The Second Messiah

The pope nodded modestly as the attendant knelt to kiss his ring, then the man left, the chapel doors closed with an echo, and John Becket was alone.

The Sistine Chapel never ceased to amaze him, a testament to the mad genius of Michelangelo. A man who had spent ten years of his life lying on his back, hand-painting the murals and ceilings, for no payment but his board and lodging. John Becket glanced up at the vivid ceiling.

He always marveled at the way the many colors and images all came together to create an incredible whole. And it always reminded him that there were too many coincidences in this universe. The way it dovetails, fits together, the way physics so finely balances nature’s existence.

In the seminary he had rediscovered what the Jesuit thinkers discovered long ago when they began searching the skies from their Vatican observatories, looking for answers. That whatever begins to exist has a cause—that the universe began to exist and has a cause. That this earth wasn’t the product of some random unguided nature. How could it be when each single cell in the human body contained more information than entire volumes of an encyclopedia? We were not monkeys, not freakish mistakes of nature, not accidents. We were made deliberately and for a purpose by God.

John Becket believed that with all his heart.

Since his election, he had wanted to come here again, to pray alone. He was about to kneel in front of the altar when he felt something brush against the inside of his habit.

He remembered what it was. The envelope had been delivered to him by one of the Vatican secretaries. “A letter for you, Holy Father. The lady who brought it said it was urgent, that its contents were private, meant for your eyes only. She said you would want to see the letter at once.”

Becket removed the plain white envelope from his habit. His name was handwritten in blue ink Holy Father, Pope Celestine VI—and in the top left corner, the words Personal and Private. He tore open the envelope with curiosity. Inside was a single handwritten page and a folded newspaper clipping. As he read the page’s contents, his face turned ashen. His hands shaking, he then unfolded the cutting from an Italian daily newspaper, dated two days previously. An article was headlined in typically dramatic Italian style:

MYSTERIOUS TWO-THOUSAND-YEAR-OLD SCROLL

FOUND IN ISRAEL VANISHES AFTER BRUTAL MURDER

For a long time Becket stood there in deep shock, reading the article and the sheet of paper, his eyes devouring both with a look of utter disbelief on his face. Then he refolded the papers with trembling fingers, replaced them shakily in the envelope, and tucked it under his habit.

He felt struck by his own hypocrisy.

I insist that the church reveal its darkest secrets, while I keep my own dark secret to myself. One that could destroy not only me but also the church.

He was sweating despite the coolness of the chapel and he put a hand to his brow. There was a hint of agony in that simple gesture, and then slowly he lifted his garb and sat cross-legged on the floor. In moments like this, there was only one refuge that always gave him comfort.

He stretched out his body and prostrated himself in front of the altar, lying on his stomach, pressing his sweating face against the cold marble floor. He closed his eyes and began to pray, remembering the words of St. Augustine, There are secrets in my heart that only You can know, my Lord.

When he finished minutes later Becket heard a bell ringing in the Vatican grounds. He knew what he would have to do. Raising himself from the marble tiles, across the chapel he saw an ancient wooden door. He recalled that it led out through the gardens, toward the Vatican’s east gate.

He crossed the floor, lifted the door’s latch, and found himself in a familiar hallway that served as a cloakroom for the religious who toiled in the Vatican’s gardens. Along one wall was a row of frayed gowns and friars’ habits hung on garment hooks, below them pairs of muddied work boots.

The pope removed his own gown and changed into one of the brown habits. Then he covered his face with the hood, opened the door, and stepped out.

25

Five minutes later he walked toward the gate’s security hut, his head down, his habit flapping about his legs. A pair of nuns passed him, their faces bowed in whispered conversation.