by Paul L Maier
An hour before Alitalia’s special Flight 100 was scheduled to land at Fiumicino, all flights into and out of Leonardo da Vinci airport were diverted or grounded. The air was to be entirely clear for the arrival of the returned Messiah and his party. When their 757 left Greek airspace over the Adriatic and the peninsula of Italy came into view thirty-four thousand feet below, it was met by an honor guard of six jet fighters from the Italian air force that assumed a cruciform formation ahead of their plane for the rest of the flight. “Alitalia 100, you are cleared to land on runway 16L,” the tower radioed, and then added something not covered in flight manuals: “All Italy welcomes you in the name of the Lord!”
“His name be blessed!” responded Captain Domenico Guardini, who had top seniority among Alitalia’s pilots. Crossing himself, he eased the 757 down the glide path and into an extremely gentle landing. While taxiing to the terminal, Shannon, who had insisted on a window seat, was almost beside herself with excitement. She stared out at what must have been the largest welcoming throng in the history of aviation. A double-broad red carpet had been rolled out, the 110-member Italian army band was holding forth with the “Grand March” from Verdi’s Aida, and an official welcoming party stood on both sides of the red carpet, waiting for Joshua-Jesus to appear.
When the jet’s doorway finally opened, there stood Joshua, clad in a robe of brilliant white and looking more biblical than ever. Smiling beatifically, he stepped out onto the deplaning ramp and raised both arms to bless the crowd. The people nearly went out of control. Hosannas, shouts, prayers, hymns, and exclamations roared throughout the tarmac—and across the world as well, since all the international radio and television networks were covering this totally unparalleled event.
When Shannon and the rest of the party had followed Joshua off the plane and down the aluminum staircase, they were ushered over to several rows of chairs and seated for the welcoming ceremonies. Dr. Luigi Bertoni, the president of Italy, faced a wide battery of microphones and said, in a voice quaking with emotion, “In the name of the Republic of Italy, we welcome our Lord and Master to the land He never visited in His first earthly manifestation, sending instead His two greatest apostles, Peter and Paul, who gave their lives for His cause in Rome. Now, however, you have seen fit to grace us with your own sacred presence, for which we thank Almighty God and say, in the words of the Latin Scriptures, ‘Osanna filio David! Benedictus qui venturus est in nomine Domini! Osanna in altissimis’! ”
As if rehearsed, which was not the case, the entire assemblage burst into all the vernacular translations of the Latin. Shannon heard the American delegation nearby reechoing, “Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest! ”
Then, in carefully planned protocol, Pope Benedict XVI and Eastern Orthodox Patriarch Bartholomew II approached Joshua from the left and right respectively and knelt humbly before him. Joshua placed his hands on the head of each in blessing, then quickly raised them up, put his arms about them, and had them join hands with one another. They did so, with enthusiasm. And when Joshua’s was the third hand to clasp the other two, a thunderous roar of approval filled the air. Not since the eastern and western churches had excommunicated each other in the Great Schism of A.D. 1054 had such a scene, with divine endorsement, been possible. The pope and the patriarch then embraced each other in tears as the Sistine Chapel Choir sang a principal theme from Vivaldi’s Gloria.
Shannon, fully realizing that this was an incandescent moment in the history of Christianity, only wished she could have shared it with Jon. She kept looking through the ranks of dignitaries, hoping to see the distinguished visage of her husband, but evidently he was elsewhere in the crowd.
Next, the archbishop of Canterbury, the president of the Lutheran World Federation, the presidents of the World Alliance of Reformed Churches, of the Methodist World Council, of the Baptist World Alliance, and a score of other ecclesiastical dignitaries genuflected before Joshua and were rewarded with his blessing and his embrace. Ecumenicity ruled the day.
The heads of state then had their turn. Queen Elizabeth II of Britain, before whom thousands had regularly curtsied, did so herself before Joshua. The American president, Sherwood Bronson, gave him a powerful handshake, raising not a few eyebrows, but Joshua hardly seemed put off by the gesture.
When the world’s political greats had paid their respects, Joshua stood before the microphones himself, looked heavenward, raised his arms, closed his eyes, and said, “I thank You, Father, for having inspired Your children who are gathered here to give me this magnificent reception. And now bless Your Son in His great mission to renew Your church, so that it may finally achieve my great intention to make disciples of all nations. I ask this in Your own blessed name. Amen.” A vast, full-throated “AMEN!” from the crowd endorsed the prayer. Joshua and his party were now escorted over to a row of Vatican limousines that had been driven out on the tarmac. A new and much larger “Pope-mobile” stood at the head of the cavalcade, on which Joshua would stand so that the crowds lining the highway to Rome would be able to see him clearly. Seated on either side of him were the pope and the patriarch. The first two limousines were reserved for the Twelve. Shannon was delighted to find herself directed to limo number three, and as she climbed inside, she half hoped to find Jon sitting there with open arms. But only empty seats of black leather greeted her.
While she did not see Jon, Jon certainly saw her. Fifteen hundred miles to the southeast, he was watching the entire ceremony on television in his dank basement prison. While his guard, Schmuel Sikorsky, was cheering along with the crowd at Joshua’s triumphal reception, Jon was shaking his head and mouthing silent expletives at the improbable scene: world leaders in religion and politics being deluded by a diabolical con man. Each time the camera panned across the dignitaries and zoomed in on Shannon, he called out, “Please notice my absence, darling! And do something about it!”
“I doubt that she can hear you, Weber!” said Schmuel. “Besides, it looks like she’s having such a good time that she’s probably forgotten you by now.”
“Bite your forked tongue, Sikorsky!” Jon snarled. “And see if you can’t—even for a moment or two—wake up to reality. This whole weird charade of yours is going to crash on its face very soon now, and if you continue to do Joshua’s dirty work, you’ll be an accessory to attempted murder and spend the rest of your misguided life behind bars!”
“No, I won’t, Weber. Finally we’re going to do something about how horribly Jews have been treated across the centuries. We’ve been invaded, banished to ghettos, forced to convert, exiled, and brutalized in every way possible, not to mention the millions of lives we lost in the Holocaust. And that’s one of the reasons for those disgusting ratios: 60 Muslims and 125 Christians for every Jew on earth!”
“But when your hoax is exposed, you’re actually going to embarrass world Judaism by this . . . clumsy attempt of yours. Why not spare your people all that? Be a hero instead, and blow the whistle on Ben-Yosef! History will applaud you for your honesty!”
“You take me for a fool, Weber? You think I devoted half my life playing blind only to say the whole thing was merely a practical joke after all? Not a chance!”
“Then you’re pathetic, Sikorsky! Half your life you play blind, the other half—or what’s left of it—you are blind . . . blind to reality, stupidly going down that impossible rat-hole Ben-Yosef put you in.” Schmuel got up, hurried over to Jon, and slapped him hard on the left cheek. “Better watch it, man!” he spit out. “I might be tempted to use that ether over there after all, and accidentally hold it under your prying nose longer than necessary. Who cares if you die a couple days too early?”
Shannon was overwhelmed at the reception lavished on their cavalcade as it traveled slowly toward Rome on the Via Ostiensis, flanked by carabinieri on gleaming motorcycles. It seemed as if most of Italian humanity was lining both sides of the road, shouting, singing, and applauding, many waving p
alm branches in recapitulating Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem on that first Palm Sunday. Standing majestically erect in the new pope-mobile, Joshua smiled warmly at the multitudes, hands extended outward in blessing as he turned from side to side with the light of heaven illuminating his features. Many were crossing themselves and breaking down in tears at a sight they had never expected to see, while some were so overcome that they fainted. Near Rome, outlying churches had their choirs assembled along the roadsides on portable bleachers, singing hymns of praise to the arriving Christ.
When they penetrated the old city walls of Rome at the Ostian Gate, the masses pressing onto the roadway were, if anything, even more enthusiastic. The white-helmeted city police had a very difficult time containing them.
Conversation inside the limousines was now impossible because of the joyful din outside. The Eternal City, which had seen many a triumphal parade by the Caesars in antiquity, had never witnessed anything like this. Only cameras with wide-angle lenses in helicopters overhead could begin to gather in the magnificence of the moment for the rest of the world.
Crossing the Tiber River bridge, they proceeded westward into Vatican City on the Via della Conciliazione, which was choked on both sides with cheering, black-garbed seminarians, neophytes, nuns, deacons, priests, bishops, archbishops, cardinals, bearded patriarchs, and every degree of clergy and administrative laity. Somewhere in that throng, Shannon assumed, would be Jon. She couldn’t possibly know where he was, but her whereabouts were obvious, and he would soon be wrapping his arms around her.
The entourage halted in front of the papal apartments, where Joshua, the orthodox patriarch, and the highest of the world clergy would stay as guests of the pontiff. A broadly beaming Kevin Sullivan greeted the group and announced the logistical details for their visit to Rome, beginning with a great banquet that evening in the Sistine Chapel. Shannon, the Twelve, and the rest of the entourage would lodge very near the papal apartments in luxury accommodations arranged for VIPs visiting the Vatican.
Shannon wanted very much to ask Kevin where Jon was, but he was conducting Joshua and the highest prelates into the papal apartments. A large company of porters now descended on Shannon’s group, each conducting guests to their respective quarters.
When Shannon’s valet opened the door to her room, it turned out to be a lavish suite with elegant Louis XIV furniture, a king-sized bed, and a huge basket of fruit on a table, with bottles of red and white wine flanking two long-stemmed glasses. She asked the porter whose names were assigned to the room. He looked at his card and said, “Professore Jonathan and Shannon Weber, Signora. I bring your luggage when it arrives from airport, yes?”
“Thank you. Molte grazie! ”
“Prego. Arrivederci.”
She looked around the suite and was both relieved and worried. She was glad that Jon was expected as her “roommate,” but where in the world was his luggage, if he had arrived the day before? Putting him up at a different location his first night in Rome would have been stupid. She looked at her watch: three-thirty. By, say, five o’clock, she would phone Kevin Sullivan to ask about Jon—unless, of course, her missing husband walked in with flowers, champagne, and a great big “Surprise!”
He did not. At five she picked up the phone.
“Pronto,” the hotel operator replied.
“Ah . . . parla inglese? Do you speak English?”
“Sì. Yes . . .”
Shannon spoke slowly and distinctly. “I would like to speak to Monsignor Kevin Sullivan, who is in charge of arrangements for Joshua’s visit here at the Vatican.”
“Ah . . . un momento, per favore . . . ”
She heard the endless ringing of a phone, but no answer. She hung up and told herself, “Oh well, I’ll see Kevin at the banquet— and Jon too, surely!”
The great festivity that evening in the Sistine Chapel was unparalleled in the history of the Vatican. Ordinarily, the chapel was a magnet for tourists the world over because of Michelangelo’s magnificent ceiling frescos. On rare, extraordinary occasions it also served as the place where the College of Cardinals, in solemn conclave, elected a new pope after the death of the previous. On this night, however, it became the site of the “Lord’s Supper” in a quite literal sense. At the western end of the chapel, under Michelangelo’s enormous portrayal of the Last Judgment, the high table was reserved for Joshua, flanked on each side by six of the Twelve, and, after them, the pope, the patriarch, and the world’s principal religious leaders. Forty festively adorned banquet tables covered the rest of the chapel floor, where archbishops, cardinals, ambassadors, world heads of state, the Vatican diplomatic corps, and local Roman “glitterati” were seated.
Shannon, wearing a stunning evening gown of gold lamé, was happily surprised to find her place setting at table number five, just under Joshua and the head table. Next to her was a place card engraved with the name Jonathan P. Weber, Ph.D. in flowing script. Now he must appear, thought Shannon, her eyes darting in all directions to find him. The other guests at her table were members of the women’s auxiliary who had accompanied Joshua to Rome.
At last she spotted Kevin Sullivan, who was darting to and from the head table. Pushing her chair back, she stood up, excused herself, and tried to accost Kevin when she heard the papal master of ceremonies banging his gavel, and all conversation in the lofty chapel stilled to a hush. Quickly, Shannon returned to her seat.
Benedict XVI now welcomed the guests and delivered a very moving invocation, made even more powerful by the presence of the Lord himself. Following the amen, an entire corps of waiters, colorfully dressed in medieval uniforms, filed into the chapel with huge trays of succulent appetizers. Shannon soon saw that the dinner would be Italian cuisine at its best: prosciutto with melon and pasticcio were followed by a broad pasta selection—she chose tortellini—while the soup, of course, was a particularly rich minestrone. As for the entrées, how the Vatican chefs were able to offer a selection for so vast a number of diners seemed another wonderment, she thought, as she chose pollo piccata.
When the food arrived, handsomely presented and garnished with piquant sauces, a string ensemble at the eastern end of the Sistine Chapel had just begun playing banquet music from the Italian Renaissance. A wine steward now leaned over with helpful suggestions as to the appropriate vintage to accompany her entrée. Still, she could hardly savor the feast, since her uneasiness about Jon’s absence was now bordering on distress, and the small talk she was forced to make with others at their table hardly helped. Several times she glanced up at Joshua, who, each time, seemed to be smiling and looking at her. That was certainly pleasant enough, but why did he seem so unconcerned about the empty place next to her?
Just before dessert was served, Kevin Sullivan came to their table and sat down next to her on Jon’s empty chair. “Hello, Shannon!” he said, patting her back amiably and innocently. “Where in the world is Jon?”
“What? You don’t know either? You’ve got to know! He flew to Rome yesterday, for goodness’ sake, as Joshua asked him to! Didn’t he contact you?”
Kevin’s face darkened. “No, he didn’t. Not at all. That’s . . . very strange!”
“I was so sure you knew where he was, Kevin. Now I’m really terrified!”
“Tell you what, please stay here right after the banquet, and we’ll both talk to Joshua about it, okay?”
“Yes. By all means!”
Shannon ate her dessert, an Italian version of Schaumtorte, with a knot of anxiety in her stomach. What could possibly have happened to Jon? Kevin should have had all the answers, yet he had none. Still, she could relax a bit in the knowledge that the Master would soon solve the riddle.
Joshua arose after dinner and delivered brief but brilliant remarks about his great mission to Rome that would culminate in the opening session of Vatican III in just two days. There he would announce God’s momentous plans for the church. His own fervent prayer for Christians everywhere was “that they might all be one” in a spiri
tual unity that would, with divine help, overcome many generations of differences in doctrine and practice among believers.
“And thank you for this evening’s celebration,” he concluded. “I consider it a preview of what Scriptures call ‘the Wedding Feast of the Lamb’ that we shall all enjoy in my Father’s mansions at the end of time. And now, my beloved brothers and sisters, I have been asked to repeat what happened on that Thursday night in which I began the very painful process of achieving your salvation. Please, then, prepare the chalices and patens at the end of each of your tables and remove the fair linens covering them. My general blessing will suffice for all the elements on each table.”
The entire Sistine Chapel stilled to almost mortal silence, an air of exquisite anticipation in the air. Everyone present knew the Words of Institution that Jesus spoke on Maundy Thursday evening at the first celebration of Holy Communion—words in the third-person singular. Now, however, they would hear them in the first person.
Joshua extended both arms in blessing to all assembled as he said: “On the very night in which I was betrayed, I took bread, and when I had given thanks, I broke it and gave it to my disciples and said, ‘Take, eat: this is my body, which is given for you. This do in remembrance of me.’”
Joshua now broke a large circle of unleavened bread and passed it to his left and right, with each communing the next. He also broke off a chunk of regular (leavened) bread for the benefit of the Orthodox Christians in the room, who followed the Passion story according to John’s Gospel. This ecumenical gesture all but shouted what remained unsaid: “Either form of distribution is acceptable to God.”
He then continued: “In the same way also, I took the cup after supper, and when I had given thanks, I gave it to them, saying, ‘Drink of it, all of you: this is my blood of the new testament which is shed for you for the forgiveness of sins. This do, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of me. ’”
