Authors: Glenn Kleier
“Your Holiness,” the master of ceremonies spoke again, “may I petition for your audience the Lady Jeza of Israel.”
So far, the Messiah had been indifferent to the ceremony, her head cast downward and off to the side, as if preoccupied. Di Concerci unclenched his hands behind him and lowered them slowly to his side. The pope anxiously edged forward in his chair, his ring hand at the ready.
Watching all this develop, Feldman had wondered how Jeza would respond to this overwhelming display of pomp and power. He did not have long to wait.
Having chosen her moment, the prophetess slowly ascended the stairs. The pontiff leaned forward expectantly, extending his arm at full length to the oncoming woman. Video cameras rolled and flashbulbs popped as the historic union impended.
Raising her eyes as she climbed, the Messiah fixed them, for the first time, on those of the pope. There was blue fire in her glare and she unleashed its flame with full force. Despite di Concerci's warning, Nicholas was ill prepared for the searing effect He was startled, gasped, and reflexively retracted his arm, averting his face, flinching and splaying his hands defensively in front of his eyes.
To the crowd of amazed onlookers, the pope appeared intimidated, his reaction submissive. Instinctively, di Concerci moved forward to assist his pope, but Nicholas was recovering. The pontiff took a furtive glance through his fingers at the prophetess as she reached the top level of the High Altar, pulling up short of the throne. Standing but a few feet away from the stricken pope, Jeza looked down upon him, her head tilted slightly to the side as if carefully studying him.
The basilica had grown as quiet as the catacombs that moldered beneath it.
“I do not come to venerate the Ring of Peter,” she exclaimed in a loud voice, placing her hands defiantly on her hips. “In the name of the living God, I come to reclaim it!”
The pope was taken completely aback. Alphonse Litti, anxious and distraught, had dropped to his knees at the base of the altar.
With a look of outrage, di Concerci attempted to intervene, but it was obvious Jeza wasn't going to yield the floor. Her eyes flashing with passion, she cautioned the prefect back with an upraised palm, and with her other hand, aimed an accusing finger at the confounded pope.
“Your Church has broken faith with Almighty God,” she declared. “It has betrayed the consecrated covenant of Peter. For two millennia has it abused the sacred trust of Christ. Through the centuries has it corrupted the Holy Scripture to its own selfish purposes in its lust for power and control. In its hypocrisy has it ruled its followers one way, yet secretly lived another. In its jealousy and intolerance has it muted and destroyed the holy men and women God has sent to enlighten it. In its arrogance has it ignored the Father's messages and warnings.
“And in its greed and pursuit of worldly materialism has it accumulated vast wealth at the expense of the destitute it was ordained to cherish and nurture.” She lowered her accusing finger slightly to target the pope's hand.
“Of what value is this gold ring you would have me kiss?”
The pope could not answer, he could only stare vapidly up at her.
“And of what value is a life?” she asked, but he failed to answer. “If selling this ring would feed but one person, save but one life, would not its value increase a thousandfold? And if this ring would feed a thousand, would not its worth increase a thousand times a thousand?
“Has Christ not said in Matthew nineteen, verse twenty-one:
‘If thou wilt be perfect, go sell what thou hast and give to the poor, and thou shall have treasure in heaven?’
“Yet you, who call yourselves ‘God's chosen on earth,’ and ‘the One, Holy and Apostolic Church,’ have acquired vast holdings, surrounding yourselves with the richest concentration of treasures in the world!”
The pontiff sat frozen in his throne, a look of deep hurt and shock on his face, unresponsive as Jeza spewed her venom before the entire world. With the pope unable or unwilling to counter the attack, an alarmed-looking Cardinal di Concerci stepped forward to confront the prophetess.
“The Church is merely the custodian of these sacred treasures,” he pointed out angrily, assuming command in the glare of the unblinking cameras. “The wondrous works of art that you see about you are revered religious symbols that have inspired devotion and prayer in the millions of worshipers who have meditated upon them over the centuries. The very creation of each of these master-pieces was itself an expression of devout faith on the part of the artist, undertaken for the honor and glory of God.”
This rally to the defense of the pope released a pent-up frustration in the crowded galleries, and cries of “Amen” and “Alleluia” echoed encouragement to the Cardinal Prefect.
Jeza was not dissuaded. “Do the starving, sick and naked of the world draw inspiration from your works of art?” she asked. “Are the priceless pagan antiquities of the Greeks, Romans and Egyptians in your Museo Profano, your Museum of the Profane, also inspirational religious icons?
“And how do you justify the enormous wealth of the papal financial institutions whose great fortunes are stockpiled in deep secrecy? Or the vast holdings in real estate that you hoard throughout the world? I say to you, the Father values not goods, but goodness. He neither needs nor wants your tributes. The Almighty is neither insecure nor vain such that the trappings of mortal man can embellish Him!
“Did Christ seek wealth or glory? You acquire these adornments to enrich yourselves, not God. How can the towering structures you erect as places of worship be more inspiring than the cathedrals of the forests and mountains, or the altars of the open fields and valleys that God Himself has created for you?
“Behold,” she cried, throwing her arms open wide and gesturing toward the vastness of the basilica. “My house is the house of the faithful. Yet you have made it a temple unto yourselves!”
An increasingly furious and desperate di Concerci lashed back.
“Your
house?” he exploded in indignation, pausing for his point to solidify, then petitioning the cameras with imploring eyes. “Are these not the ravings of a megalomaniac! This girl is self-righteous and utterly delusional. And so ill-informed that she can focus only on the superficial and cannot see the greater good!”
Turning back to Jeza, the prefect declared, “You are misguided, woman. Blind to the true purpose and goodness of Holy Mother Church. You do not know of Her extensive philanthropies. Her irreplaceable largesse that feeds and clothes and tends and heals and educates and uplifts the suffering masses of the world. Her charitable missionaries, hospitals, orphanages, schools and benevolent organizations!”
Jeza turned her unwavering gaze on her opponent. “It is not that I am unaware of the virtuous deeds of your Church,” she intoned. “It is that I am unmoved. The good services you perform are but a fraction of what God has mandated of you, and a pittance of what your vast resources enable you. God's patience grows thin!”
Cardinal di Concerci, whose patience had apparently also grown thin, nodded down to a frantic Cardinal Santorini, who slipped quickly away from the battle.
At long last, Nicholas VI stirred from his paralysis. “Lady,” he called out falteringly, and Jeza, who'd been facing away from the throne, pivoted slowly to acknowledge him. “I do not understand. I must tell you in all sincerity that our efforts in the service of the Lord have been genuine and faithful. Why do you single out the Catholic Church for such denunciation? How could the honorable efforts of so many dedicated people have disappointed God as severely as you represent?”
Feldman seemed to detect a slight softening in Jeza's expression, which, to this point, had remained deadly serious.
“If my words sound harsh to you,” she replied, “it is only because you appear unable to grasp anything less.” She paused and sighed. “I do not say that yours is the most misdirected of religions. There are many more which have led their followers further astray. Yet, it is the Catholic Church that was the original vessel of Christianity, the first Church ordained by Christ to carry forward His Word. Therefore, it is the Catholic Church that must bear the greatest responsibility for the wayward directions of Christianity. In failing to heed the pleadings of the Lord's messengers over the centuries, in failing to redress your abiding arrogance and materialism, the Catholic Church is responsible for causing the great schisms which divided Christianity into the countless fragmented sects now scattered across the lands.
“After two millennia and the many warnings of God's holy messengers, your time for reparation has passed. The Almighty is reclaiming that which He gave you. All that is left to you are your benevolent services in assisting the physical afflictions of mankind. Your spiritual authority is no more.”
She raised her right hand and forefinger in front of her face in admonition and called out loudly, “In the name of the Living God, I command you to relinquish to the poor all that has been given you through the ages. Surrender up your vast wealth and possessions. Abandon your throne, disband your ministries, and preach no more your flawed catechism. Persist no longer in your stubborn ways. I warn you now for the last time, obey the will of God or be met with a just and devastating retribution!”
The pope retreated in his chair, completely pale. Feldman, despite his personal discomfort with the scene, marveled at the Messiah's undaunted mettle and defiance in the face of the overwhelming numbers and strength of her adversaries. She stood alone, with the possible exception of Cardinal Litti, who appeared helpless and lost at the moment. And yet, just as at the convocation, the prophetess had assumed complete control.
Feldman did not realize, however, that di Concerci was about to make a power play. Cardinal Santorini had returned, accompanied by a papal chamberlain who carried a large, flat parcel covered with black drape. Concealed ominously in Santorini's hands was a large brown book.
The Basilica of St. Peter, Vatican City, Rome, Italy 1:17
P.M
., Sunday, March 19, 2000
A
ntonio Prefect di Concerci had been anticipating this moment with coiled vengeance. Armed with his damning evidence now, he sprang on his opponent with the surge of a lion confronting a lamb.
“Jeza!” he called out loudly, jolting the entire assembly. “His Holiness has welcomed you here as a guest, and yet you accost him with insults. He pays you homage, and you repay him with accusations. Despite this, he has sat here patiently, calmly enduring your censure. Censure for which you offer no substantiation. You accuse only with words! Words whose implications are hollow, false and filled with bitterness.
“You hold yourself out to be the only begotten Daughter of God, a New Messiah with the divine mandate to judge the long-standing religions of the world. And now you come to Rome, before the world's oldest, most revered institution of Christianity, to dare threaten the legacy of Christ's succession. With a few brief words and the wave of your hand, you would end a sacred, apostolic authority that extends, unbroken, back two thousand years directly to Christ Himself!
“For two millennia has the Church fought such oppression and persecution in many forms. And through the grace of God, we have always prevailed. Today, also through the grace of God, we shall prevail once more.” He moved toward her, his statuesque presence accentuated by her small frame.
“Jeza, as you have accused us, so are we forced to condemn you. But unlike you, we will support our accusations with complete and incontrovertible proof. Irrefutable evidence that you are
not
what you say you are. That you are not a Messiah, not a prophetess. That you are not of God. Rather, that you are a delusion and fraud of a magnitude the world has never before seen!”
With a theatrical flourish, di Concerci unfurled his right hand, designating with opened palm the cloaked item held by the chamberlain. “Look at this photograph, Jeza, and tell me who these people are.”
The chamberlain quickly drew back the drape. Jeza's eyes had narrowed with intensity at this challenge, and she slowly altered her glare from the Cardinal to the enlarged photograph that Santorini's assistant prominently displayed. There was much commotion in the gallery, as large sections were in poor position to see the image. Feldman emitted an audible groan.
“Tell us, Jeza, who are these people?” di Concerci demanded once again.
Jeza said nothing. She neither moved nor showed any change of emotion beyond an initial frown of concentration.
“Perhaps I should enlighten you, Jeza,” the cardinal prodded. “As the world will now see, there is far more to the story of your true origin than accounted for in that tabloid TV report. Let me begin by introducing you to your family. Your
real
family.
“The woman on the left in this photograph is your genetic mother, Anne Leveque. The woman on the right is your biological mother and identical twin sister, Marie Leveque.
“And the man in the middle is your creator. The person who invented you, Jeza, out of test tubes and biology and incubators. This is your true father. Your genetic father. The late Jozef Leveque, a brilliant bioengineer in the service of the Israeli defense minister, Shaul Tamin.”
Jeza's face steadily darkened, her invasive eyes poring over the image of the tall, white-haired man in the photo.
The prefect continued to press his advantage. “Jozef Leveque is the individual responsible for your celebrated mental gifts. The man who filled your mind with vast stores of information—supposedly through some unique process of passive memory budding. However, that explanation is only partially correct. As we now know, there is a far more sinister secret behind this miraculous intelligence of yours.”
Di Concerci gestured dramatically toward Santorini. “Here lies the truth, Jeza,” he asserted. “In Jozef Leveque's own words, carefully recorded in this, his personal journal, until shortly before his death in the Negev laboratory explosion.”
Santorini obligingly held the diary up high over his head, rotating it slowly. With the media and audience gaping in wonder, Santorini opened wide the book and quickly flipped through its pages. Hunter, who'd insinuated himself on the second step of the altar, zoomed his camera in tightly on the journal while the prefect continued his indictment.