by Paul L Maier
Jon suggested they take a long walk. “I’ll tell you along the way, my love.” Then he added, “But we can’t stay out too late, since you’ll be driving me to Ben Gurion in the morning.”
“Oh . . . your flight to Rome?”
“Right. I have to see Kevin Sullivan. And the pope. An old promise.”
Dark glasses and banded Panama straw hat got Jon successfully through both Ben Gurion and Leonardo da Vinci airports. Sullivan whisked him away on the Via Ostiensis to Rome.
“Thanks for not demanding an ‘epitome of the epitome,’ Kevin,” said Jon.
“Time enough for that later.”
“What’s the word on current Vatican politics?”
“Just as I told you before, only more so. A liberal consensus is growing that the Holy Father must accept the ‘new theology’ or see the ship of the Church founder and sink.”
“And the Holy Office sorts?”
“Well, the ultras on the right are starting to make threats I never thought these ears would hear.”
“Such as . . .”
“Such as . . . I really shouldn’t be telling you this. In absolute confidence, Jon?”
“What else?”
“Well, Gonzales and Buchbinder have been holding secret meetings with their cronies in the Curia. I understand they’re monitoring as much as they can of the pope’s discussions with visiting theologians. And, of course, they fine-tooth comb each of his public statements.”
“So, it’s come to that? Do you suppose they’ve bugged his apartments? Or office?”
“I don’t know . . . I hope not. In any case, the word’s out in the Curia that if Benedict goes over to the ‘new theology,’ they’ll try to have him declared non compos mentis, or whisk him away to Castel Gandolfo for a long rest. Incommunicado of course.”
“Incredible! Could they get away with that?”
“Who knows? I think there’d be a horrendous outcry from the rest of the Church. There’s also talk of forced abdication as a possible alternative.”
“Any precedent for that?”
“Well, in the eleventh century, Pope Benedict IX took cash to step down in favor of a reforming successor. Then there’s Celestine V, who resigned to become a hermit in the thirteenth. And, of course, Gregory XII abdicated in 1415 to end the Great Schism.”
“But never a forced abdication, per se?”
“Of course, there’s an even more grotesque rumor too. That’s the one the devil sends our way each century or so—that someone might stop Benedict through physical harm inside the Vatican.”
“Shades of the conspiracy theorists and John Paul I’s monthlong reign!”
Sullivan stopped in front of his apartment. “Let’s freshen up inside,” he said. “We’re due in the papal apartments at 4 PM, which gives us a good hour.”
“Welcome, caro professore!” said Benedict XVI, his arms spread wide to embrace Jon.
“I’m delighted to see you again, Santissimo Padre! ”
“It’s been almost a year and a half since we first met, and, ah . . . much has happened in the mean-time, has it not?”
“To say the very least!”
“I thank you for having kept us closely informed of your progress, amico mio. Father Sullivan here has been very helpful in relaying your reports.”
They smiled, and again let Benedict have the initiative in conversation.
“I also appreciate how carefully you’ve dealt with the evidence at Rama, good Professor. You’ve always stressed the conditional nature of the discoveries, and you’ve been sensitive as to how this would affect the faithful. But now, of course, we’re eager to learn about your scholars’ congress.”
“Their conclusions are summarized in this rather ponderous volume. I know you’ll read it at your leisure.”
“I will indeed. Perhaps, though, you could report some of the, ah, important findings for me.”
“Of course. First let me—”
“Better yet,” the pope interrupted, “since it’s so beautiful a day for early October, why don’t we take a walk through our gardens, and you can tell me along the way. Yes?”
“That would be delightful,” Jon replied, glancing knowingly at Kevin as the pope led the way. Sullivan caught the wordless comment perfectly and shrugged his shoulders.
And maybe they were the paranoid, bug-seeking sorts, Jon mused, while enjoying a pleasant stroll under the pine and cypress canopy of the Vatican Gardens behind St. Peter’s basilica. At a small clearing near the center, illumined by the ruddy golden rays of a drop-ping sun, Benedict bade them sit down on a pair of rustic benches. He looked at Jon and said, “And now, I am anxious to hear your report, dear friend.”
This would be the most difficult speech of his life, Jon knew, but his only option was to reveal the truth accurately rather than diplomatically. Slowly, specifically—and not unemotionally—he presented the final conclusions.
“The Archaeology Panelists praised the methodology of our dig, and found all of our discoveries to be authentic. The ceramic typology, they said, was a model of accuracy. The Anthropology/ Pathology specialists found no evidence of modern intrusion in the skeletal remains. The Analysis Panel endorsed all the radiocarbon and Smithsonian tests, and even narrowed the age-range in some of them. The Linguistics/Paleography specialists found nothing anomalous in the papyrus, parchment, or stone inscriptions, and thought the one grammatical error on the titulus quite natural, under the circumstances.”
Jon paused to let the bitter tidings digest. This could only come as a cruel succession of shocks for his hearers. But the pope said softly, “Go on, my friend. Go on.”
“The Investigative Panel, thus far, has found no indication of fraud, forgery, or foul play, despite many hypothetical scenarios they’ve discussed. Nor have they found any credible motivation for such deception among staff personnel, or anyone else.”
Again, he paused. But when there was no response, he continued. “In the Theological Sector, the Old and New Testament Panels found no irregularities in the burial procedure at Rama, or implied in the papyrus. While ossuaries were in wider use than sarcophagi as of AD 60, the latter were still in fashion, especially among the wealthy.
“Accordingly,” Jon now summarized, “the international scholars’ congress finds itself compelled to conclude that the discoveries in the Rama cavern area appear to be fully authentic.”
The sun had dipped lower, and a chilly breeze started whistling in the pines. The white papal cassock fluttered just a bit. Benedict XVI looked at the brown pine needles strewn about his sandals and said nothing. Finally, it was Kevin who spoke, very softly. “They conclude, then, that the . . . sacred bones of . . .” his voice caught, in great emo-tion, “. . . of . . . of Jesus . . . have been discovered?”
Jon nodded slowly. Then he added, “The books remain open, of course, for any further evidence that could turn up in the future.” It seemed a hope-less consolation.
“And you, Jonathan?” the pope suddenly inquired, using his given name for the first time. “Do you think those are the bones of Jesus too?”
Jon said nothing, as eternal seconds ticked away. He almost felt as if he were standing before God Himself on Judgment Day, compelled to give the answer on which his eternal salvation depended. But no, this was no divine tribunal. This was merely the high priest for one billion believers. Or better yet, this was merely one Christian asking the opinion of another.
“Answer me, Jonathan,” the pope asked again. This time Jon saw large tears welling up in his vivid brown eyes.
“Santissimo Padre,” Jon began, his own voice now heavily choked with emotion. “My heart says no to your question. But my head, in view of . . . of the overwhelming evidence, has . . . has no alternative but to say . . . yes.”
Emitting a great groan, Benedict fell to his knees on the carpet of pine needles, put his elbows on the bench, and bowed his head. For long moments he said nothing. Finally his lips parted, and he whispered:
Angelo di Dio,
che sei il mio custode,
illumina e custodisci,
reggi e governa me
che ti fui affidato
dalla Pieta celeste.
Amen.
He continued praying silently for the next quarter hour.
Jon and Kevin walked off a bit, to give the pope his privacy with God. “That’s the common Italian children’s prayer,” Kevin whispered, tears in his eyes, “the first prayer Benedict ever learned. It must have been in Piacenza, when Mama Albergo taught it to her little Ricardo. American Catholic kids learn the English version as their very first prayer. I know I did.”
Angel of God, my Guardian dear
To Whom His love commits me here,
Ever this day be at my side
To light, to guard, to rule, and guide.
Amen.
Kevin’s voice cracked at the “Amen,” and he leaned against a tree, covered his face, and wept.
Jon peered through the pines at the great dome of St. Peter’s basilica, shimmering gold in the twilight, and whispered, “Amen, indeed!”
TWENTY-TWO
At Ben Gurion, Jon spied them before they did him, thanks to the dark-glasses-cum-Panama-hat routine. This time it was two gorgeous women as the welcoming committee, but both Shannon and Naomi looked distraught. Naomi caught sight of him, rushed into his arms, and buried her head in his chest, sobbing.
“Clive is dead, Jon!” Shannon cried, eyes pink with tears.
“Great God, no! No! What happened?”
“He drowned, swimming at Caesarea.”
“No! When?”
“Night before last.”
Jon collapsed onto a bench, shaking his head and clenching his teeth as if to overrule the event by sheer willpower. Finally he groaned and said, “I’ll get my luggage. Tell me on the way—everything. ”
This time the kilometers to Ramallah were pure anguish. As Naomi sobbed quietly in the backseat, Shannon supplied the catastrophic details. “Naomi and I were in Jerusalem, shopping for her . . . for her”—she burst out crying—“for her bridal gown! Papa was in Tel Aviv at the publishers. So Clive must have gotten bored and driven to Caesarea with his scuba gear. After diving, he must have taken a final swim—like we always do—since the gear was repacked in the Rover. He never came back. They found the Rover on the beach, and his . . . his body washed up on shore a couple miles north, by the Roman aqueduct!”
“Impossible!” Jon objected. “It just can’t be! Clive was a good swimmer.”
“Yes,” Naomi cried from the backseat, “but he also loved to swim way out. Remember the time you yelled at him, ‘Hey, Clive, if you’re heading for Spain, you forgot your passport!’”
He smiled briefly, grimly, then returned to his grief and asked, “When did you say this happened?”
“We don’t know for sure,” said Shannon. “Probably the afternoon or evening before last. They didn’t find him until yesterday morning.”
“Any . . . any sign of foul play?”
“No. Nothing. Just a foolish, idiotic drowning that has no rhyme nor reason,” Shannon cried. “Looks like God was sleeping again.”
“He does take naps, you know,” Jon replied, recalling a certain Swiss avalanche and not caring, at the moment, whether his comment bordered on blasphemy or not. Suddenly, another too-poignant parallel occurred to him. “So,” he said bitterly, “we lose another great archaeologist to the Mediterranean!”
“Yes!” Naomi cried. “Paul Lapp! I thought of that later on. We use his Ceramic Chronology to type the pottery we find at Rama.”
“What about Paul Lapp?” asked Shannon.
“He was scouting out a new site on Cyprus some years ago, and took a swim off Kyrenia Beach,” Jon replied. “He got caught in the undertow and was carried out to sea. Like Clive’s, a terrible loss to archaeology!”
When they reached Ramallah, they found a disconsolate Jennings, staring at the floor of his office, almost motionless. Wearily he raised his head as they walked in, and he said softly, “He had such a brilliant future, Jonathan. Such a brilliant future.”
Jon slumped down next to him. “Why, Austin? Why?”
He shook his head. “They’ve asked that question ever since Job, I suppose. We’ll likely be asking it till the end of time.” He groaned and held his head in his hands.
“At times I wonder if a curse isn’t hanging over this dig,” said Shannon. “Rama seems to have brought the world nothing but agony. And now Clive’s been snatched away too.”
Jennings uttered a sad grunt and said, “Everyone must show Naomi all the love and support we can manage . . .” He choked on his words and then moaned again, “He would have had such a brilliant future.”
The funeral was held at St. George’s Cathedral in Jerusalem, with representatives of the international archaeology community in the congregation. The dean of St. George’s conducted the Anglican service, and Jon delivered the eulogy. At the cemetery, the dean read from the Book of Common Prayer as he stood by the open grave. “In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ, we commend to Almighty God our brother Clive Farnsworth Brampton; and we commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”
This was Jon’s first funeral since Rama, and he found the words taking on a vastly modified dimension. Syllables of supposedly solid comfort in the dean’s prayer now seemed hollow hopes. “O, God, who by the glorious resurrection of your Son, Jesus Christ, destroyed death, and brought life and immortality to light: grant that your servant Clive, being raised with Him, may know the strength of His presence, and rejoice in His eternal glory.”
As the mourners slowly left the grave site, Austin Balfour Jennings, tears running down his great bronze cheeks, threw a gilded trowel into the pit where they would shortly lower Clive’s casket.
On a warm October Saturday, Shannon and Jon drove Naomi up to the Sea of Galilee for a daylong outing, the place that had ignited and fueled the fires of love for two of the trio. Naomi sensed as much. As they drove to Migdal on the west shore of the lake, she said, “Why don’t you two enjoy the beach here? I’d . . . rather climb those hills and be by myself for a couple of hours. Meet you here about five?”
“Fine, Naomi.”
Once she was out of sight, Jon and Shannon put on swimsuits, then scampered into the body of water they called “Our Lake.” After a brisk swim—Shannon screamed at him not to head out so far, for poignant reasons—they lay on the beach, taking in the afternoon sun. Neither said anything for long minutes. Suddenly Jon sat up and gazed across the sea to the Golan Heights.
“What is it, Jon?” she asked.
“Oh . . . for some reason, that old Danish Lutheran hymn occurred to me. ‘Built on the Rock, the Church shall stand, even when steeples are falling; crumbled have spires in every land, bells still are chiming and calling.’”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, the Rock is Christ, but it’s the falling steeples and crumbling spires that make the hymn look prophetic. Rama will wreak that sort of havoc when our conclusions are announced to the public in November. Those great cathedrals that took centuries to build—the Notre Dames, the Westminster Abbeys—Rama pulls out all their keystones and blasts away their foundations to boot!”
He stood up and skipped a flat stone across the waters of the lake, counting the number of times it skimmed the surface. Then he turned and said, “Let’s move from architecture to music, Shannon. The most magnificent passages I’ve ever heard come in Bach’s Mass in B Minor, where The Creed has just buried Jesus on Good Friday with the most somber tones possible; but then follows the glorious “Et Resurrexit,” where full chorus and orchestra blast out sublimely joyful flourishes of triumph, trumpets blazing away to salute Jesus’s Resurrection. You can’t hear that marvelous music without getting tears in your eyes and tingling right down to your toes! But now I doubt I’ll ever be moved like that again.�
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Sitting back down, he glanced at the exquisite features and stunning figure of the woman next to him and quickly corrected himself. “I’ll never be so moved again musicologically.” Then he brushed her hair aside and swept her cheek with gentle kisses. “But you, my darling, move me in every way imaginable!” he whispered, as his fingers tried to set out on an exploratory survey.
Shannon brushed away his hand while looking nervously about, grateful that they had the shore to themselves. “Men!” she yipped, as she stood up, grabbed a plastic container from their picnic bas-ket, filled it with lake water, and splashed it across Jon’s prostrate form. “There!” she cried. “That should put out your fire!”
Jon laughed and gathered her into his wet arms for a chaste hug.
“Men turn on so instantly,” she giggled. “It takes women a little longer.”
“I have endless patience, sweetheart! But now that you’ve ‘thrown cold water’ on our romance, let’s take a walk along the beach.”
While strolling northward, arm in arm, Shannon said, “I think it’s high time for ‘accommodation’ so far as Rama’s concerned, Jon. The Church is going to have to put some elastic into its teachings on the Resurrection. Then maybe those steeples won’t crumble after all.”
Jon nodded. “Maybe. Saint Paul does use the term spiritual in describing the resurrection body—to differentiate it from the kinds we have now which get sick, go to the john, et cetera, so I’d never have trouble with a ‘spiritual resurrection’ in that sense—a new dimension of reality.”
“Well, why not simply go with that interpretation?”
“Fine. But the ‘new theology’ doesn’t stop there. It goes on to claim that only a disembodied spirit or even ‘idea’ of Jesus drove the Church on. The physical resurrection, à la the New Testament, simply never happened: it was merely wish-fulfillment on the part of the disciples, maybe Peter’s great idea for vocational rehabilitation. Can’t you just see him gathering the disciples together after Good Friday and saying, “Well, fellas, we really blew it in following Jesus. But if you follow my plan, someday they’ll name churches after us—”
