by D W Pasulka
practice is a powerful experience. I have witnessed this trans-
formation more than once. Christopher Bledsoe, a Baptist
from North Carolina, had been a pilot and owned a successful
construction business. He had a profound UFO sighting that
he interpreted as an extension of his own religious tradi-
tion. His congregation rejected his interpretation and called
the experience demonic. For Bledsoe, this was an agonizing
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process that alienated him from his community and changed
his life. Bledsoe struggled for several years, although he now
seems at peace with his conversion. Tyler’s experience was
an accelerated version that happened dramatical y during his
visit to the Vatican and the observatory at Castel Gandolfo.
I began to suspect that this would not be an ordinary
experience as I observed how Tyler was admitted to the
Vatican Secret Archives. Gaining entrance to the archives
is not easy, and I had started the process a year before my
trip. The archives extend underground, and there are ap-
proximately fifty- three miles of shelving. One cannot just
“request” a manuscript, because the archivists must find out
where the manuscript is housed and then retrieve it, which
is often a lengthy process. I provided the archivists as much
information as I could prior to my visit. One needs particular
credentials to enter the archives, which are called “secret,”
from a Latin word that should more accurately be translated
as “private.” I had the requisite credentials: I have a PhD and
am a tenured professor in religious studies, specializing in
Catholic culture. There was a question about whether Tyler
would be admitted. He is a respected scientist with over forty
patents to his name, but he did not have a PhD, nor was he in
any way associated with religious history.
Tyler arrived in Rome a day before me. I was in transit
when he began sending me a series of texts. He was at the
archives, but he was not allowed to enter. He had hired a
translator who was dickering with the security personnel and
explaining that I had given him permission and needed his
help. The archivists knew I would be arriving shortly but said
that Tyler did not have the proper credentials and would not
be admitted. There were three stations of security through
which one had to pass before obtaining a badge of entry. He
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was being held at the first station. Tyler had credentials as an
adjunct instructor at several research universities and letters
from the deans of those universities. He had a letter from me
vouching that he was an analyst necessary for the project.
None of this seemed to matter, and I sensed Tyler’s resigna-
tion. There was nothing I could do, as I was on a plane thirty
thousand feet above the Atlantic Ocean.
Tyler texted, “Should I tell them who I am?” I considered
his question careful y. Why would it mean anything to
them? And if it did, that might make things worse for us.
I cautioned him against doing it, as I thought it wouldn’t help
and would possibly flag us as suspicious. We were there to
view centuries- old documents about levitating saints. As a
scholar of religion, I wouldn’t raise any red flags of suspicion
whatsoever. But Tyler’s work in aeronautics certainly would.
I said “no.” But eventual y it was apparent that he would not
be admitted at al . At that point, after almost two hours of
Tyler’s translator haggling with security, I thought it couldn’t
hurt, so I said, “Okay, go ahead.” The next text I received
said, “I’m in. My archive badge is good for six months.” Six
months is the longest time for which one can have a badge.
Tyler became, at that point, visible, at least to those at the
Vatican Secret Archives. And his visibility provided access.
Apparently, Tyler was known to members of the Vatican.
Things were still not easy. Tyler, now in the Vatican Secret
Archives, was lost, and I was still in transit. He didn’t know
what he was looking at, or for. I had given him directions,
but he doesn’t speak Italian, and he was nervous and lost.
Then he heard an American accent and saw a tall black-
robed priest speaking in Italian with one of the archivists.
He walked up to the priest and asked for help. The priest,
Father McDonnel , could see that Tyler was lost and in need
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of help. He asked him to come outside into the courtyard.
There Tyler explained what he needed to do. Impressed,
Father McDonnell vowed to help. It turned out that Father
McDonnell was a special person, known by seemingly eve-
ryone at the Vatican, and had access to its every nook and
cranny. By the time I arrived in Rome, Father McDonnell
and Tyler were fast friends. Father McDonnell had given
Tyler rosary rings and Catholic prayer cards and asked him
to pray. Tyler was a Baptist, so I had to explain to him what
these objects were and what they meant. They were sacred
objects for Catholics, beads and rings that helped them re-
member the reality of the sacred. Tyler told me later how, in
the courtyard of the Vatican, with the sun streaming down
on them, Father McDonnell had blessed our project. I was
dumbfounded. Why? I wondered, as I watched Tyler try on
the ring.
As it turned out, Tyler’s unexpected access helped me
too. Because of my association with him, I was able to look
at documents and speak to key postulators (functionaries
who present a case for an individual’s canonization or be-
atification). This would not have happened had I been there
alone. This point was further driven home by my interactions
with the cadre of young archivists who manned the desks.
Intimidating in their black robes, they spoke to Tyler in-
stead of me, referring to me as “the lady doctor.” Father
McDonnell was not like the Vatican archivists. He was funny
and easy- going, and spoke to me directly. He was fascinated
by our research and curious too, as I didn’t tell him exactly
what I was studying. The study of the UFO phenomenon,
from any angle whatsoever, is controversial, even if one is
just approaching it as cultural history. I wasn’t going to tell
him that I was assessing accounts of levitation and bilocation
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with my space engineer colleague. At some point he figured
it out, but it didn’t affect his relationship with us, as he invited
us to attend a Mass in St. Peter’s Basilica.
The Vatican has traditional y been protected by the Swiss
Guards, mercenaries who are trained by the Swiss Armed
Forces. In their colorful attire, outfitted with swords, they are
placed in strategic positions around the Vatican. They don’t
appear to provide any type of security. Their presence seems
to be more for the benefit of the constant
lines of tourists
who circle the Vatican and stop for photographs. The real
guards wore camouflage uniforms and carried very big guns,
which looked like automatic weapons. The guns matched the
gravity of their grim faces. They were everywhere. Against
my counsel, Tyler asked one if he would like to have a cafe
latte, to which the guard replied with a steely “no.” To enter
the Vatican grounds, we needed to pass by these formidable
armed men. Fortunately, Father McDonnel , with his black
robe and breezy demeanor, parted the guards like Moses
parting the Red Sea, and as long as we were close behind
him, we could go seemingly anywhere.
The second day of my visit to Rome I was in St. Peter’s
Basilica hearing Mass with Father McDonnel , Tyler, and six
nuns. The Mass was celebrated in Latin, near the incorrupt-
ible body of Pope John XXIII, which certainly enhanced the
surreal quality of my experience. We had passed by the grim-
faced guards and into the sacristy, a chamber that seemed
off- limits to all non- Vatican insiders. The priests were robing
for the service. I careful y avoided direct eye contact with
them. I could see that Tyler and I were conspicuous, judging
by the many faces that turned in our direction.
When Father McDonnell was robed, we went back
into the basilica, and the Mass began. I tried to help Tyler
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understand was what happening. I saw by the way he looked
around at the frescos on the cavernous ceilings and the sun-
light shining through the stained glass that he was in another
world. I pointed out that before us was the incorruptible
body of a saint, and he nodded in recognition. Later I found
out that he didn’t know what I had said and was astonished
that we had been so close to a dead body. He had never heard
of the tradition of incorruptible saints, according to which
certain people’s bodies do not decay after death and are pro-
nounced “incorruptible” by the church. Most often these per-
sons are considered by Catholics to be saints. Their bodies
are often placed in glass cases, to be viewed by the faithful.
Tyler and I talked about this on the day after his mother’s fu-
neral, two weeks after we had returned from Rome. The fact
that we had been so close to John XXIII’s preserved body was
comforting to him.
After Mass, Father McDonnell invited us to follow him
on rounds at the local hospital where he was celebrating an-
other Mass, at a small hospital chapel, and administering
last rites to dying patients, as well as anointing the sick. The
last rites provide absolution for sins, preparing the dying
person’s soul for death. The anointing of the sick is one of the
seven sacraments of the church, in which a priest blesses a
person through the administration of blessed oil. I thought
that Tyler’s experience with helping terminal y ill children
would have prepared him for this. Before Mass, Father
McDonnell and I recited several traditional Catholic prayers.
Tyler, not knowing the prayers, sat in silent contemplation,
looking around at the very small chapel, which contained
a relic (a fragment of a bone) of St. Teresa of Avila. After
Mass we went around the hospital with Father McDonnel .
He respectful y announced his presence to the patients, and
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those who wanted his services welcomed him. I was to ac-
company him to the bedsides of women, and Tyler was to
do so when it was a man who was dying. Father McDonnell
and I entered the room of a woman who seemed near death.
Her daughter sat beside the bed and held her mother’s hand.
Father McDonnel ’s eyes shone with mercy and love as he
tenderly crossed the mother’s forehead with blessed oil, and
he asked God to bless her. The old woman’s eyes sparkled and
she smiled. I felt my throat constrict, and choked back tears.
As we left the room, Father McDonnell and I looked at each
other. He was clearly touched. He said, “Now you see. I get
more from them than I give to them. In there, was beauty. It
was God.”
Tyler went with Father McDonnell into the room of a
young man in his late twenties or early thirties. I had seen
this young man earlier, at Mass. He had struggled slowly
with a walker to attend the service. He seemed like a proud,
strong young man who was humbled by the approach of
death. I could see that Tyler felt an immediate kinship with
him. Fifteen minutes went by, and then Tyler and Father
McDonnell came out. Tyler could not look at me. His head
was bowed. I did not try to speak with him, because I under-
stood. His heart was broken.
This experience prepared Tyler for his conversion. As if
following a script, events happened one after another that
instigated a profound shift in Tyler’s understanding of his
life and his future and of the reality of the beings. I was the
witness to these events, and to his transformation.
The day after the hospital experience we played tourist.
I thought that perhaps some sightseeing would lighten the
intensely religious mood that seemed to have gripped Tyler
since his first day in Rome. I was wrong. We took a tour
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of Rome on a golf cart, which turned out to be a bad idea.
The streets of Rome are not smooth, and we jostled vio-
lently about as the tour guide steered our cart in and out of
throngs of speeding trucks and vans. At one point, we were
pulled over by the police. The guide and the police haggled
for twenty minutes. We waited patiently and were final y
brought to the beautiful church of Santa Sabina, which is the
oldest remaining Roman basilica and sits atop the Aventine
Hil . The church is named for a noble Roman woman who
was converted to Christianity by her servant Seraphia. Both
were executed by the Roman government and later declared
saints. The church was built on what is said to have been the
site of Sabina’s home, which was near a temple of the goddess
Juno. The place was steeped in Roman and Roman Catholic
history.
Tyler and I made our way around the church as the guide
described the history of the location and its significance to
Italians. We happened to arrive just as a wedding party was
making its preparations. A small group of classical musicians
was playing as we toured the church. Tyler found his way to a
small side chapel. Was he kneeling? I couldn’t tel , as a crowd
of worshippers obstructed my view. At that moment, the
guide happened to meet a friend, a historian of that church
who had just finished giving a tour. The historian led me out-
side of the church and showed me its large wooden door. On
the door was carved one of the earliest depictions of the cru-
cifixion of Christ. He is pictured as if standing calmly with
outstretched arms, between the two thieve
s, whose arms are
also outstretched. They looked expectant, not crushed or
tortured. But this was not all that was on the door. I also saw
images of levitation. I was struck by these images and asked
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the historian about what they depicted, and she seemed
confused.
“I suppose, yes, these are of levitations,” she said.
The ascension of Christ is depicted in two panels, and
then a third shows Christ ascended. Beneath him is a mys-
terious object that looks like a globe or disc— scholars are
not sure what it represents. Later, as I researched the mystery
object, I found several websites that associated it with a UFO.
Another panel represents the prophet Elijah ascending into
the heavens on a cloud, and in yet another panel the prophet
Habakkuk is either ascending to heaven or being lifted up by
an angel. Overal , the door showed numerous examples of
bodies ascending to the heavens.
I was excited to share my discovery with Tyler, but when
I searched for him in the church, he was nowhere to be found.
I found our guide and asked her if she had seen him. She looked
at me oddly and pointed toward the small chapel. There was
Tyler on his knees, praying. The wedding guests were starting
to arrive; we needed to leave. I looked at Tyler and realized
that he was not in a normal frame of mind. I touched him and
whispered that we needed to leave. The music was playing. The
arriving guests were impeccably dressed, and several looked at
us as if we were intruders. It was time to leave, yet Tyler was
crying. Our guide, now very confused, explained that there
was one more destination on our tour. We got back into the
golf cart and left the church of Santa Sabina.
After the tour was over we found a quiet restaurant and
ate a light meal. Tyler was quiet.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
“No. Nothing’s okay.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked, but I think I knew already.
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“Diana, I have to go back and help people directly. I feel
like I am a complete failure.”
I was surprised, because Tyler is far from a failure. But
now he felt like one.
“Will you help me?” he asked. “Will you introduce me
to priests or nuns who can help me serve like this? I want to
help anyone who is hungry or in need of help. I don’t care if