The Fifth Gospel(104)

            Peter glances around, wondering what the silence means. I have to contain this before it spreads. With a look, I beg them not to say more. Peter’s heart is in their hands.

            The biggest boy, a gentle brute named Scipio, leans forward and casts a shadow over Giorgio. The other boys glance at each other and seem to consent to keep quiet. But their eyes are eager. Giorgio wasn’t lying. They want to know.

            I have a covenant with my pupils. I teach hard truths about sacred texts, and I don’t sugarcoat or water down. Honesty is our currency here.

            But they are children. I can’t talk to them about Simon.

            “I’m sorry. This isn’t something we can discuss.”

            Yet they wait. I’m the priest they talk to about video games and girlfriends. About the older sister who almost died in a car accident this spring and the little cousin who has been dying of birth defects. If they’re allowed to ask if Jesus really walked on water, if the pope is really infallible, then surely they can ask this.

            “It’s very personal,” I say. “Not appropriate.”

            Giorgio snorts, “So then it must be true.”

            I realize the crossroads we’ve come to. These boys come from all over Italy to live inside the Vatican walls, to serve Mass in the pope’s basilica. But what I say right now, in the dirt beside this dormitory, may be what they remember best.

            “Sit down,” I say to Giorgio.

            Giorgio hesitates.

            “Please,” I say.

            He lowers himself to the ground.

            “All of you,” I say. “Sit.”

            My thoughts race forward, raising a frame in my mind. The shape of what I will say. I know the message. I ache to say it. The question is how.

            “A man is on trial,” I start. “He’s accused of something terrible. There are witnesses who say he did it, but the man won’t say a word. Won’t lift a finger to defend himself. So his closest friends lose faith. They abandon him.”

            I let the words settle.

            “You all know that story,” I say. “It’s the story of Jesus’ trial.”

            A few nod.

            “The man in that trial,” I say. “Was he innocent?”

            “Yes,” the boys all respond.

            “And no matter what anyone tells me about that man, I know the truth. I know how I feel about him. And nothing can ever change that, no matter what kind of evidence people say they have.”

            This is my most naked answer. I will believe in Simon always. To the end, against all proofs and verdicts.

            But I have an obligation to these boys. Telling them what I believe isn’t enough.

            “Is that why your parents sent you to this pre-seminary, though?” I say. “To find out what I think? Or was it to learn how to think for yourselves?”

            Deep feelings push up from the bottom of my throat.

            “If you’re going to believe what other people tell you,” I say, “then don’t become priests. Nobody needs priests like that. You have to be the judge. People lie. People disagree. People make mistakes. To find out the truth, you have to know how to search for it.”

            My shaky delivery, my barely disguised emotion, has captivated them. They’re really listening now. I know what direction I need to take. It’s been hovering in my thoughts for days. But not until this moment has it seemed so clear.