The Testimonium (45 page)

“Now see here!” snapped MacDonald. “It is perfectly normal for the lead archeologist to report in to her supervisors. During the time Isabella was gone, Dr. Apriceno was busy removing centuries of dust deposits from the chamber, after taking samples from every surface to make sure that there was no question of disturbance.”

“It’s rather convenient, for the Church’s purpose, that those samples are all destroyed now, isn’t it?” she asked in a mocking tone.

MacDonald’s voice was quiet, dead calm, and seething with rage. “Considering that eight people are dead, three of them dear friends of mine, and that every bit of testing would have confirmed the authenticity of our finds, I would say it is decidedly
inconvenient
!” he snapped.

“Well, let me pose this question to our two doubting Thomases,” said Patterson. “If the carbon dating next week shows the scroll to be two thousand years old, will that satisfy you that it is genuine?”

“Not really,” said Hubbard. “It only proves that the papyrus is that old. It proves nothing about the writing on it!”

MacDonald was opening his mouth to respond when Tyler cut him off. “Well, folks, time for a commercial break! When we come back, more on the investigation into the bombing at the Naples Museum. Thank you, Father MacDonald, Dr. Hubbard, Dr. Tintoretto, and Pastor Wombaker!”

The four scholars were all trying to talk to each other at once when the program cut to commercial. Martens cut the TV off. Josh shook his head.

“Desperate people are pretty sad, aren’t they, son?” his dad asked.

“You can say that again,” Josh replied.

“Well, you have made at least one convert,” said Isabella, handing Josh a newspaper. It was the
Chicago Tribune
’s international edition, and she had it opened to the op-ed page. “It seems our friend Mr. Eastwood has been pretty impressed with your discovery and commentary.”

Josh looked at the column, entitled, “Confessions of a Former Atheist.”

“Well, I’ll be,” he said as he began to read.

CONFESSIONS OF A FORMER ATHEIST

BY ANDREW EASTWOOD, FOREIGN CORRESPONDENT

One does not have to be a Christian to understand the power of Jesus' words; simple in vocabulary, cosmic in scale, stately in their rhythms and deep in their impact, they changed the world. But most of the world’s Christians will immediately tell you that their faith does not rest upon Jesus’ eloquence as a speaker, or his skill as a philosopher, or even his reputation for working miracles. From the time of the Apostle Paul, the central claim of Jesus’ followers has been that this Galilean rabbi who lived two thousand years ago was in fact the virgin-born Son of God, sent to reconcile a lost humanity with a loving Father by sacrificing Himself, and then conquering death after it had claimed Him. Such an extraordinary claim demands extraordinary proof, and the proof that the Church has pointed to for twenty centuries is the story of the empty tomb and the Risen Christ, seen by his followers for forty days, then ascended into heaven to await the End Times.

I was raised in the Church, but like most young people, when I went off to college I shed my religion like an old pair of socks. Eager to chase women and anxious to be thought of as an intellectual heavyweight, I drank deeply from the wisdom of my professors, who told me that Christianity was nothing but another fertility cult, similar in its claims to dozens of other mystery religions of the time, and that if there was a historical Jesus, he bore no resemblance to the Suffering Savior of the Gospels. That secular perspective liberated me from the oppressive morality my parents tried to force on me, freeing me to make love to whoever I wanted, drink as much as I wanted, and to convince myself that I was the captain of my fate, the master of my soul.

But over the years, I found that lifestyle increasingly empty. Some of the confident claims of my college professors did not bear up under scrutiny—the so-called resemblances between Christianity and other fertility cults, for example, I found to be either manufactured or greatly exaggerated. And, I will admit, the faith and confidence of those who had remained in the Church intimidated me. They seemed to be happy and fulfilled in a way that I was not.

Still, I remained confident that the Gospels were largely fairy tales. If believing in such nonsense made my friends happy, more power to them. I was too smart to fall for the story of a magical carpenter who healed the sick, rose from the dead, and then disappeared into the sky. Even in my spiritual loneliness, I felt confident in my intellectual superiority to those who bought into such simple myths.

But when I was sent to Naples to report on the discoveries at Capri, I was forced to reexamine my beliefs and my skepticism. What if the Gospel stories really were true? I did not want to accept it. I found myself hoping that Pilate’s tale would show that Jesus’ body really had been stolen, or burned, or removed on government order, so that I would know once and for all that my skepticism had been well-placed. Well, we all saw how that worked out. The Testimonium, which in this reporter’s opinion passes the bar of authenticity with flying colors, shows that the early Church did not base its claims of a Resurrection on wishful thinking and mistaken identity. Something miraculous really did happen in Jerusalem in 33 AD, the Sunday morning after Passover.

And something miraculous happened in my life as well. As I heard the words read by Dr. Parker Saturday afternoon, fifteen years of carefully cultivated skepticism and secularism collapsed within me like a house of cards. I found myself leaving the press conference, filing my obligatory story, and then seeking out the nearest church. There, for the first time since I was eighteen, I knelt at the altar and spoke to the Almighty. “Hello, God. It’s me, Andrew. Remember me?”

It turns out He did.

<<>>

GARCIA: Got an interesting bit of intel from the North African data stream, Colonel.

BERTRAND: What’s shaking in the world of bad guys, Dingo?

GARCIA: Looks like “the Ethiopian” may be on the move, sir.

BERTRAND: Abbasside? No one has heard a peep about him in five years. Are you sure?

GARCIA: No, sir, not a hundred percent, but chatter is indicating that a high-ranking operative has moved from Somalia northward to Libya in the last twenty-four hours, seeking ID papers and a passport to the European Union. The info is fragmentary and garbled, and we weren’t able to intercept a photograph, but the physical description we intercepted matches what we know of Abbasside, and the deference the everyday jihadist drones are showing to him indicates that he is pretty high up the food chain. I’ve collated the information and will be forwarding it to you momentarily via secure email. There’s only two or three of the highest ranked AQ leaders still at large, and he is the only one we suspect of holing up in that corner of the globe.

BERTRAND: Good work, son. Any idea of his destination?

GARCIA: Could be London—scuttlebutt says that there is some sort of op supposed to go down there this summer. MI6 is scrambling to penetrate the local affiliates and see if they can figure it out. My gut tells me Italy. The attack there last week failed to take out its target, and the chatter among monitored AQ cells indicates a high degree of concern that this scroll will be damaging to Islam.

BERTRAND: I think London is more likely, personally, but by all means monitor all the chatter from known Italian cells as well. And keep data mining and see if any other possible targets might be in the works. We do NOT need another successful terror attack, given all the unrest in the region. Excellent work, and thanks for keeping me in the loop. Keep a status report coming every twelve hours, or more often as events warrant.

GARCIA: Aye, sir! Signing off!

After watching the talking heads bicker for a while, Josh heard a knock at the hotel room door, and when Alicia answered it, two waiters entered the room pushing silver service carts piled high with dishes of food. The Martens’ suite had a good-sized dining table, although with the six of them it was a bit cozy. As they took their places, Josh noticed with some trepidation that his mother took the place directly across from Isabella.

The food was delicious, and all of them were hungry. Josh could feel the soreness leaving his body as the hot, nourishing Italian foods, rich in cheese, butter, and garlic, filled him with warmth both literal and metaphorical. After the wrenching events of Friday and the draining press conference on Saturday, he felt as if he were slowly returning to normal. After some routine chitchat about the weather and the beauty of the city of Naples, Josh’s dad turned to Isabella.

“My dear girl,” he said, “I must admit that I was quite shocked to see you and my son holding hands on the evening news back in the States, when he had barely mentioned you up to that point. That being said, I am delighted that you two have such an interest in each other.”

Isabella smiled warmly. Josh’s dad reminded her of an old cowboy from an American Western, with a faint drawl, a tanned, leathery face, and a kind smile. She said, “Well, sir, I must confess that I found him pretty irresistible from the start.”

Josh laughed. “Not nearly as irresistible as I found her!” he said.

His mother beamed. “I am just so proud my baby boy has finally gotten interested in girls!”

Josh rolled his eyes. “Mom, I have been interested in girls since I was ten years old!” he said. “I just had a hard time . . . expressing that interest.”

He was blushing to the roots of his hair, and Isabella was enjoying herself enormously. “Well,” she said, “I can see where Josh gets his good looks.”

Reverend Parker smiled. “And I can see why he found you so charming!” he said.

Mrs. Parker looked over her glasses at Isabella. “You two aren’t . . . you know—”

Isabella leaned forward with a conspiratorial air. “Sadly, your son has resisted my every effort to plunder his virtue!”

“MOM!” Josh shouted, flushing scarlet, while Dr. Martens and Alicia leaned against one another hooting with laughter.

Reverend Parker did his best to look stern. “A good thing, there!” he said. “I am not familiar with Italian customs, but in Oklahoma we have these things called ‘shotgun weddings’!”

Isabella looked at him with an air of studied innocence. “Now why would anyone want to marry a firearm?” she asked.

About that time another knock came at the door, and Josh rushed to answer it, eager to be away from his parents for a moment. Father MacDonald stood at the door, looking a little more rested and relaxed than he had on television.

“I heard that there was a party going on,” he said with a touch of his old mischievous humor.

“What the heck!” Josh said. “Come on in. Mom and Isabella are taking turns to see who can embarrass me the most!”

“Well, I certainly would not want to miss that!” the Scottish priest said.

Josh walked him in and introduced MacDonald to his parents. “Mom and Dad, this is Father Duncan MacDonald, one of my colleagues and a renowned Vatican archeologist. Duncan, this is my father, Reverend Ben Parker, and my mom, Louise Parker.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Father!” said Parker, holding out his hand. He had always gotten on well with Catholic priests in the communities where he pastored, regarding them as a different department, but working under the same management he did.

“Good day to you, Father MacDonald!” said Josh’s mom. “I must confess to you that I was raised by two old hard-shell Pentecostals who taught me that Catholics were all the devil’s minions—but I never could see my Jesus rejecting some sweet people just because they were too fond of his mother!”

Josh groaned. His folks were in rare form today. MacDonald, on the other hand, threw back his head and roared with laughter. He took Louise’s hand and placed a gallant kiss on it.

“Well, dear lady,” he said, “I can see where Josh gets his gift of charm from! I have never been so sweetly insulted in my whole life!”

“Oh, I meant no offense, Father!” Mrs. Parker said. “I truly love our Catholic brothers and sisters.”

MacDonald chuckled. “No offense taken, my dear. Josh and I have been re-fighting the Protestant Reformation since we met, but we’ve become good friends in the process. He’s got a keen mind and a good heart.”

Reverend Parker patted his wife’s arm. “She is an impossible woman,” he said. “I only married her to spare some other man such an awful fate!”

She turned to her husband. “And here I thought you said it was because I had an excellent set of ‘breeder’s hips’!”

Now it was Reverend Parker’s turn to blush. “That’s quite enough, dear!” he said. Then he turned back to Father MacDonald. “I must admit, sir,” he said, “I just don’t feel right not going to church on Sunday. Is there an afternoon mass my wife and I might attend somewhere?”

MacDonald raised an eyebrow. Not many Protestant ministers from America volunteered to attend an Italian Catholic service. “I would be glad to take you and your wife to the three o’clock mass,” he said. “But I am afraid I do need to take Josh and Isabella from you for an hour or so first.”

“What’s going on?” Josh asked, but as the words left his lips he remembered. “Is it about Giuseppe’s service?” he asked.

The priest nodded, and the room grew quickly still. The humor drained from the air in an instant. “His son and daughter will be waiting for us at twelve thirty,” he said. “I told them we could meet over at the museum boardroom and go over the service together.”

“I’m still not sure why they want me to speak,” Josh said. “I loved Giuseppe dearly, but I only knew him for a couple of weeks.”

“Why don’t you come with me,” said the Scottish priest. “I’ll let his son explain it to you.”

Josh and Isabella excused themselves and stepped out of the room after MacDonald. As they made their way toward the elevator, Josh realized that being with his parents had already begun to heal him, both spiritually and physically. He still grieved for his friends, but his father’s steady presence and his mother’s deliberate silliness had reduced that grief to a manageable ache instead of a devouring gloom. In his heart, he said a prayer of thanks that they had come.