Archangel of Sedona (6 page)

The article, dated in 1997, began as a recapitulation of the genesis of the chapel and the phases that followed. It described the motivation of its benefactor, Marguerite Staude. It cataloged the work of the architects and the sculptor of the Christus, including the original controversy surrounding the grotesque appearance of the Christus.

I would have dismissed it as another interesting piece on the Internet had it not dropped a nuclear revelation: the compelling and grotesque Christus figure had disappeared without a trace. It no longer hung on the mammoth stone cross inside the Chapel.

According to Bishop McMannes, sometime in the late ’70s, the Christus vanished. No one knows how or why. There are theories and speculation that range from the mundane to the macabre, but no facts. More intriguing, the Anglican Bishop revealed that the Roman Catholics stopped having religious services at the chapel at the time it disappeared.

The local Catholic parish built a gift shop in the old priest’s quarters in the chapel’s basement. The gift shop did brisk business selling Catholic artifacts, like my rosary, to the hundreds of thousands of tourists who now flock to see the chapel every year.

I couldn’t believe that anyone would turn this mystical place into a cash cow. I wondered what they were thinking in the Diocese of Phoenix, the Catholic principality that has assumed control over the chapel from the Diocese of Gallup.

It struck me as more than a coincidence that the Christus had disappeared around the time the Catholics stopped having religious services at the chapel. Being an attorney over four decades has made me morbidly suspicious.

It was inexplicable that the Anglicans would address this mystery—and not the Catholics who suffered the loss and stopped the services. Why would that be?

Over the next few weeks, I searched the Internet. I gathered all the data that I could about the chapel, the Christus, the benefactor, the architects, and the rumors of the disappearance. I found no article, paper, report, explanation, equivocation, clarification, rationalization, denial, or justification from any Catholic source that would illuminate any part of this mystery. Utter silence.

“Dad, you’re obsessed,” my son, Tim, said as we chatted on FaceTime a month later. I’d finished my latest report to him about my research. Tim and his wife, Heather, live in Washington, D.C., where he practices law in a K Street bluestocking firm.

“Tim, that’s harsh. I’m on a quest, an investigation into a great mystery.”

“Dad, you remind me of that guy in
Close Encounters of the Third Kind
. You know. He saw a UFO, got sunburned, became obsessed, and built a replica of a Wyoming mountain in his basement.”

“I’m better looking than Richard Dreyfuss,” I said. “I’m not obsessed. It’s a coincidence that I constructed a scale model of the chapel on the lanai and sculpted a replica of the Christus from five hundred pounds of stainless steel,” I joked.

While we talked, Tim’s comment about the aliens jogged a memory. As soon as we ended the call, I went on the Internet and found a clip of Spielberg’s movie. I also watched independent videos that embellish the story that Spielberg told in his film.

Some of the other videos focused on the physical appearance of the aliens in Close Encounters. Several of these depictions seemed eerily similar to the Christus, though the Christus appears quite a bit taller and a little thinner. You can see these aliens for yourself on the Internet and compare them to the picture of the Christus in the McMannes article.

This new discovery caused me to double my efforts. Over the next week, my wife became concerned about my behavior. She’d begun to worry about my obsession, which she attributed to the not-so-early onset of dementia.

“Tony, we need a vacation,” Gretchen said. “You’re consumed with this Christus. We need to get you away from computers. We haven’t had a bona fide holiday in years. All of our trips involve moving furniture to college dorms or attending law school graduations.”

“Yeah, I’d like to get away,” I said. “I’ve got plenty of leave.”

“We could go to one of those all-inclusive places in the Caribbean or in the Bahamas. I’ve never been to Bermuda.”

“How about a cruise?” I asked. “Alaska, the Rhine River?”

“A cruise doesn’t blow my skirt up. Not enough to do.”

“You’re afraid that I’ll get you alone on a boat,” I said with a sly smile.

“Maybe, but I’d like to do something different.”

“Let’s go to Sedona,” I said. “You’ve never been there. You’ve been promising that you’d go for twenty years. I’m calling you on it.”

“Tony, I’d love to go to Arizona. Mom adored her trip there with Dad—but I don’t want to enable your addiction. If we go, it’s to have fun, enjoy the experience, and have some time together. It’s not a search for evidence of alien invaders. OK?”

“Sure, I promise. You do understand that we have to go to the chapel, right?”

“Fine,” she said in the superior way women use to dismiss their men.

“Will you make the airline reservations?” I asked.

“Yeah, I will—as always. I’ll tell you what; I’ll get a round trip ticket for me and a one way ticket for you, just in case.”

“In case, what?”

“In case you get abducted, silly.”

Chapter Five

11:15 PM, August 21, 2013

Room 549, L’Auberge Resort & Spa

301 Little Lane, Sedona, Arizona

You’ve already guessed that my primary motivation for this Sedona trip was to gather information about the missing Christus. I admit that I promised Gretchen that I’d put my obsession on hold, but she knew that I was lying. I wasn’t being honest when I said it. You knew that I was insincere when you read it.

I’m not a dishonest man. I’m a realist.

No marriage survives 30 years without liberal fabrications by both spouses on a full spectrum of topics. Wives lie about the finances that they control.

“This little old thing? Honey, I’ve had it for years,” they’ll deceitfully claim when you spot a suspicious new dress or pair of expensive Italian high heels.

Women mislead their men about their sexual interests. And they exaggerate their satisfaction with performance when they do interact intimately. I didn’t say that wives were cruel, though they can…well, I’d better stop there.

Husbands exaggerate and lie when the topic is their prior achievements in sports, military service, hunting, fishing, and romance. Wives know this. They tolerate the aberrant behavior because it’s expedient.

Wives don’t care how many touchdowns or tackles you made, fish you caught, deer you slayed, enemy soldiers you vanquished, or prior girlfriends you seduced. They’re too busy hiding the receipts from the mall and cooking the family books.

I did want to go to Sedona to have fun. It’s a great venue for all kinds of recreation, hiking, climbing, biking, jogging, sightseeing, eating, appreciating art, and shopping.

You know how beautiful I think the place is. Look at the pictures. Judge for yourself. Be aware. None of the magnificent photographs on the internet do Sedona the least bit of justice. You have to experience this place for yourself.

I’m not a member of the Sedona Chamber of Commerce. I don’t own property there or have financial skin in the game, other than hoping that you’ll read this story.

I’m a man who has come to the fall of his life. I’ve taken on a quest. I want to know what happened to an important spiritual icon of my youth. I have a personal connection with the Christus…and it’s missing.

I thought that I could use my investigative skills to examine the mystery of the missing Christ figure. I hoped that I might learn something more than the Anglicans knew 16 years ago. I guess there’s no fool like an old fool.

Though we accept that I was lying about my motives, I had to be subtle or risk pissing Gretchen off. I didn’t want to lose all hope for romance on this trip. I had to ensure that we’d have fun, too.

After we landed at Sky Harbor Airport in Phoenix on August 21
^st
, we rented a car. We drove to Sedona along the Interstate 17, passing through the Phoenix metropolitan area and then climbing with the highway into the high desert plains to the north.

Gretchen was in a sour mood. She felt disappointed because she’d much rather have gone to the Caribbean than visit any place in my home state.

Gretchen has never liked Arizona. She’d never been to Sedona. She had been to Phoenix once in our entire 30-year marriage. That sad trip had to do with my dad’s last illness and death. Not a time for sightseeing or recreation.

My bride has not been shy about criticizing Phoenix, which she describes as a “hell-hole.” When we were there in August of 2005, the temperature in the afternoons did exceed 120 degrees every afternoon. Even so, anyone who’s spent time in my hometown knows it’s a wonderful place to live or to visit—especially if it’s not summer.

All along the trip, Gretchen kept up a critical dialogue about the barren terrain in Phoenix and in the mountains north of the city. As we descended into the Verde Valley, Gretchen reminded me that this trip was my idea, that I owed her for her unbridled altruism, and that I would have to make it up to her.

Though I’d gone on plenty of trips with her that I didn’t like, I didn’t argue with her. I knew that as soon as she saw the place, Sedona would seduce her.

When we turned north on State Road 179, I had a flashback to my trip with Dan Ostergaard. Though a lot has changed in five decades, the impact of the red rocks when they first heave into view remains undiluted.

As soon as Gretchen saw Court House Butte, she stopped carping. Though my wife can be very persistent in cataloguing my shortcomings and explaining her position on any topic, she ceased all complaints and criticisms.

As we drove deeper into the red rock country, she had no reluctance to describe each new geologic delight with unbridled enthusiasm. It was the most rapid, complete, and comprehensive attitude transformation that I’d seen in our long marriage.

While we drove north toward Uptown Sedona, Gretchen pulled out her cell phone, called her mom, and informed her that she was selling our house and we were moving to Sedona. No kidding. Talk about seduction.

We checked into L’Auberge, a fancy hotel east of Uptown Sedona that’s situated along a breathtaking stretch of Oak Creek. L’Auberge offers separate cabins with every possible amenity, but we chose to stay in the lodge.

The ambiance of our room exceeded our highest expectations. I can summarize our entire morning by saying that I’d never heard Gretchen use the word “wow” so often or with so much enthusiasm. In a weak moment, she admitted that she was glad that I’d insisted on this trip.

After we unpacked, I took my bride to lunch at Tlaquepaque, a swank shopping mall built to look like a simple Sonoran village near Oak Creek, south of Uptown Sedona. Did I mention that they served a killer Margarita in the Mexican restaurant there?

I drink because I do my best investigative work if I’m relaxed. I use alcoholic beverages for professional or medicinal purposes. Seriously. To acclimate to the altitude in Sedona from our sea level life in Tampa, Gretchen and I spent that afternoon at Tlaquepaque.

The faux Mexican mall did not exist in my day. Sedona has changed. It’s no longer the art-influenced, laid-back, southwestern cowboy village of my youth. In the 60s, artists lived in Sedona and Oak Creek Canyon. The place is too gorgeous not to attract talented people.

Back then we called these artists
hippies
. While I risked my life in Vietnam, the hippies wore flowers in their hair and cavorted naked in Oak Creek. They smoked Bob Marley-sized joints of marijuana to mellow them out for their marathon sexual activities.

Do I sound envious? Perhaps I am, a little.

I’ve struggled to survive in 100-degree heat with 100 percent humidity while motivated North Vietnamese sappers did their best to blow me to smithereens. I could have stayed home, dodged the draft, and experimented with drugs. Thus fortified, could I have instead chased some sexy, nubile, blonde hippie nymphomaniac around Cathedral Rock? Hmmm, it’s a tough choice.

The New Age movement hit Sedona several years after I left Arizona State to attend law school. This trip was my first experience with the phenomenon. Even after watching videos on the internet and talking to experts at the Center for New Age and Crystal Vortex emporiums in Sedona, I’m still not sure what it is.

I like the music. There’s a tune called “Adiemus” that a website plays as it scrolls through pictures of Bell Rock and other Sedona sites. “Adiemus” is a soothing New-Age chant of unintelligible gibberish. I play it before I sit down to take my blood pressure. It’s good for a five-point drop after a rough day. Maybe that’s the miracle of New Age philosophy.

After additional Margaritas, I called the hotel shuttle for the short ride back to L’Auberge. In Tampa, I work with a lady who’s a major player in Mothers Against Drunk Driving. It took me far too long, but—because of her example—I recognize what an irresponsible shit I had been during a couple of decades in my life. Though I’ve never had a DUI, I no longer drink and drive.

The next morning, August 22
^nd
, I got up early and asked the hotel shuttle to take me to the mall to pick up my car. I returned to L’Auberge and gathered up my wife. We drove north up Oak Creek Canyon to the West Fork Trail Head to get a jump on the crowd.