Gospel (7 page)

“Very liberating for the time,” he concurred.

The sister continued, “Mohammed insisted that women and men were equal under religious law. A woman could sue her husband for divorce as well as a man could sue a woman. Tell me, Dr. Abdullah, what did they do, before the Prophet, with most female children?”

“Alas, they buried them alive, as Mohammed tells in his Holy Quran, Surah 16:60.”

(Ah, the tears of Usmaan, later the Third Caliph. In the days before Mohammed he wept only once: when his little baby daughter wiped the gravel and dust from her father's beard, just as he put her squirming into the grave.)

Sister Marie-Berthe chided all the men with a stern finger: “But give the old boys time and they'll knock down all the advances the great men of religion gained for women. You couldn't pay me to be a Muslim woman now, Dr. Abdullah. Women who choose higher education in Pakistan get acid thrown in their face by fanatics at the universities. It's a crime for a woman in Saudi Arabia to drive a car; there are endless examples.”

“I do not support what some in Islam have done to women,” he began, “but it is difficult, is it not, to determine which traditions are inspired and which are uninspired. The
hadiths,
our traditional codes from the time of the Prophet, may peace be upon him, are half of our religion. The Holy Quran is the other half. Just as in Judaism there is a written Torah, but an oral Torah as well,” he added, smiling toward the rabbi.

The rabbi grimaced to have his Torah so near to the Quran, but he nodded graciously back.

“I don't think it's so damn difficult,” she said ornerily. “Just ask
me,
I'll tell you what is stupid and not of God.”

I love Sister Marie-Berthe, thought Lucy. Where were these nuns when I was growing up? My mother might have gotten her way and I might have joined an order if there had been thinking, independent, activist nuns to emulate.

She let that bit of past history sink in anew.

Yes, my mother would have loved it if I had followed through. It started with my namesake, my Aunt Lucy, my mother's sister. I was the middle of the three girls, and I was named after Aunt Lucy and I was ordained to follow Aunt Lucy, Sister Lucy. I was to be the nun in the family since the intended priest-in-the-family, my brother Nicholas, fled for Notre Dame, then left the seminary for advertising and now lives in New York, comfortably, ecstatically far away from the grind of Dantan family life.

Lucy cringed as a vision returned to her:

She was six or so. Her mother was having a card party with seven other women, the ones in her Cardinal Newman prayer circle. Lucy came in, right before bedtime, in her little Yogi Bear footed-pajamas, and closed her eyes, got down on her knees, and said the Pater Noster for the nice ladies in perfect Latin and they all gave her a little kiss and made over her so much and told Lucy's mother what a little saint she was. And from this rush of approval much of her early childhood took shape, modeled on tales of St. Bernadette and St. Faith and suffering little virgins she could pray to, emulate. At least she stopped short of having conversations with Mary!

(What about Sister Hildegarde?)

Oh Jesus, thought Lucy, her heart sinking further. There was Sister Hildegarde's wake. The woman was eighty-five or so and never taught at St. Eulalia's while Lucy was there, but she had been a presence in that school since its inception. Well, she died. And Sister Miriam, the terror of St. Eulalia's, made an announcement that there would be a prayer service and vigil for Sister Hildegarde and every student who could make it Saturday afternoon between three and five
P.M.
should attend. As if any kid would spend a Saturday afternoon that way voluntarily!

(But you did, My child.)

Yes. I went. Me and Faith Kopinski, who was more pious than I was. Fourteen years old. I lay in my room for hours, trying to invent a good reason for not going, but I felt God and the Holy Spirit and Mary were watching, and I thought about poor Sister Hildegarde, old and frail and in Heaven now, looking down seeing not one student from the school she'd given her life to, not one willing to do lip service for her. And I went out to play with my sister Cecilia briefly, then I felt bad about it, lied, said I was going to watch TV with a friend, but secretly ran home, got dressed up, and appeared at the chapel where Sister Hildegarde lay. None of the sisters had shown up, though they probably had an earlier service.

(No, they didn't.)

And so I knelt, with Faith who showed up about ten minutes later, and prayed for the soul of Sister Hildegarde, whom I didn't even know, but I wanted her to be … prayed for. No one should go without some degree of—Lucy didn't know what word she wanted exactly—ceremony, valediction. Oh please, she thought, coming to, sick at such ripe, uninhibited piety.

(But there is no earthly good purer than the goodness of children.)

Lucy looked up, ending her reverie, to see an ancient, white-haired, kindly-looking man rush into the room in his raincoat and hat, ranting voluminously, while the others at the table stopped talking to welcome him.

“Jesus, I've missed the buckin' meal,” Father Keegan mourned. “Awww 'tis me last time on that eeirline, I swear! I could've swum meself over the Irish Sea in the time that took. Gatwick was close to me vision of hell!”

Sister Marie-Berthe consoled him, “Yes, Father, but there's still drink on the table.”

Father Keegan, before taking off his coat, grabbed the decanter of port to the amusement of all and poured himself a glass prior to claiming his seat. “Aye, the bounty of God before us here. What's in that bottle beside you, Paddy?”

“Beaumes de Venise, Father,” said O'Hanrahan.

“Ey, scoot it over here, m'boy, and be quick about it!”

The discussion recommenced after the father's jolly display. If only the men in her family, thought Lucy, had an
ounce
of a sense of humor about their drinking. Often, Lucy had theorized, the sense of humor was the first thing to go in an Irish person once he or she got to America. The drinking and the religionizing certainly crossed the Atlantic undiminished, that's for sure.

“I'm telling you, Paul was not antiwomen until the Early Fathers of the Church made him so,” said Sister Marie-Berthe, still arguing. “And I'm sure Miss Dantan here would agree with me!”

Lucy noticed O'Hanrahan was looking askance at her, sizing her up. “Excuse me, Dr. O'Hanrahan,” she mumbled, “I wasn't listening. What was being discussed then?”

“The place of women in the Early Church,” he whispered back, stifling a yawn. “What has been discussed for the past hour, it seems. Damn feminism.”

“Well, it could be argued,” began Dr. Abdullah, “that Paul knew next to nothing of Christ's teaching or opinions. He celebrates a conceptual messiah rather than the Jesus that existed. He says himself he went away for three years to think it all over, and purposefully didn't go to Jerusalem to talk to those who knew Jesus. Somewhere in the
Romans
Letter,
We do not know how to pray as we ought
—”

“Eight … 8:26,” said the archimandrite.

“Think of it!” Dr. Abdullah continued politely. “Paul had not even heard of the Lord's Prayer.”

“It is true that there are few direct quotes of Jesus in Paul,” conceded Dr. Gribbles, who had been quiet this evening since annoying Sister Marie-Berthe, and who, having demolished all breadscraps, seemed not to be able to eat enough crackers, having begged everyone else's. “However, the gospels had not been written yet so what could Paul have read about Jesus? And in
1 Corinthians
11:24, he quotes Jesus at the Eucharist.”

“That's open to a lot of questions,” said O'Hanrahan. “Paul quotes Jesus, ‘Do this in remembrance of me.' Professor Jeremias back in the '30s proved, quite convincingly, the words in this passage were too modern for Paul. And of course, none of the gospels includes ‘Do this in remembrance of me.'”

A number of clerics, including Dr. Gribbles, scurried to their Bibles, momentarily unsure that the most familiar sentence of the Last Supper, the centerpiece of the Christian ceremony, was indeed absent in
Matthew, Mark, Luke,
and
John.

“Now we know,” said O'Hanrahan, pleased with himself, “‘Do this in remembrance of me' was inserted into some Lucan manuscripts, once the Church increasingly fell in love with the symbols of communion, which, like confession, made their way from Persia. So in the 100s, ‘Do this in remembrance of me' was inserted in some
Lukes.
But that suggests to me that it was also inserted at the same time into Paul, Dr. Whitestone. I'm not so sure Paul
really
knew about the Eucharist. I'm not even sure what Jesus may have thought of it, being principally antiritual.”

The rabbi smiled. “
This is my body, which is for you,
says Jesus except there is no Hebrew or Aramaic equivalent of ‘which is for you.' Which means it was originally Greek, and not spoken at any rate by Jesus.”

“Ah,” said Father Basilios, “but Jesus did speak Greek. He quotes the Septuagint. He preached in Gedara and in the Greek-speaking Decapolis.”

“The point I'm making is that the Christians,” added the rabbi sanguinely, “have nothing original. In
Genesis
14:18 we see the Eucharist prefigured in Melchezidek, not that any of you know your Pentateuch. I think the Christian Eucharist is contemporary with
Hebrews,
which shows the early cult of Melchezidek, who is declared immaculately conceived in the New Testament, weirdly enough. An addition of the Second Century.”

“Like the Cross and crucifixion itself,” suggested Dr. Abdullah, to much objection and interested laughter.

Dr. Gribbles cleared his throat and took objection: “It seems to me that Paul does know a good deal about Jesus the man, more than our distinguished imam would admit. Christ's meekness is alluded to. Not a common trait for a messianic figure of that time. And Paul is certainly aware of the crucifixion.
Jews seek signs, and Greeks seek wisdom, but we preach Christ crucified. 1 Corinthians
1:22.”

“Odd you should use that one,” said O'Hanrahan. “‘Jews seek signs.' According to all the gospels, written after Paul, Jesus
did
perform signs, healings, miracles. Paul doesn't seem to know about any of the miracles.”

Dr. Abdullah shrugged serenely.

O'Hanrahan pursued, “As for crucifixion, Paul in more dependable texts isn't always so clear. Dr. Gribbles, do you have the RSV there?” O'Hanrahan fumbled for his reading glasses. “
Romans
4:24,” he requested.

Father Keegan, warmed by his speedy consumption of four ports, leaned over to his book and read it aloud:
“It will be reckoned to us who believe in him that raised from the dead Jesus our Lord who was put to death—”

“Ah ah,” said O'Hanrahan. “We all know what the Greek is.”

“Paredothi,”
said Lucy, debuting.

There was a brief acknowledging silence that she had spoken.

“Yes,
paredothi,
” confirmed Father Basilios.

“Which does not mean ‘put to death.'” O'Hanrahan continued. “It is the same verb in
1 Corinthians
11:23.” He flipped the pages. “
Lord Jesus on the night he was betrayed took bread
 … The word there is
paredidoto
and does not mean betrayed. The verb
paradidomi
means ‘delivered up.'”

The rabbi interrupted: “As in the Septuagint
Isaiah,
the Suffering Servant is ‘delivered up,' taken away.”

O'Hanrahan went on: “Christians keep translating this word however they please—killed, crucified, betrayed, but Paul and parts of all four gospels in numerous places don't necessarily say those things. The original says ‘delivered up.' Which is far more vague concerning the historical Jesus' death.”

Dr. Abdullah with a half-smile suggested, “Perhaps the true interpretation is ‘delivered up to Heaven.' As I was about to say a moment ago, Moslem scholars, myself included, believe
Isa Mesih,
the Prophet Jesus never went to the Cross but was assumed directly to Heaven. Maybe early texts of Paul, before all the later Christian alterations, confirmed the Prophet Mohammed's teachings about Jesus' death.”

“Nonsense,” said the archimandrite patiently but firmly. “Jesus most certainly went to the Cross and was later assumed.”

“A lot of early Christians,” began O'Hanrahan, “did not think so,
Pater.
The Basilidians and the Carpocratian gnostic sects.”

“This was a Corinthian heresy too, along these lines,” said the sister unsurely, then gaining confidence. “Wasn't that true?”

“Right,” said Father Beaufoix, always ready to tangle with the know-it-all orthodox. “Your own Orthodox scholar Photius, as late as the 800s, had come across texts attributed to some of the apostles containing the story that Christ never went to the Cross, but was rather … delivered up. For such a heretical idea, it certainly has had a long life.”

“Why bother being a Christian,” said the Anglican vicar with distaste, “if you don't accept the sacrifice of the Cross?”

Dr. Abdullah was insistent: “You think Christ has no meaning unless there is a cross and God's prophet is put to death? Look at the shambles Catholicism—apologies, Sister, Father—has become: all tears and wounds and sacred hearts and suffering and bleeding statues. What has that to do with how to live and love God and help our fellow man, hm?” Dr. Abdullah folded his arms and leaned forward on the table, having everyone's attention:

“No, the Moslem has no part of the Cross, and nor did the Early Christian church. Moses, David, Elijah, Elisha, Mohammed—God does not allow his chosen to be crushed by his enemies! I assure you, vicar, some 800 million Moslems worldwide are quite edified by Jesus' teaching and not the heretical addition of the Cross, sometime, we think, like the ‘Do this in remembrance of me,' in the Second Century. The Cross heresy so angered Mohammed, we read in al-Waaqidi, that Mohammed destroyed everything he could find with that symbol of error upon it.”