the intellectual heritage of the West throughout the Dark Ages.”

  “Enemies of the Church would achieve far more propaganda value from a decision to keep the manuscript discreetly in the archives.”

  “Their terminology would not be as charitable as yours. They would call it hiding. They would call it cheating.”

  “It could be called prudence.”

  The Pope sighed.

  “We are living at the end of a civilization, one heavily loaded with ideology. There are hundreds of thousands of books published each year, most of them far from the mind of Christ. It would be useless to keep one flawed volume from a people that does not understand what it is reading, and refuses to learn to think. However, there are some who will benefit. It is always in the interests of Truth to make available a piece of cultural heritage that may enrich man’s understanding of his past. The publication of On Justice must be seen in that light.”

  “The fundamentalists will accuse us of liberalism.”

  “Yes, and the liberals will accuse us of fundamentalism when they read the cautionary introduction. They will interpret it only as a sour note, one more critical utterance by a decaying institution, muttering in its dotage, a stumbling block to the evolution of human thought.”

  “We have been called worse things, Holy Father.”

  The Pope smiled.

  He turned to face the room and took Elijah by the arm. “Come, my son, let us sit, and I will hear what you have to say. Tell me of your meeting with this President. Omit nothing.”

  * * *

  A light rain spattered the crowd. In a few moments the Mass of canonization would begin. Eighteen thousand people prayed, talked, and sang contrapuntally as they awaited the Pope. The cardinals and bishops sat around the papal altar, protected under a canopy. Seated with them were several dozen dignitaries from various African nations. In the crowd were many thousands of black faces.

  Elijah found a place halfway down the square, in the standing-room-only section, beside a flock of nuns from Zaire. Each carried a little flag of her nation and a Vatican City flag, clutched together in a symbolic unity that was more idealized than actual.

  Two elegant European matrons were standing in front of the nuns, discussing the day’s event in loud voices.

  “This is a mistake”, said one. “The process has been too fast. I mean, did anyone investigate the manner of life of the beati? Did the so-called martyrs really understand the realpolitik of the African social struggle?”

  “Would it have made any difference?” said her companion. “This Pope is so insecure he would rush into sainthood anyone who shares his opinion on ecclesiastical affairs.”

  “He’s getting old. His hands shake. I saw it on television last night. I think, my dear, before too long we’ll see a new pope, one who understands the twentieth century.”

  Elijah resisted a feeling of resentment. He wished to bend over and say, “The Holy Spirit has given you a pope who understands this century better than anyone.” But he sealed his lips, making an interior mortification, and he prayed for them.

  It was not easy to ignore their pontification.

  “It doesn’t sit well with me”, continued one of the matrons in an irritable voice.

  “Nor with me”, said the other. “I heard Professor —, the famous theologian, say that the faith in Africa is like a river that’s a mile wide and an inch deep.”

  Elijah moved away from them and turned toward the black sisters. He wondered if they had overheard the matrons’ conversation and hoped they had not. He asked them if they had known any of the blessed who were being canonized today. The sisters nodded emphatically. Their mouths opened in large, beautiful smiles, and their eyes spilled over with tears.

  Their superior, a tall woman with a badly scarred face, said, “Our mother—the mother before me—she was killed. They kill her with axe. But she is call on Jesus to the last minute. She smile. I watch her die. I see dove fly up to heaven from her blood. She forgive soldiers as she die.”

  At which all of the sisters burst into sobs and began to explain things to Elijah in their native tongue. He was shaking his head, stunned, when two hands clamped down on his shoulders from behind.

  “Davy. I thought I spied your silvery head bobbing out here in the crowd.”

  “Billy!”

  “Myself. And fit as a fiddle. Come up higher, lad. I’ve got some seats roped off in the very first row, right by the altar, for friends of the secretariat.”

  “I would rather stay here, thanks. Among these ladies. They are the best, Billy. They lost a mother superior in the massacres.”

  Billy looked sober and said, “Hmm.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Billy got idea.”

  “Idea?”

  “Yep. Come with me.”

  He went over to the black nuns and spoke in rapid-fire Billy-talk. They seemed surprised, glanced at each other, and looked inquiringly at their mother superior, who nodded assent.

  Billy took her by the arm and dragged her off into a sea of people. He looked back and beckoned Elijah to follow. The monsignor led the little flock of nuns and the priest through the crowd,
past security checkpoints, up the steps of Saint Peter’s to the highest platform, and stopped by a section to the right of the altar, in the first row.

  “Best seats in the house, ladies.”

  The nuns thanked Billy profusely. He smiled, waving away their gracious compliments.

  When they went to take their seats, there were two short. Elijah and the mother superior remained standing. Billy looked flustered and went hot in the face.

  Two very old men dressed in scarlet came over to them and said in Italian, “Excuse us, Monsignor, but we couldn’t help overhearing. We would be honored if the mother superior and this priest would have our seats. We will sit back there.”

  After diplomatic protests and complicated negotiations, exercised with masterful romanità, Billy accepted and placed the mother and Elijah in the front row, beside the other sisters. He took his seat between Elijah and the Cardinal Secretary of State.

  The mother superior turned her black, scarred face to Elijah, and he saw there a pool of experience that was as old and as wise as humanity. He saw holiness. The woman took a rosary from the pocket of her habit. It was made of white seeds. It was tinted irregularly with brown stains.

  “It is true, the Faith in Africa is sometime like a shallow river”, said the woman. “But you should see our Africa rivers in flood. They are strong and run very fast. They turn over trees. They move hills and big stones. This river”, and here she pointed to the rosary in the pink palm of her hand, “is the biggest river in Africa. It is the river of blood, run fast and deep for Jesus now. This spots here and here, they are my mother sister’s blood. I give it to you.”

  He looked down at the relic and said nothing. She took his hand and pressed the rosary into it. Then patted his hand closed.

  Why is this given to me? he wondered, Why not to Billy? He engineered this, so why doesn’t she give it to him?

  “My mother she speak in my heart when I see you in crowd down below. She say to me, give my relic to that priest. I don’t know why.”

  Still Elijah could say nothing, but he looked into her eyes and she knew his gratitude.

  The woman turned away from him then, opened a breviary and began to pray silently.

  Elijah remained without movement or thought for several minutes. At his left, Billy began to pour out a stream of whispered chatter, but Elijah could hear none of it.

  His eyes wandered over the rows of prelates and dignitaries seated across from him on the far side of the altar. The African cardinals and bishops were there. He knew some of their face: from articles about them, or by them. He noted the presence of high curial cardinals, especially the Prefect for the Doctrine of the Faith—Dottrina, Billy called him. Then his eyes wandered aimlessly in the rows behind, and eventually stopped at one figure.

  The face of this cardinal arrested his attention, though he could not have explained the reason for it. A balding man in his late fifties. The remaining hair still dark. He was looking down, reading, but every so often he would glance up and sweep the crowd with his eyes. The face was sensitive, intelligent, lined, but still young. It was an excessively serious face, with deep-set, grave eyes and a thin mouth that seemed poised on the edge of indifference, hinting at a frown.

  “Billy, who is that cardinal?”

  “Which one? There are rather a lot of them over there.”

  “The young one, two rows behind and three seats to the left of the cardinal archbishop of Vienna.”

  “Where’s Vienna? There, I see him beside Nairobi and Paris Okay, now two rows back and three seats to the left. Right, I’ve spotted him. Oh, that’s Cardinal Vettore. He’s one of the Curia boys.”

  “Can you tell me about him?”

  “There’s not much to tell. He’s a smart lad. On the rise. The gossip mill say he’s in the running for Stato’s job, when the boss retires someday.”

  “Do you think he would be suitable for the job?”

  Billy pondered a moment.

  “He’d be good all right. Important connections to euro-politic and the former Soviet states. He’s doing a bang-on job over in the Pontifical Council for Dialogue with Non-Christian Religions. He works with a number of Vatican offices as some kind of networker. He’s not exactly my cup of tea, though. Cold intellectual type. Makes you feel silly if you ask him anything direct.”

  “Is he one of the modernist bishops?”

  “No. He’s not in their camp. He’s the quiet sort. You’d never be able to tell by talking with him, or by reading his published stuff, whether he’s liberal or conservative. As a result, he’s considered a moderate. But you could say he’s in a class by himself.”

  “How would you describe that class?”

  Billy’s brow furrowed.

  “I’m not sure how to describe it. There are a few guys like him around the place. Definitely a subculture. Tremendously gifted men, excellent administrators, clever at dealing with all kinds of personalities. But they never show their cards, you see. They’re clean, spotless. But they’re sort of heartless too.”

  “Heartless?”

  “Oh, I don’t mean cruel or anything like that. It’s just, well, I feel a wave of chill whenever they pass in the hall. They’re always perfectly polite. They ask about one’s health. But you get the sense that there’s something else going on, far in the background. My barometer always quivers, and I haven’t deciphered what it means.”

  Billy lowered his voice: “Now, take the boss here, to my left. Second most powerful man in the Church. He deals with political pirates from morning till night. He’s got romanità coming out of his ears, but he’s also got heart. He gives away most of his salary to the poor, lives in an apartment that’s shoddier than mine, drives a twenty-year-old Volkswagen, and needs to be reminded to buy himself new shoes from time to time. He prays when nobody’s watching—I’ve caught him at it a few times—and that says a great deal about a man. He told me once he wanted to be nothing more than a Carthusian monk, but as you can see God had other ideas. He likes nineteenth-century Italian novels and sweet wine—yuck! He weeps at the sad parts in opera and gets really down when he reads about a bishop spouting off to the press on ‘the present pope’s Inquisitional Church’. He laughs heartily at a good joke, but I think he hurts a lot inside. He’s smart and noble and a faithful priest, and of course he’s got his faults, especially that temper. But he loves the Lord and the Church with a devotion that’s quite childlike. You can read him like a book. He is what he is, if you know what I mean.”

  “He is what he appears to be?”

  “Precisely. I could run you through a few more profiles of the lads scattered here and there around this altar. The Pope’s band of merry men, goofs and saints galore. But the guys like Vettore are something else entirely. A real puzzle to me.”

  “Are there many like him?”

  “No.”

  Elijah looked down at the blood-stained rosary in his hand and began to pray silently for the Church.

  “Why the sudden interest in Vettore?” said Billy.

  “Do you remember the afternoon I first arrived in Rome?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you remember that I fell asleep, and when I woke up the dream continued for a few seconds and became. . . I shouldn’t want to call it a vision. I can only say that I was awake and I saw a face. It frightened me. I told you about it.”

  “I vaguely remember.”

  “That cardinal bears an uncanny resemblance to the man of my dream.”

  “A dream, Davy? No offense, old chap, but dreams put fools in a flutter, as the Scripture says.”

  “True, most dreams are like that. But God occasionally speaks through dreams.”

  “So, tell me, what do you think He’s saying?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “C’mon, now, you look far too troubled for just a dream. There’s something else, isn’t there?”

  “There is. But I hesitate to mention it.”

  “Out with it!”

  �
��I saw that cardinal on Capri.”

  Billy’s face went blank and he stared at Elijah.

  “You’re not serious.”

  “I saw him at the President’s villa.”

  Billy looked slowly across the altar toward the cardinal. Then he looked back at Elijah. His face was stricken.

  “Ill mention this to the boss. And I think maybe you should have another visit with the Holy Father. I’ll arrange it. It would be better if he hears about this from your own lips.”

  * * *

  In the days that followed, Elijah expected a summons from the Vatican. He was now assigned to the Carmelite International College in Rome and given the task of teaching philosophy and pre-theology to the novices. It was hardly a demanding chore, and he spent much of his free time in prayer and private study. The body of apocalyptic literature that had grown since the beginning of the previous century provided more than enough material for his purposes. Between Cardinal Newman’s sermons on the Antichrist and the visions of numerous saints and mystics on the same subject, he was fully occupied.

  A week went by. Then another. No call came from the Vatican. Finally, he telephoned the office of the Secretariat of State and was informed by a clerk that Monsignor Stangsby was out of the country on state business. Another week went by. He phoned again but the clerk said that Monsignor was still out of the country and could not be reached. Elijah asked if the clerk could take a message. Yes, he replied without enthusiasm.

  Elijah gave him the number of the Carmelite house and asked him to urge Monsignor to call as soon as he returned. To which country had the monsignor gone, he asked. The clerk cordially declined to divulge that information.

  “But Monsignor Stangsby and I are close friends”, he argued. “Surely. . .”