Acts of Faith (50 page)

With some embarrassment, I reminded him that I was not really a rabbi.

But he responded, “You are, Danileh. You are.”

As Eli and I were driving back to the kibbutz, he seemed curiously carefree for someone who had experienced such a serious identity crisis only forty-eight hours earlier. He was even humming the latest tunes from the Israeli hit parade.

I didn’t have the guts to ask him how he had come to
weather his existential crisis with such aplomb—not to mention speed. Happily, as darkness began to fall, he took the initiative.

“Remember that talk we had the other night, Uncle Danny?”

“Yeah,” I answered laconically. How the hell could I forget it?

“Well, I confronted Mama and she told me the truth.”

She did?

“I suppose you knew about it all the time,” he generously allowed.

To which I replied with a noncommittal, “Mmm.”

“So what?” he said.

“So what, what?” I asked.

“So my father and mother weren’t married. What difference does it make?”

“You’re right,” I assented. “By Jewish law you’re kosher enough to marry the Chief Rabbi’s daughter.”

We drove for about a kilometer and then he asked me with a mischievous smile, “Is she cute?”

“Who?” I asked, a bit confused.

“The Chief Rabbi’s daughter,” he replied. “I might be interested.”

So Deborah had postponed the inevitable. But sooner or later, somebody would have to come up with the guts to tell Eli the truth. Meanwhile, as the saying goes, “We should thank God and take each day as it comes.”

We arrived at Kfar Ha-Sharon just after dinner. Eli with his youthful vigor was willing to forgo a meal in exchange for permission to hitchhike to Gila’s kibbutz, so I had a quick bite with Deborah in her
srif.

She was pleased to hear about all the events in Jerusalem that day, and even went as far as to comment, “That was a very gutsy stand for Saul to take.”

“What about me?” I protested, wanting my share of kudos. “I started the whole argument about the Green Line.”

“Granted, that took courage,” Deborah commented.
“But the difference is you’re going to go back to the woods, and Saul’s going back to Brooklyn where he’ll have to face the wrath of God knows how many
frummers.
”

F
ifty days after the Resurrection, the eleven apostles had gathered in a room in Jerusalem during the Jewish Festival of Weeks. Suddenly, they heard the rushing of a mighty wind from Heaven and the Holy Spirit appeared before them as tongues of fire.

This blazing epiphany is commemorated by the Feast of Pentecost, a favorite occasion for the ordination of bishops. The ceremonies are a dizzying explosion of red, a reminder both of the flame and the blood of the apostles, all but one of whom was martyred.

On Sunday, May 26, 1985, in St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome, Timothy Hogan stood face to face with His Holiness the Pope, the Holy Father all in scarlet, except for the white of his skullcap, and flanked by two cardinals, one of whom was the Archbishop of New York. Like the others about to be ordained, Tim wore a pectoral cross—the only addition to his simple priestly garb, which he was wearing for the final time.

Looking at Tim with his piercing eyes, the Pope as Principal Consecrator questioned his readiness to assume the duties of a bishop. “Are you resolved to be faithful in your obedience to the successor of the apostle Peter?”

Tim managed to whisper, “I am.”

He knelt. The warm hands of the Holy Father
touched his head. I am as close to God as I ever will be in this life, he told himself.

After the two cardinals also placed their hands on Tim’s head, the Pope anointed him with oil, tracing the sign of the cross with thumb and forefinger.

Such was the silence in the massive basilica that His Holiness could be heard to whisper,
“L’anello.”
He then said quietly in Italian, “Your hand.” Tim complied and stretched forth his wedding finger as the Holy Father pronounced in solemn tones, “Take this ring, the seal of your fidelity. With faith and love protect the bride of God, His holy Church.”

Tim was engulfed by a wave of sadness. This is my wedding, he thought to himself. The only wedding I will ever know in my entire earthly life.

As Archbishop Timothy Hogan bowed to receive the pontiffs blessing, he glanced swiftly into the crowd of spectators and saw his beaming mentor, Father Ascarelli. His presence only emphasized Tim’s feeling of unworthiness. For someone of Ascarelli’s gifts, the cardinal’s hat would have been an easy prize. Yet, a true Jesuit, he scorned high office.

When Tim had asked years earlier whether scarlet robes attracted him, the old man had shaken his head and murmured,
“Sacerdos sum, non hortus.”
I’m a priest, not a flower garden.

The pontiff placed the white-and-gold miter on the new archbishop’s head and then handed him as the final symbol of pastoral obligation, the shepherd’s crook.

At the end of the Mass, as the choir was still singing exultant hallelujahs, Tim returned to the sacristy, changed from his regal trappings, and walked out into St. Peter’s Square. The Swiss Guards in their orange-and-black striped uniforms and medieval armor maintained a path through the sea of people.

He was now officially archbishop of the church of Santa Maria delle Lacrime. This was a mere formality since bishops appointed without a specific diocese nonetheless
are given a nominal affiliation with a church in Rome.

Santa Maria had been “offered” to Timothy by the principessa as a gesture of affection. In a way, this ethereal association added to the unreality of it all. Could he, Timothy Hogan, onetime incorrigible street-fighter from Brooklyn, actually be endowed with the purple of the episcopate?

Lost in thought, he was about to cross over to the Via della Conciliazione when he heard a nasal cry behind him,
“Vostra Grazia, Vostra Grazia.”

He turned as a small middle-aged man in a frayed black corduroy jacket and beret scurried up to him still calling, “Your Grace, Your Grace.”

Timothy stopped and inquired, “Yes?”

“At your service, Your Grace,” the man puffed deferentially. “Here is my card.”

LUCA DONATELLI
VIDEO PHOTOGRAPHER
FOR ALL OCCASIONS

“Please accept my humble congratulations and feel free to call upon me for an indelible memento of this great occasion. Naturally, I can do either VHS or Beta.”

The celebration was at the principessa’s villa.

Nothing seemed to have changed at the Santiori residence—including the hostess herself, who had miraculously retained her youth and vigor by a strict regime of diet, exercise, prayer—and yearly trips to Dr. Niehans’s exclusive clinic in Montreux.

As he entered the villa, Tim impulsively embraced the principessa, almost lifting the petite woman off the ground. “
Grazie
, Cristina,” he murmured.
“Grazie per tutto.”

“Don’t be silly, Your Grace,” she smiled broadly.
“You have risen by your own merits. I only pride myself in having been among the first to find them.”

“With due respect,
Vostra Altezza
,” Father Ascarelli interrupted. “I found him before you did.” He embraced his protege, murmuring, “Purple suits you, my boy. Continue to serve God as you have.”

There were nineteen guests at the long table, since Archbishop Orsino had telegraphed his regrets at the last minute. The crystal shone, and the wine, from the Santiori vineyards in Tuscany, matched the color of the diners’ vestments—except those of Father Ascarelli.

Tim was introduced to a number of foreign bishops making their
ad limina
visits to Rome as well as to several prefects of the Vatican Sacred Congregations. When the Cardinal of New York City shook Tim’s hand, he remarked with theatrical emphasis, “Archbishop Hogan, I am charged with the sacred duty of conveying an important message to you.” He paused for effect and then continued, “My colleague, the Cardinal of Boston, has entrusted me with the expression of heartfelt affection and congratulations from a list so long that I have no doubt it includes the entire Boston Red Sox!”

Tim was about to reciprocate with a message of gratitude when the principessa appeared. Taking him by the arm, she smiled at his red-clad interlocutor.

“Your Eminence will excuse me,” she bubbled, “I must steal the archbishop away for a moment, since one of my guests unfortunately has to rush off to a plane.”

As he was whisked away, Tim could not help but think, What authority this little woman must have, to be able to preempt the most powerful prelate in the United States.

The other guests were long gone when Ascarelli insisted that Tim sit with him overlooking the empty forum.

“I know what you’re thinking,” the old man murmured.

“Do you?” Tim asked, his mind slightly blurred by the length and excitement of the day.

“You’re wondering whether it’s your own merits or the principessa’s
romanità
that won you your appointment.”

Tim’s silence was assent.

“Believe me, you know I’m parsimonious with flattery. You well deserve your rank. The only influence she used was to get you affiliated with her own church. There were a great many fighting for that honor. These
aristocratici
own some of the most famous churches in Rome. Even that jewel in the Piazza Navona is private real estate.”

“Do they charge rent?” Tim joked.

“Each in his own way,” replied Ascarelli. “I’m told the principessa is satisfied to accept as recompense one dinner a year with His Holiness. But you’ll learn all about this when your time comes.”

“My time for what?” Tim asked.

“Come on, my boy, you don’t have to use
romanità
with me! You know that of all your classmates you’re by far the most
papabile.
”

“Pope? Don’t be silly,” Tim answered dismissively. And fell silent.

In such proximity to the Roman Forum, Ascarelli’s rhetoric was unstoppable.

“Amazing, isn’t it, that the papacy is the last modern institution with the qualities of a Renaissance court—offering advancement based on talent. My good friend Roncalli—John XXIII—was the son of a poor Bergamese farmer. And Luciani—John Paul I—was the son of a migrant worker. Indeed, my father employed him in our vineyards on several occasions. And what’s more,” the scribe added with a chuckle, “our Church has chosen three Jewish pontiffs.”

“What?” Tim assumed this was another of the old man’s practical jokes.

“The Pierleoni family,” the scribe explained. “Once upon a time they were solid citizens of the Roman ghetto. Then, after a little holy water was splashed in the right places, they went on to produce Popes Gregory VI and
VII and Anacletus II. So it would hardly be earth-shattering if an Irish boy from Brooklyn—”

“Father Ascarelli,” Tim demanded plaintively, “what makes you think I harbor such lofty ambitions?”

The scribe looked at him for a moment. “Your eyes, Timoteo. I look in them and see what can only be described as … longing. I can’t imagine why else you would be so unhappy.”

B
y the time Tim had returned to his new quarters in one of the elegant prelatial suites at the North American College on the Gianicolo, slender threads of dawn were streaking the sky. Under his door he found a linen envelope containing a card with the papal seal and a small handwritten note:

Tim glanced at his watch. There was barely enough time to shave and change.

Yet by a quarter to six he was waiting in the incongruously modernistic papal chapel, fresh and awake thanks to the unfailing combination of caffeine and adrenaline.

A cluster of papal household nuns, all in black except for a single red heart embroidered on the breast of their habits, were already kneeling in prayer.

At precisely five minutes to six, the pontiff strode in, followed by three or four other clerics in various garb. Spying his new archbishop, he smiled and offered his right hand.
“Benvenuto, Timoteo.”

Tim was about to kiss the papal ring when His Holiness
demurred, “Please, we are about to pray. Before God we are all equals.”

After intoning the Mass, the pontiff beckoned Tim to join him in his velvet-lined elevator. The only other passenger was a priest whom Tim recognized as the papal secretary, Monsignor Kevin Murphy. This freckle-faced, red-haired Dublin boy was known to jog ten miles along the Tiber before anyone else in the Apostolic Palace had put on slippers.

As His Holiness introduced the two young men, he joked, “As you know, Timoteo, I’m here to serve God. But it is Kevin who fixes the agenda. Bear that in mind.”

Tim and the Irishman exchanged smiles as the elevator came to a stop. Its passengers disembarked into an elegant
sala
whose vaulted, gilt-stuccoed ceilings and artwork made the illuminated panels in the papal chapel seem like Hong Kong plastic. Other high Vatican officials were waiting to join the Holy Father for a working breakfast at the large oval table.

It was easy to distinguish Franz Cardinal von Jakob, for the strapping German stood nearly a foot taller than the other prelates, his height accentuated by the straightness of his posture. Tim took the initiative and introduced himself.

The austere von Jakob responded with the semblance of a smile and a laconic, “Welcome, Your Grace.”

It was not surprising that von Jakob was seated at the Pope’s right hand. Tim was somewhat overwhelmed, however, to discover that he had been placed directly opposite. It was—it seemed to him—as if the pontiff wanted to assess him at close range.

The German wasted no time and immediately began his catechism to determine how acquainted Tim was with the Church’s problems in Brazil.

“Well, I know it’s the biggest Catholic country in the world—and the poorest,” Tim replied nervously. “Some say we should be doing more to help them—including a lot of their own priests.”