“So,” Anna finally said, “what’s this about me being your fiancé?”
Dyson smiled broadly.
“Oh, that.”
She turned to face him, her eyes moist but a faint smile played on her lips. “Yes, that.”
“Well, when you’re in the ICU instead of a normal room, they only let family in to see you. I thought it would, I don’t know, simplify things.”
“I see.”
“Besides,” he grinned, “you take a bullet, you get the girl.”
“What?” She playfully slapped at him, striking only air.
“Hey, I don’t make the rules. But I’ve seen enough movies to know what they are.”
Anna rolled her eyes, chuckling despite herself.
“You’ve had a very positive effect on me,” Dyson said.
“It doesn’t look like it.”
“No, really,” he went on. “What you said before, about me not believing in God. I don’t know what it is, and I don’t know why it’s happening now, but I’m really giving the whole thing a lot of serious thought.”
“Oh, sure,” she said, surprised. “Now you get spiritual. Now that I’ve assassinated the character of Jesus and the apostles.”
“Enough of that,” he said with gentle sternness. “You didn’t write those scrolls. You didn’t bury them, and you aren’t out there hawking them to the highest bidder. You didn’t pull a trigger. None of this is your fault.”
“Yeah, well …”
“I mean it. Stop blaming yourself, Anna. You aren’t responsible.”
“Then who is?”
“Whoever wrote those words two thousand years ago. Whoever put them in those walls. Whoever leaked them to the press before all the facts were in.”
“I think the facts are in, Jack.”
“You’re being defeatist. This isn’t like you.”
She was silent.
“It wasn’t your fault, Anna,” he stressed. “I mean it.”
She took his hand again.
“Thank you,” she said, smiling. “It helps to hear it.”
“It’s the gospel truth,” he replied, looking into her eyes.
“Okay.”
“Besides,” he added, “I think you should keep running your tests. Something’s fishy here.”
“You really are serious about this. About God.”
“Yup,” he said. “I don’t know. On the plane ride over, I just got to thinking. Maybe being up that high got me close enough to heaven that I could hear a whisper or two.”
She smiled. “Maybe so.”
He relaxed his neck and lay back, watching as she once again took a seat in the bedside chair.
“I think I get the Italian version of Wheel of Fortune in twenty minutes or so,” he said. “Wanna stick around?”
“I don’t really have anywhere else to go,” she said, amused. For a few moments she just watched him.
He noticed.
“What?” he asked, teasing her.
“Nothing.”
“You know,” he said, “since you’re my fiancé and all, you can stay here for the night if you want. Save the cost of a room. They’ll bring in a roll-away bed. Nurse told me so.”
Anna looked at her hands, smiling anew. “I might do that.”
She rose, picked up her purse, and dug for change. “But first, I’m going to find a coffee machine.”
“I’ll be right here.”
Anna went out into the hallway, took a quick look in both directions, and walked to the nurses’ station. She smiled at a nun in a flowing black habit, who sat watching television in an adjoining waiting area, and received an odd look in return.
“Dove trovo una macchina del caffè?” Anna asked the nurse.
In reply, the woman pointed down the hallway.
“In fondo al corridoio, dottoressa Meridian.”
“Mille grazie.”
As Anna began to turn, the nun rose and called out to her.
“‘Meridian?’” she asked, her accent heavy. “Anna Meridian?”
“Si,” Anna said.
The sister approached. She was elderly, her gait hobbled and assisted by a cane. Her stature was small, her steps slow and deliberate. As she drew near, her gaze remained fixed on the woman before her.
Anna was silent, smiling pleasantly, trying to place the old woman.
Do I know you?
They stood opposite each other, Anna a full head taller. The nun, anger suddenly flaring in her aged eyes, reached out with a paper-skinned hand and struck her hard across the face. Shocked, Anna brought a hand to her stinging cheek and could only watch as the nun, without a word, turned and walked away.
Eight
The initial effect of the confessions was staggering.
In the United States, many churches opened their doors the following Sunday only to find attendance cut by more than half. Across all denominations, all divisions, all creeds, many had elected to reevaluate their faith, to take time away, to try to decide whether their time was being wisely or properly spent with the institutions they had chosen. A question had been raised, one for which no one seemed to have a definitive answer: What is faith?
For many, the sudden undermining of what they claimed to have believed was disastrous. Like houses without foundations, the storm of uncertainty came upon them brutally, uprooting the realities they had woven about themselves. Many had never been sure of their faith in the first place, and thus had never been able to give a reasoned answer for their convictions.
Others had never really believed, using the faith and their church ties purely for social purposes. And not knowing what they believed, or why exactly they believed it, they feared appearing as fools in the eyes of those around them. In the face of a few scraps of papyri, they fled.
Others asked deeper questions. Is faith real if proven false? If faith is based not in evidence but in the invisible, can it be proven false in the first place? Does physical evidence matter?
Thomas, one of the original Twelve, had insisted on physical proof of Christ’s resurrection only days after it supposedly had occurred. Unwilling to take anyone’s word that the impossible had taken place—this despite the raising of Lazarus before many witnesses—he had demanded evidence to satisfy his intellect. Those who wrote the biblical accounts had recorded that Jesus then appeared to him, among his followers, and having passed through a sealed door, Jesus told the man to satisfy his need for proof by touching with his own hands the wounds of Christ’s crucifixion.
“Blessed are they who did not see, and yet believed.”
But now, could anything those once-revered men had written down be trusted? If they later denied their previous claims, what was one to think?
Fool me once, shame on you …
If the one book Christians looked to more than any other for moral guidance was indeed just a pack of lies, where then could one turn?
Fool me twice …
But so much of the Bible had been proven true down through the ages by so many, and through so many methods! The physical, logical, and historical evidences had steadily mounted over the centuries. Was all that just to be thrown away? Looking back, what part of it, if any, had been hard fact? What part had been surmise based on a house of cards?
Can there be faith without underlying fact?
Or, to take the issue to the opposite extreme, as many often had done, Isn’t faith genuine only if it flies in the face of apparent evidence to the contrary? Isn’t its very essence that of things unseen?
Never had Christianity been a blind faith! Rather, it alone had been declared a gift from God, recognizable to fallen men only after the Father had opened one’s eyes!
“Do not fear their intimidation, and do not be troubled
, but sanctify Christ as Lord in your hearts, always being ready to make a defense to everyone who asks you to give an account for the hope that is in you, yet with gentleness and reverence.… ‘Blessed are you, Simon Barjona, because flesh and blood did not reveal [the truth of My identity] to you, but My Father who is in heaven.’”
Religious pundits of every stripe tossed their views into the arena, adding greatly to the confusion that had seized so many. Authors and scholars who for so long had denounced the crucifixion as a hoax wasted no time shouting “I told you so!” to all who would listen—and to many who would not. Jewish and Muslim religious leaders also claimed that they had been right all along, that Jesus had never been more than a prophet, a great religious teacher, a revolutionary. They stepped forward, mounting whatever platform presented itself, inviting their long-deluded Christian brothers and sisters to finally embrace the truth, to approach God through laws and works and acts of self-sacrifice—all of which they claimed Jesus had taught in the first place. Many listened and converted, abandoning Christ, no longer believing him to be God.
“And yet Jesus forgave sins committed against God,” declared a few vocal Christian leaders who clung to their faith, and to the gospels they yet treasured. “He accepted and encouraged the worship of himself! He claimed, standing in the temple, that in him and him alone were messianic prophecies fulfilled, that day, in the hearing of those present!
“He claimed himself to be fully God, one with the Father!”
But if these assertions were falsehoods, could any man who told such monstrous, blasphemous lies be a prophet or a great teacher?
His only credentials lay in those things all being true. There was no gray area, no middle ground—otherwise, he was a deception, a devil, a wicked liar worthy of death, falsely leading others to place their eternal destinies in his impotent, outstretched, nail-pierced hands.
But left to the devices of men …
“It’s bad, Pastor Jerry.”
The morning’s first service had been a disaster. Attendance had dropped to the levels Orsen had found when he first arrived at the church, numbers his father’s arcane policies had brought about. The collection plates had come back nearly empty, the take barely a third of the previous Sunday’s showing.
“Yes, Marty,” the pastor said, placing a large, warm hand on the shoulder of one of his ushers. “It is.”
“What will we do?”
“God is like a conductor on that big heavenly train,” Orsen said, “punching tickets and checking the passenger list. The important thing is to get folks in those seats. What they hear once they get there is secondary. Numbers, Marty … numbers.”
“But how? How do we get the people back?”
“We go with the flow, my boy. Plain and simple. We adapt. It doesn’t matter how you worship God, so long as you do. All roads lead to the Big Man, Marty.”
“I suppose so.” The man’s face knotted in thought. “Adapt how?”
“However we have to.”
Orsen turned away, grabbed a jelly donut from a box atop a desk, and went into his office, checking his watch along the way.
Raspberry—excellent.
It was an hour until the next service, the primary gathering of the day. Between now and then, he would think of something.
You gotta give the people what they want. You gotta tell them what they want to hear.
No matter the crisis, he always had.
Bonnie Henson straightened the magazines atop her coffee table, the third time she had done so that afternoon. Within the last hour the family knickknacks on the mantel had been dusted, the couch cushions and chair had been fluffed, and the carpet had been vacuumed. All these were tasks she did with a measure of regularity anyway, but when expecting company, she figured, one may as well do them again. Just in case.
Her doorbell rang. Running to the mirror over the fireplace, she quickly primped, adjusting the feathering of her layered hair and straightening her top.
Much better.
She opened the door with a big smile.
“Well, hello stranger,” she said through the glass of the storm door as her eyes met those of her two visitors. She twisted the handle and pushed the door open for them. “Come on in.”
Anna and a handsome man walked past her into the house, pausing just inside. The man moved a bit stiffly, Bonnie noted. No sooner had she closed the door than she turned and shared a huge, heartfelt hug with her sister.
“It’s so good to have you here,” she said. “I’ve missed you. We all have.”
“Good to be here,” Anna said, eyes closed. “Missed you, too. You don’t know how much.”
As they broke the embrace, Bonnie turned to the man just beyond her sister and extended a hand.
“Bonnie,” she said, introducing herself. “So you’re the Jack I’ve heard so much about.”
“I swear,” he said with a smile, removing his shades and taking her hand, “none of it was true.”
“You were right,” she whispered to Anna, before turning again to Dyson. “Are you being good to my baby sister?”
“Um … yes?” he replied, not sure how to answer.
“Bonnieee,” Anna softly said. “Please.”
“Oh, you know what I mean,” she said lightly. “Come on in. Make yourselves at home.”
She led them into the living room, where they took a seat on the plush, blue floral sofa.
“You must be thirsty,” Bonnie said. “Can I get you anything?”
“Tea would be nice,” Anna said.
“I’m fine,” Dyson waved. “Maybe later.”
Bonnie walked into the adjoining kitchen and poured tea from a pitcher into a tall glass sandblasted in a pattern of birds in flight, wings spread. “It’s been what, four months since you were here last?” she asked.
“About that,” Anna replied.
“Ellie graduated from elementary school two weeks ago,” Bonnie said. “You should have seen her at the ceremony … She was just darling.”
“I’m so sorry I missed it.”
“Ben got it on disc. I’ll have him make you a copy.”
“That would be nice. Thank you.”
“Ben’s my husband,” Bonnie explained to Dyson as she emerged from the kitchen and handed a glass to her sister.
“I figured,” he replied.
“And Ellie’s my daughter,” she went on as she took a seat kitty-corner.
Dyson nodded, having gathered that as well.
“She’s at a friend’s birthday party right now. She’ll be home soon.”
“Sounds fun.”
“So, how was Italy?” she asked the two. “I’d love to go there sometime. I mean, how romantic is that? Looks like such a lovely place.”
“It is,” Anna said.
“Did you ever see Come September? That Rock Hudson movie with that Italian actress whose name I can never remember? Anyway, he was a wealthy businessman with a big seaside villa there in Italy, but he was away in America most of the year. And whenever he was gone, his valet turned the place into a hotel without his knowing about it. Really funny. Beautiful scenery.”
“I guess I never saw that one.”
“You should. You’d love it. I know you like those kinds of movies.”
“Well, I’m kind of ‘Italy-ed’ out for a while,” Anna said. “I don’t think I’ll be wanting to have anything else to do with the place anytime soon.”
“Oh, sweetie,” Bonnie said, leaning over to place a hand on Anna’s knee. “I know. I couldn’t believe all that stuff they were saying on the news. Is it really true? Everything?”
“Afraid so,” Anna said. “Mostly, anyway. I wish it weren’t.”
“I can’t imagine what you went through. Finding that room, then those awful
papers.”
“We’re not certain they’re authentic,” Anna explained. “I mean, they’re old. We know that. But we don’t know for sure the apostles authored them.”
“When will you know?”
Anna let a silence descend. Dyson gave a subtle shake of the head.
“Oh,” Bonnie realized.
“There’s really no way for us to get one-hundred-percent verification,” Dyson added. “Not without a further find of some kind. And to be honest, I don’t even know what that would be.”
“But everyone’s talking about them like they’re a done deal … like there’s no question.”
“I know,” Anna said. “It seems those who want to believe in them do, and those who don’t, well, don’t.”
“‘A man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest,’” Bonnie quoted.
“Yes,” Anna said, nodding.
“I keep hearing interviews with people who’ve been told there’s no doubt. I’ve been surprised by how many people just packed up their faith and moved on, as if their country club had burned down, and they needed to find another one.”
“I think that’s exactly what church is for a lot of folks,” Anna said. “Just something to do on Sundays. A way to be seen in the expensive dresses and suits they don’t get to wear all that often.”
“You know, that is so true,” Bonnie agreed. “That’s all it ever was for Margie Hancock. Did you ever meet her? Anyway, to hear her talk, I don’t think she’s ever cracked open a Bible in her life. Doesn’t know Jesus from a jelly bean … Always thought being a good little girl got you to heaven, and that was that.”
“Was she?” Anna asked. “Good, I mean.”
“Define good.”
The women exchanged a look and softly laughed.
“Shame on me,” Bonnie said, with a mimed slap of her hand.
“Shame on both of us.”
“How about you, Jack?” Bonnie asked. “You in town long?”
When Dyson heard his name, his attention snapped back to the conversation at hand. He had apparently been paying little attention, letting his eyes and his mind wander around the room, jumping from framed family photos to the mantelpiece clock to an iron wall sconce opposite him.
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