Apostasy Rising

by J A Bouma

  “In we go,” he said as the doors whooshed open. He led them into a hallway that suddenly transformed from the ultramodern architecture into an entirely different world.

  Misshapen mud-colored bricks stacked one on the other in awkward rows lined the walls. The spicy scent of aged earth tinged with the musty smell of a graveyard that bore memories from centuries past led them deep beneath the venerable church.

  “A few years before the Reckoning,” Father Jim echoed, “the Ministerium had the foresight to construct a separate chamber beneath the reconstructed church to provide, shall we say, secure accommodations for gatherings such as this one.”

  “You mean for secret meetings that will decide the fate of Ichthus, the fate of the Christian faith?” Tara quipped as they continued on.

  Father Jim glanced at Tara without responding, his eyes narrowing slightly at her sarcasm.

  The sound of a gathered group at the end of the hallway down below barreled toward them as they descended further beneath the Church of the Dormition. At the end of their descent, the corridor revealed a chamber up ahead. Standing at attention on either side of the thick mahogany doors resting open, adorned with gold leafing around the edges, were Swiss Guards in full regalia.

  Two of the nearby guards’ faces were badly disfigured, twins by the looks of it, as if their skin had been melted like wax through persecuting fire. Another, who bore a mean scar stretching from mouth to ear, nodded at Alexander. He nodded back, wondering what sort of combat he had seen before joining Ministerium security—or persecution. Such ecclesial security pomp hadn’t been used since St. Peter’s Basilica sank beneath the Mediterranean Sea.

  The great catastrophe of 2087, appropriately dubbed Armageddon by the sheer magnitude of devastation around the globe, set into motion a number of changes within the Church as well that had been coming for decades. One of which was the realignment of the thousands of denominations within Ichthus around four main factions: Catholic Orthodoxy, of which the Basilica once stood as the epicenter of the Christian faith with the Pontiff as her Chief Caretaker; Byzantine Orthodoxy, a sort of recast, resurgent Eastern Orthodoxy that had bubbled up from the ancient church out of the place in which they now met; Protestant Orthodoxy, which had grown out of the mainline Protestantism of the former United States and Anglican Church of former Europe, a haven for the kind of version of the Christian faith that had begun five centuries ago; and Evangelical Orthodoxy, a largely American invention of the 19th and 20th century that had survived and thrived the most of the four wings of Christ’s Church over the centuries.

  Before the worldwide Great Reckoning at the turn of the 22nd century, Ichthus had had a reckoning of her own, a sort of meeting of the minds and clearing of the air of the past millennia of bitter infighting and stagnation. A number of accords were reached that paved the way for bringing the greatest degree of unity to the Church of Jesus Christ since Pentecost. The destruction of the Vatican State in a bath of sea water was one of the triggers. Yet the Papal State held enough sway to insist upon a more hierarchical arrangement of leadership and pomp. Hence the Swiss Guards. And hence the reams of cardinals and bishops and priests who occupied the corridor.

  Members of the Ministerium of all levels chosen as special envoys of the Fidelium, the guardians of the faith, spilled into the hallway. Pastors, priests, bishops, and cardinals who had been summoned like Alexander were in conversation, both hushed and heated. Some were animated, discussing the latest news concerning Panligo, bishops from the global south raining down particularly fiery anathemas upon the heads of the perpetrators. Some were not so animated, preferring to stick to polite conversation about their parishes or the latest developments in their personal lives.

  A woman dressed in bright red silk broke through the crowded hallway to greet the arriving party. Mother Kimura Kayo, Bishop of Lunattica and the representative from the lunar nation orbiting Earth. She was like a porcelain doll from Asiatica: Red lips shone bright against her lily-white face, accented by jet black hair that was braided and arranged on top of her head with equally bright red hair sticks holding it in place. This was the traditional look of her ancient people who colonized the moon two centuries ago. Kimura embraced Father Jim, kissing him on both cheeks, the last of which lasted a second longer than Alexander thought necessary, causing the corner of his mouth to curl upward with intrigue.

  “Father Zarruq,” she said, beaming. “So good to see you. How have you been?” She embraced him as well, though without the two kisses. “You’ve been in my prayers the past year since your father’s passing. Utterly tragic, that was.”

  Her beaming smile turned to furrowed concern. Alexander was one of her favorite students at Oxford, much as he was Father Jim’s, maintaining a special place in her heart even when she assumed her duties in Lunattica. She had reached out to Alexander when his father died those many months ago, but he had never responded. He felt foolish now standing in front of her.

  Alexander offered a weak smile and bowed slightly. “Thank you for your prayers, Mother Kayo. And thank you so much for your notes of encouragement and for reaching out after his…well, after he passed. I’m sorry I didn’t respond.”

  “Nonsense. I just wanted you to know you were being thought of. Especially given the circumstances…”

  He smiled and nodded.

  “At any rate, it is good to see you, though I wish it were under better circumstances. Did you see the Solterra report?”

  “Yes, incredibly dismaying. What is Apollos thinking? What has happened to him?”

  She took in a breath and shook her head. “I don’t know, but it doesn’t surprise us, does it James?”

  “Not in the least,” Father Jim offered. “Apollos was a curious lad at Oxford, though the kind of curiosity that can only lead to ruin.”

  “Like Panligo?” Alexander interrupted.

  “Indeed,” he said gravely.

  “But it was more than curiosity, James,” Mother Kayo added. “Curiosity morphed into innovation.”

  “Ah, yes,” Father Jim agreed. “The most theologically innovative student I’d had in my decades of teaching—which is never a good thing. History is replete with theological innovators. There’s a name for them kind.”

  “What’s that, Cardinal Ferraro?” Tara asked, who had been quietly standing with crossed arms during the reunion.

  “Why, heretic, Ms. Rodriguez.”

  One end of Tara’s mouth curled upward, even as her nostrils flared and her eyes rolled ever so slightly. “Remind me never to tell you of my own theological innovations, Padre.”

  Father Jim chuckled and ushered them onward into the chamber ahead.

  Alexander felt self-conscious as they walked toward its open wooden doors, noting the severe age difference between most of the representatives and himself milling about the chamber’s threshold. He had risen quickly to a prominent position within the Ministerium, both because of his academic acumen and pastoral prowess, but also because of his familial connections through his father. That, and as the bishop of one of the most important historical locations still holding steady within the Church, he had gained a degree of favor and prestige his younger peers seemed to envy. He felt wholly out of place among these older heavyweights, however.

  The gauntlet of members represented the major regions from around the world post-Reckoning. Three of the other regional bishops from Alkebulana were talking loudly and rapidly in their native continental tongue, stopping when one saw Alexander approaching.

  “Brother Alex!” shouted Kojo Selassie from Zimbabwe. He was as tall in height as he was big in girth. And his embrace was as oversized, a bear tackling a sapling.

  “Good to see you, Father Kojo,” Alexander replied in mid-embrace.

  The Alkebulanan bishop turned and motioned toward two other members from the Alkebulana delegation. “Father Zwana, Mother Amara. Come join us!”

  Mother Amara Okoro, or Mama Mara as she was affectionately known around the Fidelium, was
of a similar age as Alexander’s father. In her early sixties, she played the mothering caretaker to the younger pastors and bishops throughout the continent, even beyond. Remarkably, she was the first woman to ascend the ranks beyond a local parish pastor, becoming Bishop of Senegal and the entire Western region of Alkebulana, as well as a special envoy to the Fidelium.

  Zwana Afolayan was a quiet, slight man from Sudan whom Alexander had known as a child through his father. The two had been close friends, though Alex himself was never all that close to him.

  Alexander recounted for them their harrowing tale as Father Jim continued on into the chamber up ahead.

  “Come here, sugar,” Mama Mara said, kissing his checks and hugging him once more. “Christ be praised you made it!”

  “Christ be praised,” the other two echoed.

  “Say, where’s Father Abasi?” Alexander asked, looking over their shoulders and into the chamber ahead trying to find his Ministerium friend.

  The three Alkebulana leaders exchanged knowing looks, their gaze dropping to the floor.

  Josiah Abasi was Bishop of Kinshasa, a province in central Alkebulana and one of Alexander’s closest colleagues within the Ministerium. The two had completed the ordination process together, though Josiah was almost a decade older than him. He came to the priesthood later in life after a highly successful career as a rare mineral businessman. After a bout with cancer that nearly ended his life, he returned to his childhood faith and sold everything to pastor in his hometown of Kinshasa. Like Alexander, Josiah had risen quickly because of his sharp intellect and pastoral heart, not to mention his connections in the business and government communities. The Ministerium sought to leverage those connections in one of the most dangerous regions within the Alkebulana Church. When Alexander lost his father, it was Josiah who had been a significant comfort, making frequent visits to sit shiva with his friend in mourning.

  “We don’t know, dear,” Mama Mara said, her voice straining not to betray her fear for his life.

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?” Alexander exclaimed.

  “She means that he hasn’t arrived yet and we can’t locate him,” Father Kojo said. “We’re confident he’s alright. Just off the radar for the moment.”

  Alexander paused, concern twisting in his belly at the news of his friend. He took a deep breath and nodded, hoping his friend was safe and merely delayed.

  “Come on, brother,” Father Kojo offered. “Let us pray for him and his safety before going inside.”

  The four stood petitioning the Lord for the safety of their missing friend from Alkebulana. Alexander stood silently seething that he hadn’t already assured his safety, fearing the worst.

  What kind of God doesn’t take care of the caretakers of his Church? Alexander cursed silently. He scolded himself for having such thoughts. But some days he questioned who it was he was serving, especially given the recent mayhem and persecution his people had been experiencing.

  “Amen,” Father Kojo said, the others echoing in agreement.

  Father Jim returned as they ended their prayer, inviting Alexander to follow him inside. As they walked through the massive double doors, several of the mingling, meandering members glad-handed Father Jim as he led the way into the chamber ahead. Alexander followed behind, self-conscious of the attention.

  Two bishops he recognized from Americana and Noramericana welcomed Alexander, though he forgot their names. They made reference to his father and their sorrow for his loss. He nodded politely and gave an obligatory thanks for their concern.

  Father Jim, eager to start their Fidelium business, continued leading the way into the chamber, a vast, ornately appointed room that soared high and bespoke the ancient location and modern environment. The room hummed with what Alexander could only think was the ventilation unit to control the climate of the high-vaulted, rectangular space. Oddly, it looked like a replica of pictures he had seen from somewhere familiar.

  “Father,” Alexander started, “this room looks familiar.”

  “As it should. It’s a resurrected Sistine Chapel!”

  Alexander stopped short. “The Sistine Chapel? How did they get that thing in here?”

  He chuckled. “Very carefully, my boy! Before the ancient Eternal City of St. Peter was crushed under the weight of the Great Sea, the Vatican had the foresight to begin removing the main frescoes and architectural accouterments of the ancient, ill-fated chapel. They had begun the secret construction of a second chamber beneath this holy site here in Iznik decades ago, which you know of as Nicea, in many ways the birthplace of the Church. They brought the original ceiling adorned with Michelangelo’s magnificent frescoes and installed them here. Along with all the other articles.”

  Alexander had heard of the ancient building, but from the history sites on DiviNet. As a chapel within the Apostolic Palace, it had served as a place of both religious and functionary papal activity, including conclaves to elect the former popes of the Roman Catholic Church by the College of Cardinals. Never would he have thought he’d be standing in it, much less gathering for a secret conclave in the reconstructed room in which hundreds of other conclaves before him had met to elect leaders and conduct Ichthus business.

  His mouth started watering for his translucent wafers, the weight of the moment niggling his mind and thirsting for relief.

  “Hello there, old chap!” bellowed a greeting from a man Alexander didn’t recognize. He was adorned in the same manner as Father Jim, although a step above. The Santa-like man with a bushy beard and a full head of snow-white hair wore crimson red velvet vestment laced with gold piping. On his head was an octagonal-shaped hat in the same material. A heavy gold chain hung around his neck.

  He must be some high-ranking ecclesiastical leader, Alexander thought.

  “Hello yourself, you old windbag,” Father Jim replied. “I’m surprised you made it all the way from Britannia, considering you’re little more than a breathing corpse!”

  “Walking corpse,” the mystery Santa man corrected, chuckling as he wagged his finger. “And good to see you, Jim. It’s been too long.” The two embraced as Alexander stood to the side with wonder.

  Father Jim turned toward Alexander, his mouth wide with delight. “Have you ever met Nicholas Thomas Wright, my boy?”

  “The eighth,” Bishop Wright corrected, shaking his finger again.

  Father Jim sputtered his lips. “You know good and well our people don’t reference ourselves in that sort of way! None of this Jim George the third or Matthew Wordsworth the second. And the only eighth our ancestors have ever known was King Henry, and we all know the kind of bloke he was.”

  Nicholas Thomas just glared at Father Jim, tapping his foot in irritated silence.

  Father Jim rolled his eyes and sighed, mumbling, “Ever the aristocrat. Yes, Nicholas Thomas Wright, the eighth. Bishop of Britannia.”

  “Pleased to meet you, sir. Your reputation precedes you, as does your ancestor.” Alexander had heard of Bishop Tom, as he was known, reading his works on Paul and Jesus which had as wide of a readership as his ancestor from over a century ago. And there he was, standing in his presence.

  “Yes, well, N.T. Wright the first preceded me in lots of things, not the least of which was his groundbreaking work in Pauline studies.”

  “Alright, enough jibber-jabbering,” Father Jim said, clapping his hands together. “Let us commence this meeting.”

  By now, the chamber was echoing with conversations from many languages, the corridor leading to the Fidelium chamber nearly empty as representatives made their way inside. Cardinal Ferraro walked toward the raised dais at the front, taking command of the secret gathering.

  The volume faded as the assembled group of faith-keepers took their seats.

  Commencing one of the most important moments in the chronicles of Ichthus.

  Chapter 8

  “Brothers and sisters of Ichthus,” Father Jim intoned, launching one of the most significant ecumenical gatherings
of the Church in a millennium. “Under-shepherds of the Great Shepherd, Stewards of Christ’s Body, and members of Christ’s Church: We are gathered here because of the fomenting waves beneath the rising storms sweeping across the global Church. From without, our parishes and people are threatened with persecution, and in some quarters are being abused and slaughtered without mercy in the name of certain gods and governments.

  “From within, the threats are in many ways far graver, for certain people have stolen themselves amongst us, wreaking havoc and devouring our people with false teaching and licentious living. Wolves in sheep’s clothing they are, denying the fundamentals of the rule of faith that has guided Ichthus for over two millennia. They are copulating with foreign worshipers of foreign gods, seeking to create one religious body by dismantling Christ’s body.

  “And they permit, nay encourage practices and ways of living that are wicked to the core—celebrating and encouraging what the Church has always condemned. This is the reason for our gathering, why the Fidelium has called you forth to this most ancient of locations. Like the first and second councils of the early Church who sought to address the heresies of their days, so we gather to address the heresies of our day.”

  Father Jim pulled out a pair of spectacles and adjusted them on the bridge of his nose. He opened his Bible in search of a passage, the room silently basking in the weight of the moment.

  “Saint Jude wrote these words to encourage Christ’s holy people.” He cleared his throat before he started reading:

  Dear friends, although I was very eager to write to you about the salvation we share, I felt compelled to write and urge you to contend for the faith that was once for all entrusted to God’s holy people. For certain individuals whose condemnation was written about long ago, have secretly slipped in among you. They are ungodly people, who pervert the grace of our God into a license for immorality and deny Jesus Christ our only Sovereign and Lord.