The Fifth Gospel(197)

            “You son of a bitch,” I say.

            He rips himself away from me and steps up on the platform with Nowak. At first His Grace doesn’t register his presence. Bachmeier is saying, “Our early Christian Church, however, was still hostile to images.” Archbishop Nowak seamlessly begins to read a quotation. But Michael steps in front of them. I lurch forward to grab hold of him, but he pulls out of my grasp.

            At that moment, something swoops before my eyes. A rush of color. Swiss Guards, descending from all corners of the room. Instantly Michael disappears behind a wall of them, engulfed.

            There is shock on the faces of the Orthodox in the crowd. I push my way forward. Just for a second, through the thicket of soldiers, I see Michael’s white eyes bulging in their sockets, his arms thrashing. He tries to shout, but it’s unintelligible. They have clamped something over his mouth. He tries to kick them away, but they’re immovable.

            A strong hand grips my shoulder and pushes me off. “Back away, Father,” a voice says.

            But I hold my ground. Michael is roaring, trying to spit out the gag. Two Swiss officers wave for the crowd to part so that he can be hauled away.

            “Friends!” Nowak says, lifting his arms in the air. “Please. Forgive this man. He is disturbed.”

            I start to follow Michael out, but more Swiss arrive, blocking my way.

            “I have to talk to him,” I say.

            They nudge me back.

            “Where are you taking him?” I ask.

            Then a voice comes from behind me.

            “Father.”

            I turn. Then I take a step back in surprise.

            “Your Grace.”

            The whole crowd is watching us.

            Not knowing what else to do, I bow to Archbishop Nowak.

            He takes me by the arm and leads me back to the dais.

            “My friends,” he announces, “many of you know Bishop Andreou. He visited your countries. He was instrumental in what we do tonight. This man is his brother.”

            He gives them a long look at me. At my beard. My flowing cassock. The point is not subtle. A mixed family, West and East. We can all survive under one roof.

            “Thank you, Father Andreou,” Nowak says, “for your help a moment ago.”

            The crowd politely claps. I keep my eyes on the floor. I didn’t stop Michael; the Swiss Guards did. This is theater.

            When the inspection is over, I begin to step down. But Nowak keeps his hand on me. He won’t let me walk away. “Doctor Bachmeier,” he says loudly, “please continue.”

            And when Bachmeier begins speaking again, Archbishop Nowak whispers to me, “Father, your brother would want you to see what comes next.”

            So I stand beside him, the token Greek Catholic, the antidote to Michael’s outburst, as Bachmeier guides the crowd through quotations on the walls. They are the ancient words of Church Fathers, saints, councils of bishops.

            God who prohibited the making of graven images would never Himself have made an image.

            Images should not be in churches. What is venerated and worshipped should not be painted on the walls.

            The names beneath these quotes come straight from the textbooks I teach in pre-seminary. Saint Irenaeus, from the 100s AD. Tertullian and Origen from the 200s. Eusebius, father of Christian historians, from the 300s. Epiphanius, flag-bearer of orthodoxy, from around 400. The audience drifts slowly down the gallery, watching the ancient leaders of our Church breathe fire against images. Watching our religion take a stand against paganism by shunning the paintings and statues that adorn pagan temples of Jupiter and Apollo and Venus.