by Tony Peluso
It’s not the beauty or the grandeur of the Upper Verde Valley. The first time that you see the Grand Canyon, it’ll rock your world. As spectacular as the Grand Canyon is, it does not have the same mystical quality as Sedona. As the New York Times said in the late ’70s, “God created the Grand Canyon, but He lives in Sedona.”
I hung around the gift shop for a half hour chatting with the other customers. Since I wasn’t advancing the investigatory ball, I decided to leave. Before I did, I said goodbye to Linda while she rang up the postcards of the Christus that Jim found.
“Thanks for your help,” I said.
“Didn’t help much. Good luck on your quest. Tenga cuidado y vaya con Dios.”
“Gracias, Senora,” I responded, hoping that I would indeed go on this quest with God. As for careful, that’s my middle name.
Linda’s use of the word quest pulled me up short. I remembered those Grade-B science-fiction movies where there is something menacing afoot. The people in the story seem normal, right up until the time they make a slip and reveal a perverse, evil side. I half expected that as I walked out, I could spin around. Linda, Jim, and all of the customers would be glaring at me with blood red eyes.
OK, I did spin around. They were too fast for me. When I looked, Linda and Jim had gone back to work selling their merchandise. Maybe Gretchen’s right about the dementia.
When I got to the rental car, I still had an hour to kill before I had to be back at Tlaquepaque. I decided to visit the local parish rectory.
The Church of St. John Vianney in Sedona is on the west side of town. It’s an attractive church that’s set apart from other buildings. It’s constructed in a southwestern pueblo style, surrounded by a circle of gardens and statues.
I went there to find the Catholic pastor. He was in California attending a month-long retreat. A priest from Ireland was filling in. I asked the receptionist if I could speak with him.
After waiting for 20 minutes, a freckled man with short red hair, about 32 years old, came out into the reception area. He was very fit, about my height, but weighed 20 pounds less. His pleasant face had a hint of mischief in his smile and a glint in his eye. He looked like a tall, thin leprechaun. He introduced himself: “Good afternoon, Sir. I’m Father Patrick O’Malley. Peggy tells me that you’d like to speak to a priest,” he said with a charming brogue.
“I’m Tony Giordano, Father. I’d like to speak to someone who knows the history of the Chapel of the Holy Cross.”
“I’m sorry. That’s not me. This is my first trip west. I’ve been in Arizona two weeks. That includes about a week here. I’ve spent some time in the chapel, though. Very impressive, isn’t it?”
“It is impressive, Father. I grew up in Phoenix. I used to go to Mass here. I understand that no one says Mass at the chapel anymore. Do you know why?”
“Is that right, Peggy?” Father asked, as he looked over his shoulder at the middle-aged woman who sat behind the counter.
“Is what right, Father Pat?”
“Mr. Gordini …”
“Giordano,” I corrected.
“Oh, sorry. Peggy, Mr. Giordano says that he used to come to mass at the chapel.”
“Father, we haven’t had a mass, benediction, marriage, baptism, reconciliation, confession, or sacrament adoration at the chapel in over thirty years.”
“Really? Mr. Giordano is right? We stopped having religious services there?”
“That’s correct, Father. When I was girl, they used to say Mass there on Sunday. They stopped a long time ago.”
“Why?” Father asked in a way that made it seem that he, too, was curious.
“Haven’t a clue. Father Ted might know.”
“Sorry, Mr. Giordano,” Father Pat said, turning toward me. “It does seem a waste. The chapel is so beautiful. It would be such a joy to say Mass there.”
“Father, thanks for your time. Here’s my card. The second e-mail address is my personal one. If you talk to Father Ted and he has any additional information, would you please ask him to e-mail me?”
“Of course. Tell me. Why is this issue so important?”
“You’re new here, Father. Have you ever heard of the Christus?”
“Not in the context of Sedona or the Chapel. In Ireland, a Christus is a statue of Jesus or the figure of Jesus that hangs on the cross and forms a crucifix.”
“Father, since you’ve been to the chapel, you noticed that the Cross over the altar does not have a Christus, right?”
“Now that you mention it, yes,” Father Pat admitted.
“Father, check this out,” I said, as I pulled the postcard with the photo of the Christus from my hiking vest pocket. Father Pat looked at the card and registered a mild shock.
“Is that photo accurate?” he asked. “That’s a unique rendition of a Christ figure. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”
“Father, I witnessed this figure hanging on the cross in the chapel from the late fifties until the seventies.”
“Show it to Peggy,” Father directed, as I stepped over to the counter and held the postcard so that the receptionist could view the photo. “Peggy, do you recognize that figure from the old days?” Father asked.
Peggy put on her reading glasses, stood up, leaned over the counter, and examined the photo. Her pleasant countenance changed.
“Yes, Father Pat,” she said with a sigh. “It’s been so long. I’d forgotten about that figure. It used to scare me. My father, may he rest in peace, hated it. Lots of people around here were not fond of it.”
“What happened to it?” Father Pat asked.
“I don’t know. I went off to the University of Arizona in the mid-seventies. I spent all my time in Tucson. Except for breaks, I didn’t come back to Cottonwood until 1981. By that time the figure had disappeared.”
“Ever hear any rumors about the disappearance of the Christus?” I asked.
“The favored theory is that Ms. Staude snuck in and took it down.”
“It’s strange that the Church would stop using the chapel for services. Both of these unusual things happen in an architectural work of art—and no one asks why,” I said, looking at Father Pat. He watched me, sizing me up.
“You think that there’s a connection between the two events, Mr. Giordano?”
“Maybe.”
“Any proof?”
“No, Father.”
“Best be careful,” Father Pat said, the slightest edge in his voice. “I’m sure that there are good, cogent reasons for the two events. I find it hard to believe that they’re related.”
“Time will tell, Father,” I responded to his subtle warning.
“Time always does, Mr. Giordano. Is there anything else?”
“Your blessing, Father.”
“Certainly,” Father Pat said, as he made an outward Sign of the Cross, “in nomine Patris, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus. May the Good Lord watch between me and thee, Mr. Giordano, while we are apart one from the other.”
“Mizpah!” I responded, surprised that the Irish priest would include that last phrase from Genesis 31:49.
“Thank you, Mr. Giordano. Go in peace.”
Driving from West Sedona to Tlaquepaque, my cell phone rang. It was Gretchen.
“Where are you taking me to dinner? I’m famished.”
“Depends on how depleted our funds are after your blitzkrieg through the mall.”
“Did less than modest damage to our finances,” Gretchen said.
“How modest?”
“Very, very modest.”
“Can you quantify very, very?”
“Yes,” Gretchen said without elaboration.
“Will you give me the gruesome details?”
“Sure, but you should know that the most expensive stuff was the lingerie.”
“You bought lingerie for Ellen and Pat?”
“No, silly. I bought the lingerie for me; actually, for you.”
“Oh!” I said, surprised at this turn of events.
“I thought we could go back to L’Auberge. I could show you the lingerie. After, we could get a late dinner. If you want, we can order room service,” Gretchen offered.
“That sounds like a plan,” I said.
My bride must have pulled out the stops on expensive gifts for her friends. I could see that the lingerie was a cynical ploy designed to distract a pathetic older man who—Gretchen assumed—could not reason beyond his own petty lust. Her plan worked perfectly.
Gretchen had fabulous taste in lingerie. She’s ten years younger than me. She’s five feet five inches tall and weighs 115 pounds. I always thought that she was very pretty and—in many ways—is more attractive at 56 than she was at 26. She has medium-length blonde hair that ends at her shoulders, framing a light complexion and deep blue eyes. When I first saw her at the Officer’s Club at the JAG School in Charlottesville, I thought that she was the best-looking woman I’d ever seen in an Army uniform. Her fabulous legs added to the allure.
Gretchen has kept in shape by jogging. I’d been a runner for 45 years. I don’t run on the street anymore. These days, I terrorize everyone at the gym by attacking the elliptical StairMaster.
We’ve had tension, as we’ve gone our separate ways in pursuit of fitness. I can still hike with the best of them, as I demonstrated on the West Fork Trail. To mollify and distract my hyperactive bride on this trip and to assuage her sense of adventure, I’d agreed to try the Predator Zip Lines in Camp Verde.
Here’s the concept. At the Out of Africa Wildlife Sanctuary on State Road 260, clever entrepreneurs have constructed high towers and steel cables over several acres of a nature park that houses lions, tigers, and bears—oh my! You pay them $100 per person. You take 15 minutes indoctrination on the equipment. You sign a waiver written by callous Arizona lawyers. Since I’m an attorney, I embrace the hypocrisy of that last statement.
Thereafter, despite the clear language of the waiver, you allow the polite, energetic, and enthusiastic zip-line guides to convince you that it’s safe to ride thin steel cables for hundreds of yards, 100 feet above ravenous carnivores. I’m serious. Of course, Gretchen thought zip-lining would be the best thing ever.
After my private modeling session, we had a terrific meal. Room service delivered a four-star filet, accompanied by an inspiring, lively Shiraz that pleased the palate and left the right hint of an oaky vanilla aftertaste. I felt so grateful that I agreed to the zip-line. The second private modeling session sealed the deal.
Bright and early the next morning, Gretchen and I set out for Camp Verde.
I know that you’ve been paying attention. You realize that I served in the Army Airborne for over two decades, and had at least three tours on jump status. You must think that to an experienced Paratrooper, a simple zip-line would be a piece of cake.
You’d be wrong. I do have 80 jumps logged on my various manifests, including five with the Canadian Airborne Regiment, when it was stationed in Edmonton. Though I wear my American and Canadian wings on my 5-11 hiking vest, I’ve never lost my deep respect for high places.
I didn’t want to do the zip-line, but Gretchen had been so supportive the night before that I couldn’t say no. Despite my angst, the staff proved to be professional and competent. I didn’t become fodder for predators and the lines turned out to be a lot of fun.
We have photos—taken by the park’s photographer—that show Gretchen skimming high over the carnivores, arms thrown wide, head back, laughing delightfully, without a care in the world or hint of fear. You will never see my photos because they show an old man gripping the belt connecting me to the trolley in abject desperation.
It took two-and-a-half hours to complete the training and negotiate the separate lines. When we finished, it was afternoon. Since it was August, the day became hot, even at over 4,000 feet above sea level.
I grew up in Arizona. While it is dry, when the temperature hits 100 degrees, it’s too hot for strenuous outdoor activity. Don’t buy into the bullshit about dry heat. You can follow the bleached bones of silly tourists—who flaunted this advice—across the desert and mountains from Nogales to Page, Yuma to Winslow.
When it’s 95 degrees in Tampa with 90% humidity, you can still do things outside, though you may not want to. When it’s 110 degrees in the high desert, you better watch your ass, wear a hat, hydrate, or—better yet—stay inside and drink Margaritas, but don’t drive.
After the zip-lines, I took Gretchen to the Page Springs Cellars near Cornville, a small community south of Sedona, along the lower Oak Creek. The winery sits in a beautiful narrow valley, surrounded by acres of cultivated vines along the hillsides, old cottonwoods, elms, maples, and willows. It’s a gorgeous venue that’s competing in national markets with fine wine made of Arizona grapes.
Famished, we inhaled a pleasant lunch. Gretchen had a robust cabernet. The ambience and fare at the winery were superb. It was the perfect cap to a great mini-adventure. At lunch, I told Gretchen that I had a surprise for her.
“What might that be?” Gretchen wondered.
“I booked you the whole afternoon and evening at the spa at L’Auberge,” I said.
“That’s mighty generous. Why didn’t you ask me first?”
“Don’t you want to be pampered like a goddess by the spa staff?”
“Sure. But what are you up to? Where will you be? I don’t see Mister Macho Paratrooper getting a pedicure.”
“True. But you deserve a little pampering. I thought you would like this surprise.”
“Oh, I do. But I don’t trust you. I think this is a cynical ploy to distract me, while you go searching for the Christus.”
“Is it working?” I asked.
Gretchen looked at me for a long moment, her face a stern masque. After a moment, she allowed her lips to form a slight smile.
“Yes, it is. When does the pampering begin?”
“In about twenty minutes. We have time to pay the check and get back to L’Auberge.”
“OK, Tony. Let’s go. If the aliens don’t get you and you meet me after the spa, I might show you the other lingerie.”
“Other?”
“Yep.”
“Like what?”
“Don’t be late and you’ll see.”
“Powerful incentive to be punctual.”
While Gretchen experienced the best the L’Auberge spa could offer, I continued my quest by visiting the Center for New Age in Sedona. It’s an interesting place where one can get exposure to the full spectrum of New Age philosophy.
New Age thinking is a big tent. It accommodates a variety of intellectual disciplines and religious beliefs. Whether you’re a Wiccan, Muslim, Christian, LDS, Jew, Jain, Hindu, Buddhist, Shinto, Druid, Pagan, or whatever, there is something for you at the Center,
After an hour at the store, I passed on a psychic reading by a Reiki master. Reiki involves maximizing spiritual life forces to attain contentment and good health. I’m not sure what a Reiki master does, but I didn’t want to know the gritty details of my future. Ignorance of one’s fate is bliss.
I had the opportunity to book a UFO and vortex tour, but decided against a field trip. Thanks to Gretchen’s offer, I had something much better planned for later that evening. Besides, I’d had my own intense encounter with a UFO decades earlier. It occurred without the benefit of the New Age guidance. I figured that if the intelligence that operated the lights in 1966 wanted to contact me—and it had the technology to overcome Einstein’s theory regarding light speed—it would know how to find my e-mail address. If people who want to help me grow a larger penis can find that address so often, advanced beings could Google it. Maybe they’d use Bing or Yahoo.
I spent time at the Sedona Crystal Vortex and Ye Olde UFO stores. Same result.
I noticed one interesting thing. All of the stores that I visited that catered to New Age thinking included medals, statutes, paintings
, illustrations, or literature about angels.
I’m not an expert on angels, but I am Jesuit trained. I’ve always considered the concept of angels to be fascinating. I bought into the notion, as evidenced by the large gold St. Michael’s medal that I wear 24/7. With apologies to American Express, I never leave home without it. I never do anything without that medal around my neck.
You may have a different spin on the concept of angels, but within the confines of my obsession to find the Christus, here’s how I saw it. An angel is a celestial being, imbued with preternatural knowledge. In other words, they’re actual beings of unknown composition and morphology that are far smarter and far more advanced than humans.
Angels are not divine. They are not gods or demi-gods. Bible references claim that God created angels. He uses them as messengers and servants. In certain cases, they act as protectors and guardians. Angels come in several different classes or ranks, like Seraphim and Cherubim. There are at least eight other groupings that I can’t pronounce.
In the past, these superior beings had a civil war. The vanquished, fallen angels found themselves disenfranchised and tossed out of Paradise by the likes of my personal hero, Michael the Archangel. The leader of the bad angels is Satan, a/k/a Lucifer, a/k/a the Devil. His followers are demons.
Fallen angels have a perpetual case of the ass. They lost the war.
Demons try to undermine God’s plan. They’re doomed to failure, but they are all about the journey. Besides, they have nothing else to do. They’re condemned to suffer for eternity. If they can take some humans with them into the abyss, they get bonus points. These points have no value.
It’s like playing games at Chucky Cheese until the end of time, except for the pain and torment. On further thought, Hell must be a lot like an afternoon with 60 cranky five-year-olds at Chucky Cheese.
While driving from the Center for New Age, it struck me that the Chapel of the Holy Cross gift shop had some of the same statutes and paraphernalia depicting St. Michael that were available at the Center. I found comfort, knowing that my belief system had widespread acceptance by so broad a constituency, at least for retail purposes.
