The House of War: Book One Of : THE OMEGA CRUSADE

by Carlos Carrasco

  Whatever his reasons, it was his undoing. His administration collapsed and his Presidency ended with a single, sniper’s bullet…]

  1

  The Church Suffering

  “Freedom is a fragile thing and is never more than one generation away from extinction. It is not ours by inheritance; it must be fought for by every generation, for it comes only once to a people. Those who have known freedom, and then lost it, have never known it again.”

  —Ronald Reagan

  Rome 2019, Christmas Eve

  24:00:01

  “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”

  The Pope prays for peace.

  He is an old man in a new century.

  Not a single day of the century’s first two decades has known anything of that most benevolent of God’s manifold blessings, peace. Not a single one of its days has escaped the bloodletting scourge of war. The twenty-first century is on track to outdo the twentieth in barbarism. And again, Christendom seems bound to bear the brunt of it. Fifty million Christians, two-thirds of all the martyrs in Christianity’s two thousand years were slain in the last century. The twenty-first is on pace to double that number. His last two predecessors are counted among its first martyrs. Benedict XVI was killed in 2013 with hundreds of others when a fully fueled cargo jet was flown into Corcovado, making a torch of the wooded mountaintop and toppling its iconic, twenty-three hundred foot statue of Christ, our Lord. His successor, Pius XIII was shot by a sniper last Easter while addressing the crowds from the Papal balcony.

  Outside the basilica, Saint Peter’s Plaza is empty. The faithful are kept out of the Holy City by troops, armored vehicles and sandbagged machine gun nests. Instead, the worshippers ring the Vatican in a halo of candle light, a million strong by the most conservative of estimates. They’ve gathered from all over the world, coming as close to their spiritual father as the new communist government of Italy will allow. The new regime wants to abrogate the Lateran Treaty, take back the Papal estate and, as its new Minister of Culture declared to the world, ‘liberate the treasures hoarded by the church.’ The Bishop of Rome’s tiny city-state has been under siege since October. No one has been allowed in or out. They have appealed to the World Court for help, but what few allies they had in the United Nations deserted them when the Holy See denounced their latest initiative for population control. Europe will not help them. They turned their back on the Church a long time ago. America, following Europe’s lead, has also turned a cold, secularist shoulder to their entreaty. Africa and the East are powerless to aid them and South America is too embroiled in the jockeying for power between juntas and strongmen to concern itself over affairs beyond their continent.

  Inside the basilica, the peace the Vicar of Christ prays for descends upon him as he crosses into the sanctuary and the chorus fills the hallowed hollow of Saint Peter’s with the Introit, the processional song that begins the Mass. The music of the Dominus dixit is solemn and beautiful. It swells the heart to near breaking. The chanting voices are as divine as anything this side of Heaven can approximate.

  “The Lord has said to me, Thou art My Son, this day I have begotten Thee…”

  His Lord and God, waiting for the Bishop of Rome in the tabernacle draws the Pope onward and up the steps. The Holy Father has been making his way to Him all his life. He ascends to the altar of God, one carefully placed step after another, yearning to yet again perform his holy office with all the devotion that he has poured into every Mass for over sixty years. He bows atop the highest step and places the veiled and palled chalice on the altar. So close to the tabernacle, his heart quickens with the familiar ache to draw near to the Lord his God, to unite with Him once again in the Eucharist.

  The Vicar of Christ, his aging, failing flesh bent by the gravity of time, bends lower still, in abject humility before the eternal promise of God’s Mercy, and kisses the altar in thanksgiving.

  ‘Why do the nations rage and the people utter folly?’ The Introit continues through the second Psalm the Missal assigns for Christmas Mass.

  The Pope climbs back down the altar steps. The small exertion ignites arthritic fires in his knees and hips. He offers up the pain to his God. There are servers, young and strong priests, on either side of him ready to prop him up should his frail and faltering, ninety-two year old body stumble. The Community of Saints portrayed in the stained glass windows and statuary, they are also with him, bolstering his spirit. He can hear their voices threaded throughout the processional song of the Introit:

  “The kings of the earth rise up, and the princes conspire against the Lord and His Anointed. ‘Let us break their fetters and cast their bonds from us!’”

  “He who is enthroned in heaven laughs; the Lord derides them.”

  “Filius meus es tu...” The words of the song’s antiphon resonate off the walls and through eternity. “Thou art My Son, this day I have begotten Thee.”

  Peter’s successor bows.

  “Introibo ad altare Dei,” The Bishop of Rome begins the prayers of the Mass. “I will go in unto the altar of God.”

  “Ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam,” respond the server/priests at his side. “To God Who gives joy to my youth.”

  The Holy Father prays for peace.

  He is an old man and keeper of the New Covenant. His body is bent and nearly broken by the ancient burden his shoulders have borne for the sake of his brothers. Where they have doubted, he has held firm and unflinching to faith. Where they have despaired, he has held hope high above all darkness. Where they have readily embraced hate, he has simply and always offered love.

  “Judica me, Deus...” The Pope prays before the steps of Saint Peter’s Altar. They are the words of the forty-second Psalm, which every celebrant and his ministers recite as they make private preparation for the miracle of the Mass, Christ’s bloodless sacrifice. “Judge me, O God, and decide my cause against an unholy people.”

  “Emitte lucem tuam et veritatem...” the Vicar of Christ continues. “Send forth thy light and thy truth; they have conducted me and brought me to thy holy hill, and into thy tabernacles.”

  “Et introibo ad altare Dei,” the servers respond with bows of their heads. “And I will go in unto the altar of God, who gives joy to my youth.”

  The Introit ends, music and chanting fading into a deep silence.

  The Pope raises his head heavenward, seeing through the marble roof of Bernini’s baldacchino and beyond the gilded dome raised above it. “To Thee, O God, my God, I will give praise upon the harp; why art thou sad, o my soul, and why dost thou disquiet me?”

  “Spera in Deo...” the younger priests intone the last verse of the ancient psalm. “Hope in God, for I will still give praise to Him; the salvation of my countenance and my God.”

  “Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto...” the Holy Father says while crossing his self. “Glory to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Ghost.”

  “As it was in the beginning,” heaven and earth respond. “Is now and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.”

  Pope and priests repeat the psalm’s antiphon one more time as the rubric of the mass demands.

  “Introibo ad altare Dei...”

  “Ad Deum, qui laetificat juventutem meam.”

  His life is failing him, dissipating by the day; but the Bishop of Rome is still a child of God, young in the supernatural life of grace he entered through baptism ninety-two years ago. And young shall he remain and feel in the heart of him until the glory planted by the sacrament of baptism is revealed in him when he is at last with God. The Vicar of Christ feels that it will happen soon enough. He has no doubt that he is celebrating his last Christmas Mass. And now, more so than ever, it is the Mass itself that sustains him, imparting inalterable youth of soul and the promised, blissful immortality that steels him with an invincible optimism against the dark tide of history breaking against the walls of the Vatican.

  “Our help,” the Holy Father asserts while cr
ossing his self yet again. “Is in the Name of The Lord.”

  “Who made heaven and earth,” the servers add.

  All heads bow as everyone examines their conscience.

  The Vicar of Christ brings his hands together. He looks at the Crucifix. The Bishop of Rome turns away from all temporal concerns. He turns his back on his congregation, on the city’s besieged walls, on the entire world and its every demanding will. He faces the reality of Calvary squarely and acknowledges that it is his sin which is responsible for the torture and death of his Lord.

  The Pope bows.

  “Confiteor Deo omnipotenti...” he prays, his voice quivering softly with anguish. “I confess to almighty God, to blessed Mary ever Virgin, to blessed Michael the Archangel, to blessed John the Baptist, to the Holy Apostles Peter and Paul, to all the saints, and to Thee Father, that I have sinned exceedingly in word, thought and deed.”

  “Mea culpa,” the Vicar of Christ insists, striking his breast. “By my own fault.”

  “Mea culpa,” the Holy Father repeats. He strikes himself again, accusing his own heart, hidden within his breast, of being the cause of sin.

  “Mea máxima culpa,” Peter’s Successor admits to God and the world, striking his breast a third time. “By my own grievous fault.”

  It is his own proud and insolent heart, he confesses, that deserves the punishment, the breaking and destroying. It should be him hanging on that cross, not the sinless Son of God. Forgive me, Father, he pleads silently; please forgive me.

  “Therefore I beseech blessed Mary ever Virgin,” the Pope continues, straightening as well as his stiff spine will allow. “Blessed Michael the Archangel, blessed John the Baptist, the holy apostles Peter and Paul, all the saints, and you brethren, to pray to the Lord our God for me.”

  “Misereatur tui omnipotens Deus...” the younger priests answer him. “May almighty God have mercy upon thee, forgive thee thy sins and bring thee to life everlasting.”

  Together, the server/priests and people, their heads bowed in perfect contrition, pour their hearts out to their Creator as they, in turn, pray the Confiteor.

  When they’re done, the Bishop of Rome echoes the response. “May almighty God have mercy on thee, forgive you your sins, and bring you into life everlasting.”

  “Amen,” all intone.

  The Vicar of Christ begs of heaven, “May the almighty and merciful Lord grant us pardon, absolution, and remission of sins.”

  “Amen.”

  “Thou shalt turn again, O God, and quicken us.”

  “And Thy people shall rejoice in Thee.”

  “Show unto us, O Lord, Thy mercy,” the Holy Father pleads.

  “And grant us Thy salvation.”

  “Oh Lord, hear my prayer.” The Pope begs his God.

  “And let my cry come unto Thee.” The young priests add their entreaty.

  The Vicar of Christ turns slowly and carefully to face the pews. They are filled with priests, nuns and monks from all over the world and a good number of the laity who refused to evacuate Vatican City when they had the chance. He parts his hands and holds them, palms facing forward.

  “Dominus vobiscum,” he says. “The Lord be with you.”

  “Et cum spiritu tuo,” the faithful respond. “And with thy spirit.”

  “Oremus,” the Holy Father bids them. “Let us pray.”

  Confidant in the mercy of God, the Bishop of Rome turns around again and advances up toward the altar, praying as he climbs:

  “Take away from us our sins, O Lord, we beseech Thee, that we may enter with pure minds into the Holy of Holies. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

  “Oramus te, Domine...” the Pope pauses to pray on the top step. “We beseech Thee, O Lord, by the merits of Thy Saints whose relics are here and of all the Saints, that Thou wouldst vouchsafe to forgive me all my sins. Amen.”

  The Vicar of Christ, mediating between Jesus and His Church, bows. The Holy Father kisses the altar on behalf of Christendom. The Church, the bride of Christ, through the office of the Bishop of Rome, salutes her bridegroom and Savior. The Pope offers up this most Holy Days’ Mass for the salvation of all souls and peace on earth.

  Washington DC

  23:51:59

  “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee...”

  Monsignor Francis Green is hearing confessions at DC’s National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception. In between penitents, he listens to the recitation of the Rosary. He hears the Angelic Salutation and, as he has done since he was a boy, falls effortlessly into prayer. Every pew in the basilica is full. The faithful are arranged by states, each of the fifty states assigned one of the Rosary’s fifty beads. Through three revolving shifts, the Rosary crusade has been going non-stop since October 7th. Another nearly fifty thousand faithful follow suit outside the Supreme Court building and at various other churches throughout the city. Three million more are similarly gathered in churches across the country and millions more around the world; every one of them praying for the survival of Christendom.

  In the pews outside the confessional, Alabama leads the recitation through the first Joyous Mystery of the Rosary; the Annunciation, the meditation on Mary’s humility.

  “Behold the handmaid of the Lord,” the young Mary answered the Angel Gabriel when he informed the young virgin that she was to bear the Child of God. “Be it done to me according to Your Word.”

  With those words Mary set aside her own will and made herself the instrument of God’s. In humility, Mary said yes to God and thus His Word came into the world. Through her the Word was made flesh and dwelt among men. Her humility opened the Gates of Heaven to man.

  “Blessed are Thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus...” Alabama continues the recitation.

  “Holy Mary, Mother of God,” the whole congregation responds. “Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

  “Hail Mary, full of Grace,” Alaska begins the second bead of the ten that make up a Rosary’s decade. “The Lord is with thee...”

  Monsignor Green has travelled cross country from California to serve tonight’s midnight Mass on the steps of the Supreme Court. The honor could have gone to a great many others of his brothers in Christ, but the recently incarcerated Cardinal Redding asked for him specifically. The media was proffering all kinds of theories as to why the Cardinal chose him, but Monsignor Francis insisted to the press that his boyhood friend, Andrew Redding merely missed his company. Serving the Mass was bound to land Father Green in jail before the night was over. The old friends would then have lots of time on their hands to catch up on each other’s lives.

  “Blessed are thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus...”

  The thought of being incarcerated didn’t worry the priest whatsoever. It certainly wouldn’t deter him. It would not be his first arrest. He knew that a monk’s cell could be enjoyed behind prison bars as readily as behind monastery walls. More importantly, he believed there were things worth the sacrifice of one’s freedom and even of one’s life. If honoring Christ’s birth at midnight cost him either, he would consider it an honor to hand one or both over to the authorities. And the priest took courage from the fact that there were nearly a quarter of a million Christians in town, thousands of which were ready to go to jail with him.

  “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen…”

  He would not want for good company in prison, he thought with a smile.

  Father Green made the journey and was taking the risk for the same reason as the other two hundred and fifty thousand. They gathered to defend Christianity against the latest assault from the ever more secularized government of the United States.

  The ACLU had recently sued the Federal government, trying again to force the removal of all religious content from the nation’s public monuments. It was a decades-long crusade which finally met with victory. In their latest thrust, the civil libertarians made t
hemselves bedfellows with Muslim interest groups. Together they claimed that since the religious content on the country’s monuments was Christo-centric, the displays were inherently discriminatory and thus doubly inappropriate for an open, all-inclusive, secular society. They won the opening rounds of the suit in the lower courts which, pending the final Supreme Court ruling, ordered the Federal government to cover up all scripture and other ‘religious propaganda’ on public grounds. Many cities and a few states refused, insisting they would wait for the High Court’s decision. Most however, did as they were told.

  “Hail Mary, full of Grace…”

  DC’s splenetic mayor, the first avowed socialist to hold the office, wasted no time implementing the court order. His administration got busy duct taping over every scripture and reference to God within their legal reach. Every cross in the capital, including those on the tombstones in Arlington and the one that topped the church where the old priest now sat, was covered up, their ‘offending shapes’ draped over by formless, black, plastic, garbage bags. This redacting of the nation’s religious heritage was as surreal as it was shameless to the Monsignor. The court ruling did, however, galvanize a great response from the American people. Concerned Christians of every denomination began to descend on the capital almost immediately after the decision was handed down in September. Positions were taken up throughout the city and prayer vigils were being held at the various monuments. The different denominations had all recently agreed to hold their respective Christmas services at midnight in a direct challenge to the law against public displays of religion.

  “The Lord is with thee…”

  It was that announcement that got Cardinal Redding arrested. The mayor called it an incitement to lawlessness and vowed to stop any religious ritual performed on his streets. There would be a great many people to arrest if the authorities went through with their threats. The priest prayed they didn’t have the gall in them to affront the Good Lord on Christmas Eve, but he was less than optimistic. It saddened the priest. Yet it was the least sacrilegious of secularism’s many sins. Denying the existence of God always precipitated playing God for those in power and Monsignor Francis Green grieved for the secularists’ insistence on doing just that. History was replete with examples and the government of the United States of America had proved itself to be as vulnerable to the temptation for tyranny as any other. The country made its Faustian pact five years ago when it signed on to the Shanghai Accord.