The Fifth Gospel(238)

            It’s a choir cassock, the kind worn by a priest attending another priest’s Mass.

            Simon stares at it. “No,” he says.

            My heart is thudding. The robe is purple. The choir cassock of a bishop.

            My phone buzzes. Mona’s answer.

            Special homily tonight.

            I signal to my boys not to listen to Simon. To do their jobs. They can vest a priest faster than any altar boys on earth. And though Simon begins to protest, he must sense what’s about to happen. If he stays in his black cassock, then he is about to be mistaken for a bishop in mourning. And on this day, the day of our Lord’s birth, there can be no mourning.

            Simon lowers his head. He takes a deep breath. Then he extends his arms. The boys strip off his black cassock and slip on the purple one, the white rochet, and the capelike purple mozzetta. On top goes a pectoral cross.

            “This way,” the cursore says, moving faster now.

            The passage looks like the marble doorway to a sepulcher. I glance over my shoulder. One of my boys lifts a hand in the air as if bidding us good-bye.

            In the passageway, the air is changing. Growing warmer. Vibrating with noise. My skin tingles. We travel through another doorway—and suddenly we’ve arrived.

            The ceiling vanishes. The walls rise infinitely to the basilica roof. The vibration has become a deep, cosmic murmur.

            “This way,” the cursore says.

            The sight stops me short. All my life I have attended a Greek church that can hold two hundred people. Tonight, from the high altar over the bones of Saint Peter to the stone disc near the entrance where Charlemagne was once crowned, this basilica holds ten thousand Christian souls. The nave is so full that laymen have given up searching for seats and have begun crowding the side aisles. The congregation bristles and pulses, spilling to the edges of sight and beyond.

            The cursore leads us forward. The altar is surrounded by ring after ring of the faithful, rising in dignity as they approach. First the laymen, then the nuns and seminarians. We reach the monks and priests, and I stop, knowing my place. I see other Eastern Catholic priests here, and some of them, recognizing me, make room.

            But Simon won’t leave my side. The cursore gestures for him to continue, yet my brother stops as well. “Alex,” he whispers, “I can’t.”

            “It’s not your choice anymore,” I say, forcing him forward.

            The cursore leads him through rows of ambassadors and royalty, chests glittering with medals. They reach the priests of the Secretariat, and I watch Simon hesitate before stepping in. But the cursore touches him gently on the back. Not here. Continue walking.

            They come to the rows of the bishops. Men far older than Simon, some twice his age. The cursore stands back, as if this is as far as his kind may come, but Simon only stands and stares like an altar boy. The bishops, seeing one of their own, begin to part. Two of them reach out, clapping hands on Simon’s back. My brother takes a step forward. Beyond them, in the innermost circle, a cardinal in white and gold—the colors of tonight, of hope and exultation—turns to watch. I can see the emotion in Uncle Lucio’s eyes.

            The cantor starts to sing. The Mass has begun. Simon’s head is bent down, not looking at John Paul. He seems to be sunk in some private battle. His body shudders. I see him cover his face in his hands. Then a sound rises. Voices. The Sistine Chapel Choir.

            Lord Jesus Christ, only Son of the Father, Lord God, Lamb of God, you take away the sin of the world: have mercy on us.

            A procession of children brings flowers to a statue of the baby Jesus. They smile and giggle. The sound lifts Simon’s head. As the homily draws nearer, I pray that Mona was right.