The Second Messiah (63 page)

THE PLACE JOHN
Becket had chosen for his meeting with his cardinals was the Sistine Chapel. Not because it was the place of his election or on account of the beauty of Michelangelo’s artwork, but because of all the other papal elections that had taken place there.

It was an anchor to the church’s past.

There was no more suitable a place to end that past.

That morning, the sun spilled through the Vatican’s stained-glass windows, the air in the Sistine Chapel tense and expectant.

John Becket had chosen not to sit in his magnificent canopied chair but to stand in the center of the chapel. He wore his plain white cassock and a cross around his neck. Unlike the night of his election, this time his voice didn’t falter as he stood to make his address. All eyes in the chapel were fixed on his towering figure.

“My brothers in Christ, I am happy to be alive and to see you all assembled here today. You are all aware of my intention to open our archives. What you are not aware of is the news that I am about to reveal to you.”

The majestic chapel was silent, every pair of eyes focused on the pope.

“But first, I will address the matter of the scroll. The historical evidence it discloses of a second messiah is true. Other such secrets have been kept from many of you in the past. These secrets, once revealed, will gravely wound the church. They will make skeptics of priests and lay alike, and create an enormous test for all of us.
For
some, it will shake the very core of their beliefs, or crush them entirely.

“How will we answer our critics? How will we rectify the lies that were told, the seeds of doubt that will be sown, the wrongs that were done? Yet we know that this scroll, by revealing the existence of a false messiah, also confirms the reality of the true Jesus. We who walk in His footsteps need no such confirmation. We have willingly given our lives to the work of delivering His message.

“But this message has become corrupted. The church has been embroiled in scandals. It has too often failed to practice what it preached. It has quoted God’s words, and yet too frequently failed to live up to them.”

Becket paused, but only long enough to draw breath. “We all know this, just as we all know that we cannot ignore our legacy from Christ—to plant the seed of His kingdom in the hearts of all men, that they may create an earthly order based on love and truth, charity and justice, and an ethical law.

“As human beings, our senses are acutely aware of the memory of the echo of a voice, as if someone is speaking to us, whispering in our ear, reminding us that we and this world are made for a greater purpose. But we have too often ignored that voice.

“Recently I met with a woman, a prostitute like Mary Magdalene. When I asked her what she thought of those in the Vatican, she said, ‘Half the world starves and they live like princes in their ivory towers.’

“My brothers, I know that she spoke the truth. I know that what she said is thought by many. And I know that what I am about to say next will shock many of you. But I believe God has sent me here for a greater purpose, and that purpose is to prepare this world for a second coming.”

Gasps filled the Sistine Chapel, cardinals exchanged glances, with questions written on their faces as if to say,
Is this man insane?

Becket carried on. “Yes, I see the questioning stares. But before each of you begins to doubt my sanity let me say this. The last night Jesus broke bread with his disciples, he left us a solemn legacy. But
often
I have to ask myself: Did we ever correctly interpret that legacy? Did we remain true to Jesus’ words?

“And many times, I have to answer that I feel we did not. The world suffers and starves, and yet still we sit here in our gilded prison and pray. Our scientists have conquered the moon yet we cannot conquer the wrongs that crush men’s spirits.

“In two thousand years it is true that we have achieved much. But is the symbolic pinnacle of our achievement meant to be a city of beautiful chapels and priceless works of art with walls around it? Truth and love do not need walls. Christ did not build walls. He tore them down. And he prayed, not in lofty, beautiful churches but in people’s homes, in the countryside, in the streets. He led by example, and now so must we.

“My brothers, you may doubt my sanity even more when I tell you that the second coming we must prepare for is our own. I believe that all of us who take up the torch to carry light into the dark corners of the human heart are Christ returned, His second coming. For in truth, I believe this is the complete fulfilment of the meaning of Christ’s presence on earth. He planted the seeds and it is up to us to cultivate and gather the harvest, or else it will wither.

“So from this day, we must decide not only our fate but our faith. Do we wish to be bureaucrats and remain behind these walls? To sit here and debate the finer points of theology while the sick are untended, the hungry go unfed, or children are left unloved? Or do we go out as priests to the people, just as Jesus and His disciples went out two thousand years ago, with nothing to call their own, nothing but honest belief in His words?

“From this day, I want us to divest ourselves of all our wealth and worldly goods. To divest ourselves of every stone and brick. I want us to use that wealth to alleviate the wrongs we witness, the poverty and injustices all around us.

“I want us to go forth in peace, to pronounce the brotherhood of all men, without exception of country, creed, or race, and in the belief in one God. And to those who will criticize us, we will answer them with
the
same answers Jesus answered with, and if need be, we will suffer the same wounds.

“My brothers, my authority as Supreme Pontiff is absolute. No matter how many arguments are railed against me, my word is law. But I will give you each a choice. To remain behind, or to walk with me as true disciples and step out from behind these walls to fulfill Christ’s promise.”

Becket stared out at them all and said, “So now I must ask you,
Mos vos insisto mihi?
Will you follow me?”

John Becket stood waiting and looked around the chapel. For a moment there was a silence so intense that it almost felt like a crushing weight. No one spoke. Some of the cardinals looked at one another awkwardly, as if uncertain what to do. Becket knew instinctively that he could not count on these men, that they would waver.

But one by one, a number of red-robed cardinals rose, some of them moved to tears, others fearful. Some were empowered by his words, others aware of their own weaknesses in the face of such an enormous challenge. Yet it was one elderly cardinal who raised his frail voice above the uncertain crowd and spoke first. “Yes, I will follow you!”

Another man next to him repeated the cry.

And another. A chorus of voices rose to give their answer, and then one by one, in a single procession, they came to kneel before John Becket and kiss his ring in a token of commitment.

It was very still in the Sistine. In a single procession the cardinals had left, until finally John Becket was alone.

He was aware of two things: the terrible weight upon his shoulders, as heavy as a cross, and that the most difficult journey of his life was about to begin.

He was conscious also that many of his cardinals had been carried away by his noble words and by the consensus of the crowd. That in the days ahead some of those men would change their minds. Some would consider
the
task too challenging. Reflecting on their decision, others would choose not to join him.

But many would, he was convinced of that. The ones who mattered, the ones who shared his honest intent.

Was it too difficult a path that lay ahead?

Was it too ambitious a plan?

Would it succeed, or would the process destroy the church?

But with his candid questioning came a deep sense of purpose. Becket knew at that moment he was intensely alone, except for the presence before him now, within the golden tabernacle.

That presence would be all he would ever have to guide him in the days and years ahead, yet he knew that it would be enough.

He dropped to his knees in front on the altar. He felt something brush against his cassock. He reached into his pocket and drew out the worn newspaper photograph of Robert and Margaret Cane. In the coming days he would publicly reveal his part in their tragic deaths and the theft of the scroll, and he would face those consequences. But for now, racked by guilt, he held the photograph in his palm, touched the image of their faces. As it always did, his memory flooded with pain for all the hurts and wrongs that had been done in the name of God. As always, he would pray for forgiveness and the redemption of that pain.

As was his habit in these personal moments, Becket laid himself prostrate in front of the altar, his pained and wounded body outstretched, and the words that spilled from his lips were spoken with deep and honest conviction. “Our Father, who art in heaven … I beseech you to bring peace to Jack Cane’s soul. That you quench his pain. That you allow him to glimpse the eternity of your love, your reason for our being …”

THE TOYOTA LAND
Cruiser bumped over the desert trail and where it ended Jack cut the engine and jerked on the handbrake.

He stared over at the grave, the gravel chips a mess where Buddy had dug up the scroll. The heat of the desert drifted in through the open windows. Beside him, Lela handed him the water bottle and the flowers from the backseat.

Jack said, “My father told me once that the ancients believed the spirits of the dead lingered near their tombs. That he’d always be here for me, when I needed to talk.” He looked out over the rugged, desolate landscape. “It’s why I keep coming back. To be near them.”

She touched his hand. “Can I tell you a secret? I used to drive out here too. Sit here and remember that day and how close I felt to you.” Lela smiled. “You probably think I’m a sad case, don’t you?”

“What I’m thinking is, would you have dinner with me tonight? Somewhere in Jerusalem that serves good food and a half-decent bottle of wine?”

Lela’s fingers brushed against his face, and swept his hair off his forehead. She looked into his eyes and shook her head. “Not unless I can let you in on another secret.”

“There’s more?”

“I’ve been waiting a long time for you to ask me a question like that. Maybe part of me has always been waiting. Hoping that we’d meet once more. Of course, it can never be the same as it was and it’s foolish to expect it to be so. But I’m just glad that we’ve seen each other again.”

A smile broke on Jack’s lips. “Is that a yes or a no?”

She smiled back and moved her mouth over his, kissed him, gently
at
first, then more hungrily, until she slowly pulled away, and stroked his arm. “I think you already know the answer to that. Go talk to them, Jack. They’ll be waiting.”

The still desert air was dry as a bone as he stepped in front of the grave. The sun beat down. No murmur of wind disturbed the solitude, no hawk overheard to desecrate the silence.

He tidied the gravel chips, then went to sit on the boulder. He laid the flowers where he always did and filled the parched oasis from the plastic water bottle. Then he sat back and studied the words on the chiseled granite that inscribed his pain.
Miss you always, love you forever
.