The Accidental Pope

by Ray Flynn

  The cardinal stared in disbelief. Evidently the Holy Family came before the Holy See. “Very well, Bill. We’ll finish our conversation later if you wish.” He was out the door before the pope could frame a reply.

  “And you, young lady, go get cleaned up.” He looked down at his own soiled white cassock. “I will, too.” She reached out to hug her father, but his hand stopped her. “I’ll take a hug later when you’re clean. Get going.”

  He gathered his papers into a neat pile on his desk and glanced at the empty chairs where Cardinal Robitelli and the others had been in session. He felt distinctly ashamed as he realized that right in the middle of a heated debate, he had sent his secretary of state out to check on a hole in the ground. Well, he thought, even laypeople have an effect on the magisterium. He made his way to Meghan’s bedroom. She had showered and dressed in clean clothes and was putting a Band-Aid on her leg to cover a minor cut.

  “Well, baby, you had better take a few days off, away from the catacombs, and you’ll stay in one piece.” He leaned over to kiss her on the head.

  “Dad, I know I was wrong. Am I to be punished?”

  He smiled at the question, then decided it might be a good idea. “Why, yes, maybe we should punish you. Now, let’s see … how does a pope punish his child? It can’t be a spanking … no, the pope’s daughter must have a truly papal punishment. Let’s say that you have to read one of the four Gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John … completely. How’s that?”

  “Dad, you’re off the wall!”

  “True. But that’s it. Let me know the one you read and I’ll test you on it.”

  “Dad … you really mean it?” His stern look answered the question. “OK, give me a week,” she said.

  Bill Kelly, satisfied, left his archeology-minded daughter to finish cleaning up from her explorations.

  The pope returned to his office and started reviewing his notes when the phone rang. It was Cardinal Robitelli. “Your Holiness, do you think we spoke long enough? Perhaps I should begin organizing certain things. And with your permission, I’ll talk to Church scholars and theologians from the Angelicum and the Gregorian University.”

  “I appreciate your willingness to go where you are opposed to exploring, Gino,” Bill said gratefully.

  “Yes. The Jesuits and Dominicans can have much fun playing with this ‘hot potato,’ as you Americans say.” Robitelli chuckled mirthlessly. Then, after a pause, “In regard to the accident, I checked into it personally. It seems that your daughter has become the outstanding archeologist of the year. That hole—or perhaps we should say tomb—she uncovered is a site that has eluded the Church for centuries. It appears Meghan has discovered the actual burial crypt of St. Paul!”

  The cardinal was silent a moment, contemplating this revelation. Then, “It was thought by some that St. Paul was buried in a vineyard where San Paolo fuori le Mura, St. Paul’s Church outside the walls, is presently located, but other historians say his remains had never been found. The remains of many saints and Church heroes were buried in secret locations in Rome and elsewhere in pagan times so the emperors could not exhume and desecrate them. It is possible, even likely, that Meghan has found St. Paul.” The excitement in the voice of the cardinal secretary of state reverberated over the line.

  For Bill Kelly it was a revelation similar to the moment he saw Brian on the dock during the conclave and cried out, “Oh, my God! So it’s true!”

  “Thank you, Gino. My course is now clear, crystal clear. I know exactly what to do so long as the Holy Spirit allows me to live. Saul of Tarsus, the Apostle Paul, St. Paul has given Pope Peter II the sign I was looking for. It is so bright, so clear, and so unmistakable. Crete becomes Africa today! I am where I should be.”

  Shaken at the sudden resolve, the unchallengeable self-confidence so suddenly taking over the pope’s total psyche, Cardinal Robitelli beat a mental retreat from further confrontation with Bill Kelly, hanging up the phone.

  The pope leaned back peacefully in his chair, now certain he was on the correct path for at least the start of his ambitious African program. If only his usual good health could be reestablished, he now felt confident that he would accomplish all the reforms the Holy Spirit had helped him envision when it had worked the miracle of Bill Kelly and the bark of St. Peter.

  The enigmatic virus Bill had contracted was reminiscent of the one that had stricken the famous White House lawyer, Charles Ruff, on a visit to Africa as a young man, Ed Kirby had pointed out. It had put him in a wheelchair for life. But he had managed the vigorous defense of President Clinton in 1999, and Bill Kelly prayed that, whatever happened, he too could remain equally effective.

  Nevertheless, it was impossible for the pope not to reflect on the avviso left to him by his predecessor. If he seemed to be accomplishing his mission, his life would indeed be endangered, as had the life of John Paul II when he set out to destroy European Communism. The former pontiff’s warning that the Orthodox Church would be a powerful adversary to Catholicism had been reinforced by the meeting with the patriarch. But now his spirit rejoiced at the clear sign from St. Paul telling him the course he had set in Africa was right and to keep on following it, undeterred by distractions and the disapproval of others.

  The pope decided to pause and say a bit of his Rosary to refocus his spirits. He caressed the silver beads, miraculously burnished to a bright new luster on his fishing boat that last morning, and his finger touched the sharp nick in the joiner inflicted thirty-five years before when he had tightened the screw on Brian’s doorknob at the seminary. Bill was just heading into the third decade of his prayer when there was a knock at his library door.

  Since only the highest-ranking members of the Vatican family could even approach this entrance, the pope called out to come in. His calm dissipated when Cardinal Bellotti entered. This visit meant a further attempt to dissuade the pope from his Africa program.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Your Holiness, but I thought you might be interested in some news I have.”

  Bill Kelly was really confused as he watched the cardinal pause by the small serving table and glance down.

  “Tell me, Bill, are those real peanuts or treated red ants?”

  This was not the usual Bellotti. The pope regained his composure. “Help yourself to the real thing, Eminence.” Bill Kelly had never been drawn to calling this cardinal by his first name, the majestic “Leonardo.” “The coffee there is still hot.”

  The cardinal indulged himself and sat down in front of the pope’s desk.

  “Well, now, Bellotti, what is this interesting news you have?”

  The cardinal gulped another mouthful of coffee to clear the nuts and smiled omnisciently. “Bill, I have been involved in a most absorbing situation here.”

  “I’m listening.”

  The cardinal’s black eyes gleamed hypnotically. “It seems that my outstanding charm has motivated a nonreligious personage within the Vatican family to approach me to learn a bit more about the Church. As you know, we cardinals do not often get involved in proselytizing, but since it was you who specifically asked that some non-Catholics be welcomed here, I thought I would accept the challenge.”

  Bellotti paused, gauging the pope’s interest in the point he was trying to make, and thought he caught a sympathetic gleam in the pontiff’s eye. “And so, with my usual brilliance”—he smiled at his own self-mockery—“I was able to show how sweet the gentle Jesus really is, despite some idiots who try to serve him. In short, Your Holiness, I have made a convert. So I thought it would be appropriate if I offered a private Mass in the pope’s chapel—with his permission, of course. Then my convert could have a private breakfast with the pope and me. To use your vernacular, what do you think of those apples?”

  The pope hazarded a cautious chuckle at the evident joy in the cardinal’s face. This man had proved a subtle impediment in Bill’s papal planning toward the unorthodox and the forward thinking. But Bill expected roadblocks from the traditional-minded
Robitelli and Bellotti.

  “I think that’s amazing, Bellotti.” He still couldn’t use the cardinal’s first name, or a suitable diminutive. “Imagine, a genuine missionary right here in the Vatican. When do you want this joyous event to take place?”

  The cardinal rubbed his hands together in expectation. “I say we strike while the iron is hot. What about tomorrow morning at your seven o’clock Mass? You can just sit in your place to watch or join me in a con-celebration. What’s your choice?”

  The pope could see that Bellotti had something else on his mind, something missing from the conversation. “Well, I don’t want your convert to think that I’m trying to steal the show. I’ll just sit in my seat and be a simple attendant tomorrow, if that meets with your approval.”

  The cardinal stood up and stretched out his hand. “Magnificent. Thank you so much.” He turned toward the door, pausing to grab another handful of nuts. “See you in the chapel.”

  * * *

  Just before seven the next morning Pope Peter finished his morning mediation and took his seat at the front of the private chapel. Waiting for the Mass to begin, he glanced to one side to see if he could identify the new convert but soon realized that his knowledge of the laypeople who came to his Mass was still limited. He did not want to turn around and stare at those filling the small chapel. He gave himself completely to the celebration and was lost in the peace of Christ until Communion.

  Cardinal Bellotti paused, smiling at the pope before continuing. “At this time, dear friends, I would like to announce that we have a convert who has been moved by Christ’s grace to join us wholeheartedly in His Church. I would like her to come forward first to receive Communion.”

  The cardinal walked around the altar and held the chalice and host to await his convert. The pope felt a knot tighten in his throat as he turned and watched his daughter, Colleen, advance to receive the Body and Blood of Christ. His two younger children followed her. He reached for his handkerchief to wipe away his tears of joy. It was going to be a beautiful day, he thought. Perhaps the happiest he had known in Rome since the day he had gone to Leonardo da Vinci airport to meet his family when they first arrived. If Mary Kelly had been there, she would have been filled with pride for the growth her oldest daughter had accomplished.

  After Communion the pope stood up and walked to the back of the chapel, where he hugged and kissed Colleen and shook hands with Cardinal Bellotti. “Well, Leo, or would it be Lenny? What a marvelous and happy surprise.”

  “Try ‘Leo.’” The cardinal paused. “Bill.”

  39

  IRELAND

  Fortunately, when Cardinal Comiskey arrived in Rome on only a day’s notice, Bill was feeling his old rugged self. He had almost daily visited the tunnel in the catacombs where Meghan had fallen down into the now virtually confirmed burial place of St. Paul. The pope had accompanied Meghan to the site of her discovery and actually laid his hands on the uncovered stone sarcophagus in which the Vatican archeologists had pronounced the interred human bones almost surely those of St. Paul. There was no question in Bill Kelly’s mind that Paul had come to him in his hour of self-doubt and was now showing him the way. Paul’s Crete was indeed his own Africa.

  Cardinal Robitelli noticed the marked change in Bill Kelly’s demeanor and self-confidence. It was as though overnight he had quietly become the self-assured pontiff, unshakable in his beliefs, and undisputed ruler of the Holy See.

  The secretary of state was annoyed by the short notice the cardinal of Ireland gave when he requested a meeting with the pope on the day of his arrival. “He’s got too much access and is slighting our protocol,” Robitelli complained to the curia.

  Bill Kelly was pleased to hear Brian was on the way, short notice notwithstanding. He planned a family dinner that evening for his friend, to be followed by a quiet meeting afterward with Tim Shanahan.

  Roger, Colleen, and Meghan were happy to see “Uncle Brian” again and asked during dinner when they might visit Ireland. With his omniscient smile Brian replied, “That’s what I came to talk to your dad about.”

  “Is it, now, Brian?” Bill cut into the cries of joy from his two youngest children. “And just when does the pope amend his schedule to accommodate this visit?”

  “How about St. Patrick’s Day and a few days around it?” Brian asked.

  Roger let out a whoop of joy.

  “Doesn’t His Holiness have anything to say about it?” Bill asked.

  “Well, it’s three weeks to St. Patrick’s Day. Can we cart you over to Ireland for the occasion?”

  “Yes!” Roger cried joyously.

  Later, after dinner, Brian, Tim, and Bill met as usual in the library. “Now, Brian, how do we handle this?” the pope asked. “Robitelli and Father Tucci will have fits if I even suggest it to them. They weren’t happy with the planning of the Africa trip.”

  Cardinal Comiskey turned his sad eyes to the pope. “In case you missed it while you were away, there’s been a deepening of the mistrust among the people and political parties in Northern Ireland. Even a resurgence of the “troubles.” Certainly nothing like Omagh in ’98. But new threats. I try to keep the Catholic side steady, but it doesn’t take much to get the latest IRA faction all riled up. Paisley is always going to be his same nasty, hateful self. Let a Protestant fire a Catholic from his job, a Catholic complain about discrimination in Belfast, or a Protestant girl go out for a drink in a bar with a Catholic boy and we have the makings of violence all over again. We need some sort of ecumenical peacemaking gesture right now. The “troubles” are not in the news, but they’re on the minds of Protestants and Catholics alike.”

  “Well,” the pope said cheerfully, “it is close to St. Patrick’s Day. What better place for the Kelly family to celebrate the feast day of the patron saint of Ireland than the Emerald Isle itself? What do I tell my cardinal secretary of state? Not that his objections carry much weight anymore.”

  “I’ll tell Robitelli that we need the pope to make the visit,” Brian agreed. “And when would that be more appropriate than St. Patrick’s Day?”

  “I’ll tell him from me that the family wants to go. So to you, Brian,” Bill smiled sympathetically, “I leave the explanations of how the presence of the Holy Father can help calm things down and fend off disaster.”

  The pope turned to Tim Shanahan. “Tim, maybe you can help explain to these last-century clerics around me that things move faster now. Planes arrive in less time and problems mount faster. A week or even a day for the old-fashioned planning, as important as it is, can lose us the reason for going in the first place.” He turned back to Brian. “I take it things are urgent in Ireland?”

  “I’m afraid so. The six counties in the North still see sporadic violence and threats from both the Catholic and Protestant sides. I have pretty good relations with both the Unionists and Nationalists. They consider me an honest broker. I have worked very closely with both Protestant and Catholic children on a number of projects, which have created good relations. We now have an Irish-American pope, and Pope Peter II is in an unparalleled position to help heal deep wounds. Much as the Polish pope brought the Communists into reconciliation with the population, I believe that Pope Peter can accomplish the same in Ireland. But our problems, despite the peace process, frayed by the bombing at Omagh and subsequent outbreaks and the long-standing tensions during the marching season, are likely to erupt. Time is essential if we are to get them behind us once and for all as we take on the third millennium. We hear dire warnings in the Fatima prophecies that the twenty-first century will unleash some sort of apocalyptic conflagration. Let it not start in Ireland.” Brian gave his old friend a beseeching look.

  Bill Kelly stood in the middle of the small library where he held these most intimate meetings. “The Vatican must also adjust to this new era of advanced communications. We have to be able to move as fast as any modern government if we are to make the Holy See as viable as any other world nation. If I have to be perceived
as impetuous and antitraditionalist so be it.” He clapped a hand on the cardinal’s shoulder and smiled broadly. “So the Kellys will be in Ireland for St. Patrick’s Day. Like it or not at the curia.”

  “Bill,” Brian said, “thank you. As the Polish pope ended by personal diplomacy the blight of Communism on his people, Bill Kelly has that same opportunity. I need a power behind my efforts as the honest broker to end, once and for all, the Irish troubles.”

  * * *

  Brian Comiskey spent a day of preliminary planning for the Irish visit with Tim Shanahan, and visited again a second time with the pope. They met this time in his small personal study, and, it being six o’clock, Bill Kelly brought out a bottle of Jameson Irish whiskey and poured them each a drink, placing the bottle on the table.

  “I’m glad you came, Brian, very glad. I probably would have sent for you. I have a list of reforms I want to see addressed. They have been ignored or swept under the rug by the previous cardinal secretaries of state, but the necessity for them can’t go away. A few of them are even now being activated in Africa under Gus Motupu’s authority, signed and sealed by me personally. I don’t have to tell you what he is trying to do there: the disease, starvation, and genocidal tribal wars. We face a covert challenge from Russian Orthodoxy, which is no more than an attempt to gain political control in the new millennium. Islamic fundamentalism, the extremist movement which resorts to murder, war, and bombings in the names of Mohammed and of Allah, is different and has a better God than ours, they say.” Bill raised his glass, and he and Brian sipped the fine Irish whiskey.

  “Bill, you look worn out,” Brian said. “What’s the matter?”

  “I don’t know! I picked up something in Africa, some kind of virus. God, when I think of those poor nuns out there with the diseased and starving, trying to live up to their vows. I wish I could do more.”

  A worried look came over Brian’s countenance. “Are you getting the right medical attention?”