The Accidental Pope

by Ray Flynn

  “I regret having contributed to Orthodox distrust of Americans and Europeans of the NATO countries.” The patriarch waited for the translation to be completed. “But the war in Yugoslavia, Serbia, Kosovo, and Albania was a religious and ethnic conflict going back many centuries, and I would be remiss if I did not remind my Eastern Orthodox parishioners of the horrifying atrocities the Muslims, the Turks, committed against us. For instance, impalement, a horrible slow death. These atrocities will always live in our history. The evil monster in your literature, Dracula, is based on a Balkan Christian, Vlad the Impaler, who used to place a hundred Turks at a time on the greasy poles. I am surprised that your American press chose not to inform the American people of the religious divide in the world today and in the past. Much of the division has been religious, not just political or geographic.”

  Once again Alexis II waited for the translation and then continued. “No, there is little we can do to remove or neutralize the hatred. I am sorry if we knowingly sent a Serbian doctor with intense grievances against Americans and Europeans, Catholics, who she believes have all but destroyed her country, which, of course”—the patriarch clucked his tongue, waiting for the interpretation of his words “they you—have.”

  He stood up from his seat, bowing somberly to the pope, who bowed back, no handshake. Bishop Yussotov led the pope’s delegation out of the room and through the hallways to the front door. “You seem to be pretty well ensconced here, Bishop,” Shanahan observed.

  “So it would seem.”

  “A most attractive interpreter the patriarch has on his staff,” Monsignor Cippolini said, his first observation of the meeting.

  Bishop Yussotov grinned crookedly. “Our church does not always believe in celibacy. Which makes it far more pleasant for your African Christian churchmen to join us.” The concept was not lost on the pope, who nodded grudging agreement. He stepped out of the patriarch’s rectory and onto the sidewalk of this strangely African and colonial European mixture of a city.

  “Is there more you want us to know here in Congo, Gus?” the pope asked as they walked toward their cars.

  “There isn’t much use going to Kindu if we are not going to challenge the patriarch,” Motupu replied.

  “Will your people out there feel betrayed if we do not go?”

  “Of course. But it is a tender little parish, barely existing in the wake of the revolutions and terrorism of the past few years. I have a very active priest out there, brought up in the colony when it was Belgian administrated. He would be greatly energized if the pope actually visited his diocese.”

  “He is expecting us?”

  “Yes, but he will understand if we do not go out there. He knows the problems the Church faces here.”

  “I think we should go. Notify the pilot and your priest. What is his name?”

  “Father Gregory Muzerowa. He went to the Belgian seminary in Brussels.”

  “Then let us keep our engagement with him. I’ll tell our pilots myself.”

  The pope’s brave little two-car motorcade proceeded to the airport, coming to a halt outside the crumbling administrative building. Orthodox Russian influence, fast spreading, still had not wiped out the last vestiges of Roman Catholic upbringing among certain older Congo citizens. Great deference was shown the pope at the airport, and his group’s exit papers were quickly and respectfully processed. It was not until they were in their plane that the cold fingers of the patriarch’s influence touched them. Their flight plan to any airport within Congo was negated by flight control. Permission to land at Kindu was specifically refused, and they were advised to return to Luanda.

  The pope and Motupu looked at each other resignedly as the copilot came out of the flight deck and delivered the destination ban.

  “The avviso warned me of Orthodoxy’s far-reaching grasp,” Bill remarked to Tim. “When Pope John Paul II went to see the Eastern Orthodox patriarch of Romania in Bucharest in the spring of 1999, he was blocked from visiting any other Catholic parish in the country. Most hypocritical of the Orthodox leader, but that’s how they operate.”

  “Tell the pilot to return to Luanda,” Motupu directed. Then to the pope he remarked, “This is an example of how quickly a neo-Communist alliance with the patriarch has developed. I am thankful that you saw it yourself.”

  The pope stared through the window as the plane’s engines whined outside and the aircraft lumbered onto the nearly deserted runway to take off. His eyes fell to the back of his hand and the red splotch caused by the acid used to cauterize the child’s bite. In silence he sat contemplating the implications of his brief visit.

  Once airborne and headed south, the pope, Motupu, Shanahan, and Cardinal Bellotti sat on opposite sides of a table between the facing banks of seats. Monsignor Cippolini busied himself supervising the flight attendant’s preparations for lunch. No one spoke until Bill broke the silence. “I guess,” he began hesitantly, “that in Africa religion must be state-sponsored to succeed.”

  “It comes down to that, Your Holiness,” Shanahan observed. “Islam prevails not only in the mosques but in the state governments to the north. Indeed, they are one and the same. We would have as much chance of bringing religion to the perpetually starving south of Sudan as a Jew during the Spanish Inquisition or the Holocaust. The true Muslim faith is so perverted by the extremists that even Mohammed himself would be ostracized by these fanatics.”

  “But we can’t just give it all up,” the pope said resolutely. “We’ve got to rebuild.”

  “I am thankful you see for yourself what’s happening here,” Motupu said. “First we had religious-sponsored state governments; now we’ve slipped into state-sponsored religions. And it isn’t our Roman brand of Catholicism which these warlords’ leaders sponsor. Like the mullahs in the north”—he gazed balefully out the window at the ground below—“who overthrow one another by arms and terror, in these central African countries so their religion conforms to their ‘me da boss’ objectives.”

  “We need a few strong nations behind us,” Tim Shanahan declared. “How about the U.S.A.? Could Ed Kirby help?”

  “He might have some ideas, but the avviso also warns us about the apathy of the American Church hurting our efforts here and elsewhere,” the pope offered nevertheless. “God knows these extremist Islamic countries shaped up when we, America, that is, went after their terrorists with cruise missiles.”

  “Just the threat of something like that can keep our petty dictators in line,” Motupu agreed.

  “Well, Gus, what do we do now? Where do you want me to go?”

  “I could have taken you up to Nigeria. That country, despite the pervasive corruption, has more dedicated Catholic priests doing their job than any other. And it has a large Muslim population as well.”

  “Should we have gone there?” the pope questioned.

  “Why?” Motupu asked. “It is here the international community needs to know about the suffering and death. Reforms are essential if we are to do our work in this primitive climate that nobody in Rome cares to understand.”

  Cardinal Bellotti raised his eyebrows. “What are you suggesting, Eminence?”

  “I think the Holy Father hears me perfectly. In terms of time this has been a short visit, but the Holy Spirit was with us, showing Pope Peter II that new policies must be instituted. We need an entirely new course of action, a comprehensive African policy for the Catholic Church. Besides AIDS and other viruses, there are many forces at work here ready and willing to destroy my continent.”

  “New course?” Bellotti questioned sharply.

  “Yes, Eminenza. And for us. I don’t need to go further into the matter at this time,” Motupu enunciated. Bellotti sat back in his seat, noticeably disturbed but silent.

  For several minutes Pope Peter seemed preoccupied, as though he had absented himself. Then, stroking his chin thoughtfully, he rejoined the conversation.

  “Eminenza,” he addressed Cardinal Bellotti, “I would appreciate it greatly if
you would fly back to Rome tomorrow on a commercial flight and brief Cardinal Robitelli and the Office on Justice and Peace on everything you have seen and heard here. This will save me time when I return and we discuss the situation.”

  Bellotti smiled broadly. The opportunity of briefing the cardinal secretary of state with the pope absent was appealing.

  “I want to visit Gus’s parish again, talk more openly with the nuns and nurses, and absorb the spiritual significance of the place.”

  * * *

  Thus, two days later, on his last evening in Africa, Bill Kelly sat quietly listening and praying in the small Church that had been Motupu’s parish before he was made a bishop. Luxurious beyond belief to the Africans, though crude in the sight of the party from Rome it was where the pope chose to return.

  As he sat down in a chair on the dirt floor the pope sighed deeply. “Dear God, Augustine, how can we conquer such poverty and disease?”

  The cardinal shook his head and wiped the tiredness from his eyes. “I have struggled with these problems all my life. We can only try to ease the pain by providing spiritual support … to offer hope for the future, whether it be here or the hereafter. We don’t have the resources, not enough doctors, teachers, or priests to go around. Some of them cover such large areas that it may be six months before the people talk to a doctor, never mind their children attending school. Do you have any expriests who are medically trained, or teachers who want to teach in the jungles of Africa that you can spare?”

  The pope smiled knowingly at his friend, whose frustration was palpable. Bill tried to lighten the situation by reaching into his pockets and turning them inside out. “Nobody in here, Gus. Sorry about that.”

  Then came a magic moment of mystery. The sense of an unknown force present suddenly prompted the pope to brighten. The cardinal was caught up in the same mood. The pope pointed to a Bible lying on the cardinal’s desk. “There’s our answer, Gus. What did the early Church do? It certainly couldn’t send people off to the seminary for seven or eight years to study. No. The first Christians just appointed worthy believers to be its priests in the Churches. We must consider some major changes here. We all have good laypeople giving religious instruction in parishes throughout the world. I’m sure you have them in most of the parishes scattered throughout Africa. We will … no, you could ordain them as deacons immediately and we will train them in health care, education, and agriculture. Like the Peace Corps—perhaps a Catholic-sponsored, multinational, ecumenical Peace Corps. Former priests can return to the Church and perform most, maybe even all of their other functions, like burying the dead, dispensing Communion, sanctifying marriages, even saying Mass. We will establish within the Church itself a world ministry office and use several of our shut-down seminaries to train newcomers and former Churchmen and priests in important areas of need.”

  The cardinal jumped from his seat and began pacing back and forth, rubbing his hands together. He stopped and looked at the pope. “Yes, I can see that. But … dear God, what will they say in Rome? I mean … can you do this?” He blushed. “Of course you can. You’re the pope. But what will it do? You’ll create enormous problems. What will the faithful think in the rest of the world?” Then, a sheepish grin on his face, the cardinal confessed, “To tell the truth I’ve often thought of it before but considered it beyond my wildest dreams.”

  The pope stood up and looked his friend squarely in the eyes. “Gus, it has to be done sometime. Let it begin here. Have the Church help save these people and itself.”

  Bill reached for the Bible and leafed through the Scriptures. Then, triumphantly, “Here! Paul’s epistle to Titus.” He glanced down the page for a moment, and then looked up. “You see, all I have to do is change one word. Rather than ‘Crete,’ I will say ‘Africa.’ So now it can read like this.” He coughed slightly to mimic clearing his throat for a speech. Then he began to read. “Titus, chapter one, verses five to seven. ‘The reason I left you in’”—he winked and emphasized the next word—“‘Africa was that you might straighten out what was left unfinished and ordain elders in every town as I directed you. An elder’”—he looked up at Motupu significantly—“read bishop, ‘must be blameless, the husband of but one wife, a man whose children believe and are not open to the charge of being wild and disobedient.’”

  The pope looked up from the Scriptures in triumph. “There you have it, old boy! We’ll make Africa the test case. Like they used to have ‘model cities’ programs in places like Detroit, Watts, and the South Bronx. Africa is our model continent. This effort must be everyone’s responsibility, not just that of the Church, but everyone.”

  Bill enthusiastically pulled a leather pouch from his briefcase on the desk and opened it. “I’ll draw up the decree … get the ball rolling. I just happen to have my official seal with me. I am appointing you, my dear friend, to gather your present bishops together as best you can and commence discussing this with your instructors in the villages. If you have priests who have left to marry, invite them back and let them once again serve their God. I already have a fine ex-priest named Milton Drapeaux working on that project as a researcher. Select all your laypeople who are worthy and willing.”

  The pope’s excitement at what he was about to do rose as he took a seal from the bag and put it beside him on the table. “Give them the training and instruction if necessary. If you have some who are more educated and capable of understanding the role of the Church, give them more authority and responsibility. We should even recruit professional people of importance in fields like finance and administration and give them special status.”

  Bill paused thoughtfully a moment and then in a more restrained manner continued. “But I would say that in some areas, the people and the Church are still best served by those of your present priests who have years of study behind them. We must maintain our loyalty to all those good and dedicated ones who remained celibate and loyal to tradition, rewarding them for their many years of service.” Then his exuberance bubbled over again. “But don’t get stuck on formal education if you find some layperson who you think might do a good job.”

  The cardinal found himself caught up in the excitement of the moment. “Your Holiness, start writing that memo. Then pack your bags and go home. You have observed what I wanted you to see and have responded more positively than I dared hope.”

  The pope pulled a sheaf of writing paper to him and placed the seal on top of it. “The seal, Your Eminence.” He smiled broadly. “I thought it might come in handy.”

  “Bill, I’d like to add … when we accepted you as pope, many of us thought we could use you to get some new ideas and reforms accomplished. I realize you will take some flak because of this. I just want you to know we, the non-Vatican Church leaders, will provide you with as much support as you need.”

  “I already knew that, Gus. I learned much about you from Cardinal Comiskey. I think you are the perfect man to begin making the changes. Just wait until I get back and tell Robitelli what I’ve done personally before you begin the process of instituting these drastic but necessary reforms.”

  “You can trust me on that account, Pope Bill. I promise.” Motupu turned on a speculative smile. “Oh, Bill, one more thing—”

  The pope suppressed a shudder, sensing what might be coming. “Let her rip, Gus,” he invited.

  “I don’t have to tell you now about the epidemic proportions this part of Africa is experiencing in famine and disease,” he went on at the pope’s questioning glance. “The UN and the U.S. government have been nothing short of hypocritical in giving our people only condoms when what really is needed are clean water and food.”

  “Maybe that’s why the Irish can identify with you folks, Gus—the British did the same sort of thing to them during the Great Famine.”

  Motupu laughed. “The very concept of sexual abstinence is lost on Africans.” He bestowed an owlish look on the pope. “However, the people know the pain and suffering they are experiencing and are willing
to consider almost anything else.” He paused significantly.

  “Oh my God, Gus. If you mean what I think you do, this trip is going to result in Vatican Three—before we’ve even totally implemented Vatican Two!”

  “Of course, population and disease control must be maintained, indeed enhanced, here in Africa. There are a number of humanitarian relief agencies throughout the world, including International Concern, Doctors without Borders, Catholic Relief Services, Concern World Wide, Catholic Charities, and World Vision, that will join us in this fight. And of course, there’s the Red Cross.”

  The pope interrupted his enthusiastic cardinal. “We’ve got to bring this to the attention of the international community, to the UN. Perhaps a conference that Ed Kirby talked about to be held at the Eleanor Roosevelt Center in Hyde Park, New York, where human rights and humanitarian leaders from around the world assemble from time to time to focus attention on this crisis in an international seminar setting. What Mrs. Roosevelt once said describes what happened to me on this visit.”

  “What’s that, Bill?”

  “As she put it, ‘My interest or sympathy or indignation is not aroused by an abstract cause but by the plight of a single person … Out of my response to an individual develops an awareness of a problem to the community, then to the country, and finally to the world. In each case my feeling of obligation to do something stemmed from one individual and then widened and became applied to a broader area.’”

  The cardinal felt almost guilty as he watched his friend pull the writing paper toward him and, fountain pen in hand, wrestling with his pains and prayers, distilled in his clear and legible handwriting the conclusions arrived at on this last night of the African visit. Finally, he turned to the cardinal as he took the seal from the desk and prepared to stamp his imprimatur on the words over which he had so conscientiously struggled. “Dear God, Augustine, I pray that St. Paul will send me some sign that he approves of my change of venue from Crete to Africa.”