The Fifth Gospel(239)

            The book of gospels is brought to John Paul, and he kisses it, making the sign of the cross. Ten thousand people go utterly silent. The clicking of cameras stops. There is not even a cough. Here is the only pope many of us have ever known. We all surely know, in our bones, that this will be the last time we see our Papa at this high altar. Through this man, God has made miracles. I pray He will do it one more time.

            John Paul’s voice is low and slurred.

            “Tonight, a child is born to us. The Christ child, who offers us a new beginning.”

            I watch Simon. His eyes are fixed on the Holy Father.

            “The evangelist John writes that ‘to those who did accept the Lord, he gave power to become children of God.’ But what does this mean? How are we to become children, like the Christ child, we who are heavy with sin?”

            Simon flinches. His shoulders sag again, and he leans forward as if to grip the rail in front of him.

            “It is possible only because the child who comes in darkness brings a message of hope: no matter how we have sinned, our Redeemer comes to bear those sins. He comes to forgive us.”

            For a moment, my gaze is drawn upward to the pier where the basilica’s relics are kept. I think of the Shroud. I wonder if it is hidden in the reliquary between those walls of stone. If, for now, Ugo was right. Saint Peter’s is the Shroud’s new home.

            “We cannot serve the Lord without first welcoming His forgiveness. Tonight, the Christ child offers us all a new beginning. Let us take it.”

            The microphone is moved away from John Paul’s mouth. The same perfect silence falls. Something has changed in Simon’s posture. His head isn’t hanging on his neck. The Creed comes, then the prayers of the faithful. When the Holy Father raises the host for consecration, a bell tolls and ten thousand voices sing, Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world. Have mercy on us.

            On all sides, priests begin to offer communion  . Seats empty, forming lines to receive it. Adeste fideles, sings the Sistine Chapel Choir. O come, all ye faithful. Simon watches the other bishops around him. Yet as their ranks thin, he can’t seem to pry his hands from the rail. Can’t take a step forward. An archbishop in front of him turns and shakes his head, as if to say Simon mustn’t receive communion   here.

            Nowak.

            His Grace takes Simon by the hand and leads him away. They weave through the other bishops, toward the aisle that leads back to me. But instead of turning in my direction, Nowak brings Simon toward the high altar.

            My brother shakes his head. They stop. For a moment, at the foot of the stairs that lead down toward the bones of Saint Peter, or up toward Pope John Paul, they are motionless. Nowak says something to my brother. I will never know what it is. I will always prefer to keep this moment a mystery.

            When the words are spoken, His Grace puts both hands on Simon’s shoulders, and my brother stands at his full height. He looks up the stairs. In the Holy Father’s hand is the host. Far above us all, in the windows of the dome, is the veil of heaven, torn by the stars. Simon makes a small prayer, crosses himself, then takes the first step.

            I watch my brother rise.