“Yes,” Katrina responded. “Pseudo-science. Dismissible. An explanation that covers ancient geological ages in support of biblical belief.”
“Ancient doesn’t begin to describe it,” the priest said.
Katrina looked confused. McCauley wasn’t certain why the priest was bringing up the subject. It was hardly discussed anymore and seemingly not on point.
“If I may?”
“Go right ahead, Father. Chapter and verse,” McCauley replied.
The priest poured another glass of the house wine from Castelli Romani, south of Rome. He held it to the light to examine the rich reds, drank some, and continued.
“Gap Theory proposes that a span of time existed between Genesis 1:1 and Genesis 1:2. From a strictly theological point of view, Gap Theory maintains that a cataclysmic judgment was prescribed as a result of the fall of Lucifer. For the sake of keeping you in the discussion, let’s put aside the religious construal. I’ll simply call it a line of reasoning.”
“Appreciated,” McCauley said.
“The argument can be traced to the early nineteenth century. As the science of geology gained, pardon the expression, ground, some theologians were at a loss how to counter the scientific claims that the formation of the earth’s surfaces occurred at imperceptibly slow rates. They needed an explanation that supported the biblical record. You might call it scriptural enlightenment: a way to describe the vast geological periods before Adam. Conveniently perhaps, a place was found between the two verses of Genesis.
“It was proposed by a Scotsman, theologian Thomas Chalmers, in 1814. It was further espoused by two American ministers, Cyrus Scofield and Clarence Larkin, and evangelist Harry Rimmer in the twentieth century. Each wrote books on the subject, trying to justify the gap between ruin and reconstruction.”
The priest took another satisfying sip of the wine. He saw that his guests needed more. He gave them each a liberal refill and signaled the waiter for a new bottle.
“Now to specifics. Follow me.”
“We are,” Alpert said.
“Genesis 1:1 expresses the creation of the universe. Then, in geological terms, five billion years presumably came and went, producing ages you’re well aware of with its various life forms. Gap Theory then seeks to explain that all life on Earth was destroyed.”
“The meteor that wiped out the dinosaurs,” Alpert stated.
“Yes, leaving fossils for you to uncover. This cataclysmic event, according to the theorists, is what’s described in Genesis 1:2. This solved the biblical problem of time, and helped to square natural history with the scriptural interval, described as days.”
McCauley interrupted. “Yes, but…”
“Wait,” Father Eccleston said. “It gets better. Gap Theory rests on the need for re-creation. It holds to the paleontological record that has produced dinosaur fossil beds on every continent. It also allows for the sudden transformation of the environment. In a word, it works.”
“But…”
“Not yet, Dr. Alpert,” the priest chided. “I have one other point for you to consider.”
She leaned back in her chair and listened.
“What if…” Eccleston paused. He wanted the full attention of his companions. “What if we dismiss the theological justification? After all, it never gained much support. Strip away the religious argument and stay with the basic idea. Can we accept a gap between life forms? From trilobites through the dinosaurs to the evolution of man?
“Of course,” Katrina replied.
McCauley remained at the table but left the conversation, thinking, Gap. He repeated the word to himself. Definitions rushed forward from his years of study. General usage, medical, mathematical, geographic. An empty space; an interruption in continuity; a divergence; a difference; an interval. Disparity in attitudes, ideals and actions.
If the priest was still talking, McCauley didn’t hear him.
Etymology: gapa — a hole in a wall, a break or pass in a long mountain chain.
Impossible possibilities were coming together. Quickly. The cave. The discovery. The conversations. The attack. The book. And still another notion. It was a dialectic he’d had with his grad students in Montana.
“The absence of evidence is not the evidence of absence.”
“What?” Katrina asked. McCauley hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud.
“What?” she repeated. “You said, ‘The absence of evidence…”
“Is not the evidence of absence. A gap.”
Katrina was still confused. “The gap?”
“Not the gap. A gap. Before.”
“Before? Before what?” Katrina wondered.
“Before what is described in Genesis.”
“Or part of it,” Eccleston said. “We better leave.” He signaled for the check. “Let’s move this to my apartment.”
McCauley paid the tab. On the way out, Katrina pulled him close and asked the inevitable follow up while the priest walked a few feet ahead. “What were you talking about? It obviously scooted us out of there.”
“An epiphany. Or,” McCauley admitted, “a wild ass assumption. I’ll explain.”
Father Eccleston bounded up the three flights with Quinn and Katrina in tow. He asked forgiveness for the mess they’d face and the reason: “My roommates. I’ll keep the lights down. You’ll hardly notice. Even in full daylight there isn’t much to see except the simple residence of three priests, two of them slobs.”
He directed them to the couch. “Sit down. We’re alone. Fr. Densey and Fr. Santiago left on sabbatical. So we’ll be able to speak openly. I’ll be right back.”
As Eccleston went through his cabinets, McCauley glanced around the apartment. Eccleston’s description of Spartan was completely accurate. White walls, few chairs, low wood coffee table, lamps that didn’t match, an old throw rug, and no living room curtains. Apparently good enough for a trio of priests living off-site on limited Vatican stipends, right down to the three wine glasses Eccleston returned with that didn’t match.
“Sabbatical. An interesting word in itself, wouldn’t you say?” Eccleston noted while pouring. “From Greek sabbatikos and Latin sabbaticus. And, of course, Hebrew Shabbat. From Genesis 2:2–3. On the seventh day God rested after creating the universe. Described in Leviticus 25 as a commandment to cease working in the field the seventh year, reiterated in Deuteronomy 5:12–15.”
“You have your numbers down,” McCauley observed.
“Chalk it up to my share of sabbaticals,” Eccleston laughed.
Katrina chimed in, “We live for them, too.”
Once the wine was served, Eccleston proposed a simple toast. “To our finding the answers we seek.”
“I’ll drink to that.” Quinn reached for the bottle to see what it was. “Verdicchio?”
“Yes, I think you’ll like this,” he said.
The priest held up his glass to the lamp light and examined its luster. “So beautiful. From a magnificent yellow-green grape. See how the final product embraces and expands upon the original hues. Much like our conversation tonight.”
His guests examined it in the same way.
“Now, take in the floral aroma.”
They brought their wine glasses to their nose and acknowledged the scent.
“This Verdicchio hasn’t changed since the fourteenth century. It’s from Le Marche region, still produced by Brothers at Verdicchio del Castelli di Jesi.”
“Quite a tradition, Father,” Alpert said. “I really like this.”
“I’ll tell you someone who enjoyed the Verdicchio in Le Marche.”