The Book of Love (38 page)

“The Scorpion sighed, going down with the Toad, and explained very simply as they both prepared to die, ‘I couldn’t help it. It’s just my nature.’”

Conn let the moral hang in the air for a few moments before continuing. “You see, Matilda, what is equally important as the ending of this fable is another understanding, and that is this: when the scorpion told the toad that he did not want to hurt him, he came across as sincere because he was sincere—at the time. At that moment, he really didn’t want to sting him and he didn’t want to do anything obviously self-destructive. But his nature overcame him, as it always had and always would, and he simply couldn’t help himself.”

Matilda sighed with the truth of it. “Henry is indeed a scorpion.”

“He is. So whereas he may even believe himself that he is repentant,
do not think for a moment that he has overcome his nature. And Matilda…”

“Yes?”

“The final lesson is that Toad is as much to blame for his own demise as Scorpion. He knew what Scorpion’s nature was, and all his instincts told him not to trust. But he denied his own higher wisdom.”

“So what exactly are you saying to me?”

“Don’t be a toad, little sister. Don’t be a toad.”

The German contingent camped at the base of the hill, outside the fortress. They repeated the spectacle of Henry’s penance, and that of his noble retinue, for three days. At the dawn of the fourth day, the papal legate announced that Henry’s penance had been accepted and that he would be admitted into the presence of the Holy Father.

What Henry, and history, would never know was just how instrumental Matilda had been in the ultimate acceptance of this king’s repentance by Pope Gregory VII. The countess of Canossa, while not wishing to make the mistakes of the tragic toad in Conn’s fable, was terrified that her cousin the king was actually going to freeze to death at the gates of her fortress. She could simply not allow such a thing to happen. It was inhumane and violated everything she stood for spiritually and personally. Further, it would not serve Gregory’s agenda to strengthen the Church, and certainly not a church dedicated to love and compassion. She feared that Gregory’s actions would ultimately be viewed as tyrannical, harsh, and unforgiving. Even her own people of Canossa, as loyal as they were to her, were beginning to stir with discomfort. They watched the daily spectacle of a king who was wasting away with fasting and cold. The shamed monarch begged for simple admission into the papal presence—in order to continue his pleading and further his humiliation. Gregory’s resolve bordered on ruthlessness. It had to stop.

Before retiring to bed on the third night, Matilda presented Gregory
with an ultimatum that represented the most difficult choice of her life. While she loved him beyond reason, her supreme duty was to her mission and to the promise she made to God in her role as his servant on earth. It was a promise to live by the teachings of a man they called the Prince of Peace. In light of this, Matilda could no longer stand by and allow the spectacle of humiliation to continue. Either Gregory admitted Henry into his presence, or she was leaving Canossa. She would no longer participate in any action that she felt to be against the will of God or the teachings of his son.

The pope was stunned by Matilda’s extreme position, but he refused to be swayed by her ultimatum initially. It was not until he heard her giving orders to prepare for her departure that he realized she was indeed serious. Gregory finally concluded that he needed to relax his position in order to save everything that he held most dear.

The same extraordinary passion and intensity that brought Gregory and Matilda together would also serve to challenge them at this critical juncture in their relationship. Two minds and spirits of such strength cannot expect to live in the same place in total harmony at all times. It was a lesson that both of them needed to learn. It was one of many that were brought to light in Canossa during the winter of 1077.

King Henry IV was admitted into the presence of Pope Gregory VII, with Matilda standing by his side, late in the afternoon of January 28. He was a pathetic figure of chapped and torn flesh. To look upon him as he prostrated himself, near to tears, before the pope was to see a broken man in total surrender. Matilda felt pity as she watched him; Henry was, indeed, a victim of his own nature. His viciousness had caused him to be in this place now, half dead and completely demoralized, face down on the cold stone floor and begging for forgiveness from a man he hated.

Gregory agreed to forgive him, as a man if not as a king. The sentence of excommunication was lifted, and Henry was allowed to take communion inside the small chapel within the fortress. He was then welcomed into Canossa, where he was fed and given fine chambers to recover from his ordeal.

Henry stayed just long enough to observe his cousin and her style of leadership within her own domain. He sought audiences with her for hours each day. While Matilda would never trust him, she was generous with her time in her genuine hope for peace and reconciliation. Her cousin, who genuinely appeared to care about finally becoming a great king, spent several hours asking for her advice on methods for ruling Europe with justice. The people of northern Italy adored Matilda, and he explained that he would emulate her actions in the future in an effort to win back his own subjects. Perhaps, he proposed, as they were cousins who had known each other since early childhood, they could forget their differences and come together as great rulers to work in harmony.

And perhaps the scorpion would allow the toad to swim gently and happily across the pond.

Henry’s time in Canossa was indeed a great turning point for his poisoned, imperial psyche, but not in the way Matilda had hoped. The humiliation he experienced at the hands of Gregory burned within Henry. It was a conflagration that destroyed any semblance of humanity that may have once existed in his twisted mind. Worst of all, he concluded that his whore of a cousin was obviously the force behind it all. She controlled the pope, clearly. It was obvious that such a witch could manipulate any man using her demonic feminine wiles. It could only have been Matilda who demanded that Henry remain in the snow for three days and nights. She would pay for what she did to him, just as the pretender pope would pay. But he would make Matilda pay most personally.

Nothing would hurt his cousin more than destroying her precious Tuscany and giving the Tuscan people an understanding of what loyalty to such an unnatural demon would cost them. He would start, perhaps, with Lucca. Or her childhood home of Mantua. These were the places she held most dear, and they were the places that would suffer.

As King Henry IV returned to his own lands across the Alps, he took careful stock of the regions he passed through and began to plan his
retribution, the devastation of Matilda’s beloved Tuscany. He paused in Lombardy to rejoin the schismatic nobles who opposed Gregory. Within mere days of his pardon, Henry had once again declared himself the bitter enemy of the pope—and the nemesis of the Tuscan countess.

It was, after all, his nature.

Hail, Mary.

It is a name of great sanctity. It comes from many sources and many traditions, and in all of them it is holy, as each of these contains the seed of knowledge and truth. It is known in forms all over the world, where it is Mary, Maria, Miriam, Maura, Miriamne.

From Egypt it is Meryam, and this was the name of the sister of Moses and Aaron. Here it comes from the root of the word
mer,
for love, which becomes the name Mery, which is to say cherished. Or beloved. It was used for daughters who were determined to be special, chosen by the gods for a divine destiny in terms of their birth, family, or prophecies that surrounded them.

It has been said that the form which is Miryam combines several words to create the meaning “myrrh of the sea,” and some variations carry the meaning “mistress of the sea.”

But there is yet another great secret of this perfected female name. It blends both the Hebrew and the Egyptian traditions within it: the Egyptian
mer,
for love, and the Hebrew
Yam
which is a sacred abbreviation for Yahweh. Thus the name when the traditions are combined means “she who is the beloved of Yahweh.”

During the life of our Lord and beyond, the name was often given after the coming of age, as a title earned by a girl who had proven her worth and special nature.

To become a Mary was a blessed thing.

T
HE HISTORY OF THE
S
ACRED
N
AME
,
AS PRESERVED IN THE
L
IBRO
R
OSSO

Confraternity of the Holy Apparition
Vatican City, Rome
present day

P
eter escorted Maureen and Bérenger into the Vatican City meeting hall where the monthly meeting of the Confraternity of the Holy Apparition was held.

Peter was here tonight in support of Father Girolamo as well as his housekeeper, Maggie Cusack. Maggie was a most dedicated member of this confraternity and had committed much of her spare time to the celebration and commemoration of Our Lady’s miraculous appearances throughout Europe: at Fátima, La Salette, Medjugorje, Paris, Lourdes, and the Belgian apparitions of Beauraing and Banneaux. These meetings, which welcomed the public, featured a presentation highlighting a specific incident of Our Lady’s apparition. Tonight the presentation featured Our Lady of Silence, the apparition that occurred in western Ireland in the nineteenth century, in the village of Knock. Maggie was giving the presentation and had been preparing it for weeks, often asking Peter for his opinion and perspective on the related history. Peter’s family was from a neighboring county, and Knock was easy to visit from their home in Galway. He and Maureen had been to Knock on pilgrimage with his mother several times as kids, and they knew the village and its history well.

Bérenger Sinclair was fascinated by the idea of the confraternity and wanted to see it for himself. Yet if he was hoping to see any semblance of secret society activity, which the confraternities had been full of during the Middle Ages and Renaissance, he was to be disappointed. The twenty-first-century version was filled predominantly with Italian Catholic matrons who baked lovely biscotti, served coffee to the newcomers, and handed out leaflets with information on the confraternity and a prayer to Our Lady of Fátima. This was a friendly and open environment. There was nothing at all secretive or mysterious about it. A few priests filed in at various intervals, as did some local families who were no doubt connected to the biscotti makers. Peter noticed with more than a degree of surprise that Marcelo Barberini, the cardinal he served with on the committee, slipped in quietly and was standing at the rear of the room. Everyone took their seats as Father Girolamo came to the podium at the front and welcomed them to the meeting. He thanked Maggie Cusack for her hard work and introduced her to the group, who applauded politely as she took her place at the podium and began to tell the story of the miracle of Knock.

Knock, County Mayo, Ireland
August 21, 1879

I
T WAS A TINY PLACE
, unimportant even as most small villages go, located in the southeast corner of County Mayo. Even the name was unimaginative. Cnoc. It was quite simply the Irish word for “hill” in honor of the windswept location on which the town was perched. It wasn’t even much of a hill, truth be told. Why Our Lady chose this place for her particular blessing was still a great mystery.

The only indication of grace in its history had occurred some 1,300 years prior to the apparition. Saint Patrick himself had seen a vision here and pronounced the location blessed. He announced that it would one day become a site of devotion and worship, that pilgrims would
travel from all over the world to venerate the sanctity of the place. The “hill” was now holy.

In 1859, the newly completed but unremarkable church in Knock was consecrated to Saint John the Baptist. It was a difficult time for the people of Mayo, still recovering from the terrible famine that had ravaged Ireland with death and dispossession, killing an estimated one third of the native population. British landlords continued to use the enforced poverty of the famine to evict the destitute peasants and confiscate their property, land that had been in the care of Irish farmers since the dawn of the Celts. A number of families who could not pay their rent in County Mayo had been made homeless by wealthy English noblemen who had no conscience about leaving them to suffer the elements, abandoned to a fate of destitution or death.

In 1867, during this bleak period, a great and saintly man, one Father Cavanaugh by name, came to Knock. During the worst days of the Great Hunger, he had worked tirelessly to relieve the poor. He sold all his possessions, including a fine horse and a watch given to him by his father, in order to raise money to feed the children of his parish. But he convinced his parishioners that they were never poor, as long as they had their faith. Father Cavanaugh became the heart and the soul of Knock, and he was much beloved of the people from his own village and from the neighboring parishes as well.

Early in August of 1879, a terrible summer storm damaged the church, ripping a hole in the roof and destroying the two interior statues, one each of the Virgin Mary and Saint Joseph. Father Cavanaugh, in his patient and meticulous way, patched the roof and ordered replacement statues. But in a freak accident, both of these were smashed beyond repair while in transit to Knock from Dublin. Feeling that the forces of evil were, for some reason, taking vengeance on his little parish, the priest vowed not to be defeated and prayed more fervently than ever for the deliverance of Knock. He ordered two more statues, and these arrived intact and were installed in the church.

The following evening, there was another great storm. Father Cavanaugh’s housekeeper, Miss Mary McLoughlin, left him in the presby
tery to visit her friends, the Byrne family, who lived on the other side of the village. As she walked past the church, she noticed three strange statues outside that appeared to be illuminated through the rain. She stopped for a moment to consider them, confused. Had the good father ordered even more statues to replace the damaged ones? Strange, he never mentioned it, and he told her everything. They had talked of almost nothing else but the curse of the statues since the first set had been destroyed. And she had helped him install the new statues yesterday. What were these, and why were they outside in the rain?

The Byrne family were upstanding and devout parishioners who took great pride in their duties as caretakers for the church. When the priest’s housekeeper reached the Byrnes’ home, she was brought in to dry off and take tea in the sitting room. Here it was that a teenage daughter of the Byrne family, Margaret, told Mary that she had just come from locking up the church. Margaret had noticed a strange white light near the south gable of the church. It was unusual, but it could have been a trick caused by the rain. She noticed it again on the way out and stopped to look at it for a moment before returning home, somewhat puzzled by it.

Another parishioner, Mrs. Carty, came by the Byrne home shortly thereafter. She also had seen the statues and the light and wondered why Father Cavanaugh was adding to the new collection in the church. Wasn’t this overkill? Given the hardships that so many were suffering in the area surrounding the village, there was surely better use of funds. Adding statues to the exterior of the church so soon after the famine and evictions seemed frivolous and irresponsible. And it didn’t seem a bit in character for the humanitarian priest who gave so much to his flock. The priest’s housekeeper reassured her that Father Cavanaugh would never behave in such a way.

Curious now that three of them in such a short time had noticed strange happenings, the two older women decided to investigate. They walked together in the inclement weather, slowing as they neared the church, where they could both see the strange statues outside in the rain.

Mrs. Carty asked, “When did Father Cavanaugh put those statues there?”

Mary McLoughlin replied, “He didn’t. I’m quite certain he did not. This is what I don’t understand.” They continued to watch, squinting through the raindrops to see if they could determine which saints were depicted in the statuary.

Margaret Byrne jumped with a squeal. “They’re moving! Those are not statues. Look!”

Watching quietly, they realized that indeed, these were not statues. On the far left was an older man with a gray beard, on the far right was a young man with long hair, and appearing in the center was a most luminous woman. The female figure was floating above the grass, surrounded by an incandescent white light. This central lady was identified by both women instantly as the Virgin Mary, and they reported later that they were quite certain the other figures were Saint Joseph and Saint John the Evangelist. When questioned, neither could say specifically why or how they identified the figures, other than by the ages of the males.

Margaret Byrne ran home, breathlessly informing her family that a miracle was occurring at the church. All of them followed her out to witness the apparition of the three holy figures in the rain. In the later official investigations by the Church, fourteen people testified to the vision: six women, three men, and five children, three of whom were teenage girls.

All attested to a magical light, golden at first and then changing to a bright white that illuminated the entire wall of the church. Each witness saw three figures, but the details varied. One woman claimed that she saw a young lamb on an altar, adamant that the lamb was facing west and that it was important that they know he was facing the west. She referred to this as the Paschal Lamb. Several others testified to seeing angels, flying and hovering over the site, or hovering over the lamb and a large cross.

Our Lady was dressed in a shimmering white robe that appeared to be made of liquid silver. On her head was a sparkling crown, and in its
center was a bloodred rose. She held her hands out, as the witnesses said, “in the same position as the priest does when he says Mass.” She looked up toward heaven, as if she were praying, while some even said that she appeared to be preaching. But unlike other Marian apparitions, Our Lady did not interact with the citizens of Knock. She did not speak to them and she did not offer any secrets.

All witnesses later described one male figure as Saint Joseph, because of his gray beard, and perhaps weight was added to this assumption because the statues in Knock were of Mary and Joseph. Joseph appeared on the left, and the young figure identified as Saint John the Evangelist was on the right. Strangely, the long-haired youth wore a bishop’s miter and vestments, in contrast to the first-century robes worn by Our Lady and Saint Joseph. “John” held a very great book in his left hand and gestured, as if preaching, with his right. One of the children also emphasized that John was preaching and that this was important, but the child could not hear the words. The significance of the book, and its extraordinary size, was emphasized by a number of witnesses.

Mary McLoughlin hurried back in the rain to tell Father Cavanaugh, but he was unimpressed and advised her that they were probably all seeing a reflection of stained glass in the rain. He would regret that reaction and his ultimate decision not to view the images for the rest of his life, as Knock became a legendary site of Marian apparition.

And Patrick was correct, of course, as all great saints are. His vision was infallible. Pilgrims did come from all over the world to Knock, as this was one of the later Marian apparitions to be acknowledged as authentic. Pope John Paul II visited Knock in 1979 on the centennial anniversary of the apparition, and he presented the village with a golden rose in commemoration of the holy occurrence. The city built an international airport to accommodate the huge number of pilgrims who come to this place in honor of Our Lady’s appearance.

Over a million people now visited Knock annually in celebration of this most Holy Apparition.

Following the presentation, Maureen was uncharacteristically quiet as she, Bérenger, and Peter walked through the streets that led away from St. Peter’s. Bérenger noticed.

“What are you thinking about?”

Maureen shrugged. Maggie was so dear and sincere in her presentation, but the story she told didn’t sit right with Maureen. In fact, even when she had visited Knock as a child, Maureen had found the place somewhat disturbing. It was commercialized, full of souvenir shops and plastic holy water bottles. She had always found this aspect decidedly unspiritual, but there was something else bothering her now.

“Well…there are a lot of assumptions, aren’t there? I mean, the apparitions didn’t exactly identify themselves. She didn’t say, ‘Hi there, I’m the Virgin Mary, and this is my friend John the Evangelist and my husband Saint Joseph.’ I’ve had my share of visions, and that just doesn’t happen. You make assumptions based on what you know to be true in your own life. The people of Knock, who were very traditional and conservative Catholics in rural Ireland in the nineteenth century, made an assumption that this is what they were seeing based on their frame of reference.”

“So, what are you saying?” This was Peter’s question.

Maureen considered another moment before continuing. “Could it be that they were seeing something other than what they assumed? What if all of these apparitions around Europe, where a beautiful woman appears to children and tells them secrets, are something other than what has always been assumed? A different Mary, perhaps? Some of the witnesses at Knock say she appears to be preaching, which is an integral part of the Magdalene legacy but is not part of the Virgin Mary’s legacy. And the John figure is paramount, particularly because he holds this enormous book which is out of proportion to everything else, from which he also preaches. Yeah, I know, it’s his gospel, thus the title Evangelist. But is he really John the Evangelist? Because if he is, then why is he dressed like a bishop and why doesn’t the rest of his iconography match? Could it be because he is somebody else? Or repre
sentative of a different tradition? Are all three of these figures something completely different than what they’ve been assumed to be?”

Peter asked, “Where are you going with this?”

“I don’t even know yet. But what I do know is that there is a truth about the origins of Christianity and its authentic teachings that has been deliberately obscured. And therefore I have to wonder if perhaps God has been creating miracles all this time to direct our attention to that truth. Or maybe I’ve just been immersed in this too long. It seems that I see everything as a conspiracy these days. I suppose I’m just asking the question: what if all these Marian apparitions aren’t what we have been told they are?”