On Bartholomew’s left, across the aisle, are the patriarchs of the younger Orthodox capitals: Maxim of Bulgaria, Ilia of Georgia, Pavle of Serbia. Alexy of Moscow has sent his second-in-command. But on his far side, at the very end of the row, is the man who will change everything. Patriarch Teoctist of Romania.
He is almost ninety years old. Five years older than John Paul. Not long ago he became the first Orthodox patriarch in a millennium to invite a pope to visit his country, an offer John Paul gladly accepted. Now Teoctist is prepared to make an even bigger gesture.
The ancient patriarch pushes himself up from his chair on two shaking legs. Then he stands beside John Paul.
John Paul’s eyes follow him. When Teoctist reaches out a hand to help the Holy Father, the mask of John Paul’s face crumbles. His eyes fill with tears.
Now the true whitebeards come: Maxim and Pavle, old as the dust. They rise from their seats as if something is at stake here, something beyond protocol and history. The Christian principle of love. Respect for the See of Saint Peter. They, too, stand. Between them sits Ilia of Georgia, barely more than seventy years old, a mere schoolboy. To honor his elders, he stands up as well.
Now it’s all momentum. One by one, to Bartholomew’s left, the other patriarchs rise. The crowd in the chapel roars. Each time a new bishop comes to his feet, the ocean of black thunders its approval.
Silently Nowak inches back. He makes himself almost invisible, disappearing by half steps, acknowledging that the men at the front of this chapel belong to a world that the rest of us—even Archbishop Nowak—do not inhabit. They are the giants we pray to meet in heaven. I pull the cross out of my collar and squeeze it, wanting to send up this moment to my parents in heaven. To send out this moment to Simon in his cell.
The patriarchs huddle and bow their heads together. And in the whole thousand-year history of our divided religion, there is no precedent for what happens next.
A voice rises from their midst. I can’t tell whose it is. But the voice begins a chant. Not in Italian, or in Latin, but in Greek. One by one, the other patriarchs join it. In unison, they deliver the profession of faith made official seventeen centuries ago, at the very first council of all Christian bishops.
Πιστεύομεν εἰς ἕνα Θεόν, Πατέρα, Παντοκράτορα, ποιητὴν οὐρανοῦ καὶ γῆς, ὁρατῶν τε πάντων καὶ ἀοράτων . . .
We believe in one God, the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth, and of all things visible and invisible . . .
I shiver. It is happening. Before my eyes, in my own lifetime, it is happening. And my brother isn’t here to see it.
But someone else is: one of the Swiss Guards has left his post at the door to find me in the crowd. Leo doesn’t say a word, but he puts a hand on my arm. He knows what this moment means to me.
When the profession of faith ends, an unsteady hush follows. The crowd is waiting, wondering what will happen next. In the huddle of patriarchs there are searching looks. Even these ancient men—nearly old enough, together, to reach back to the Fourth Crusade—don’t know the answer. But they’re wordlessly negotiating something. Not what they will do next, but who will do it. Which leader will speak for them all.
There’s no question who it should be. The Orthodox know it, too. Saint Peter was the leader of the apostles, so the highest honor must go to Peter’s successor. The pope. They are waiting for John Paul to speak.
But John Paul didn’t bring these men here to trump them. Instead he turns to the Ecumenical Patriarch and whispers in his ear.