The church had been closed by the Archdiocese of New York in 2008, along with more than two hundred and fifty other churches that had fallen into disrepair. A benefactor had bought St. Barnabas at auction, and it was now to be reopened as a JMJ church.
I walked anonymously through the throng of Sunday shoppers on East Fourth Street in my long, navy-blue coat and knitted hat and found the old church wedged between a Comfy Diner and an antique print shop, graffiti-free and perfectly intact.
When I entered the church through the red-painted doors, I had expected to be welcomed by Father Hubert Clemente. But the young priest was not alone. He seemed a little awed and off balance as he introduced me to Father Giancarlo Raphael, who wore his black vestments and cummerbund with European flair.
Father Raphael said in heavily accented English that he had just arrived from Vatican City to see me. He looked pleased and confident, but I didn’t get it.
“Pardon me. Could you say that again?”
As congregants flowed past me into the nave, Father Raphael explained, “Forgive me. I should say I’m here on behalf of Pope Gregory. I hope to have a few words with you.”
I was startled, to say the least. I managed to say, “Father Raphael, I am deeply humbled, but, as I have just enough time to get ready, can you wait? The congregation…”
“Of course. I am eager for your Mass.”
After I finished a walk-through with Father Clemente, he introduced me to his rapt congregation.
“Good friends,” he said, “you know all about our guest, who has become a guiding light to so many Catholics who have felt sidelined by the Church.
“She eschews any title but likes to be called, simply, Brigid. And that humility, that belief that we are all the same in the eyes of God, is the essence of JMJ principles that we will be adopting here.”
I felt welcomed and at peace as I began the Mass, but I couldn’t quite stop thinking about Father Raphael, the pope’s messenger, sitting three rows back on the aisle.
He was waiting for me when I left the sacristy in my street clothes, as were dozens of congregants. I shook hands and exchanged kind words, and I signed scraps of paper to commemorate the occasion. Father Raphael stood to the side until I was finally alone.
And then he had all my attention.
“Brigid,” he said, “I have a special invitation for you.” He took an envelope from his coat pocket. My name was inscribed in calligraphy, and in the corner of the envelope was a coat of arms, the emblem of the Holy See.
Father Raphael held the envelope out to me, and when I took it, it felt warm to the touch.
“His Holiness Pope Gregory would like very much to meet you. These airline tickets are for you and your daughter, and my card is inside, too. Please let me know when it would be convenient for you to come to the Vatican.”
Chapter 109
THE PEACEFULNESS of flight above the clouds gave way too quickly to the near riot that was waiting for Gilly and me at Fiumicino Airport.
We were met just outside customs by two very fit men wearing the smart blue uniforms of the Corps of Gendarmes of Vatican City State. Our driver was Alberto Rizzo, and our guard was Giuseppe Marone, who carried our slight luggage through the airport.
I gripped Gilly’s hand and followed our assigned guards out under the swooping marquis, toward the street, when we were blocked by protesters who were shouting my name, calling me a heretic and the devil. One of them, a woman my age, was brandishing a cross. She said pleasantly, “I wish you to die.”
Giuseppe strong-armed the woman out of the way. Alberto shielded us from behind, and we pushed forward through the loud and ugly crowd.
I was utterly shaken by the hatred.
I could stand up for myself, but this attack also affected Gilly. I kept my cool for my daughter’s sake and held her close to my side until we were safely inside a black Mercedes with Vatican City plates.
Still, angry people, their faces bloated with hate, hammered on the car windows and roof with their fists.
“You are okay now,” said Giuseppe. “No worries.”
Two more black sedans joined us, one taking the lead, the other bringing up the rear, and we headed at top speed away from the airport and into the city. During the drive to the hotel, I tried to prepare myself for my upcoming meeting with the pope.
I liked what I’d seen and read about Pope Gregory. He seemed kind, a moderate with modern leanings, but he disapproved of everything JMJ stood for. And he had to be disturbed by the widespread growth of our breakaway churches.
I had a hard time imagining anything but a short, awkward meeting with Pope Gregory. I didn’t see it ending well. At all.
Gilly was having a different experience entirely. She was absorbing everything: the wide avenues and historic landmarks, the police escort, the crazy Roman traffic. She had her hands pressed against the windows and said, “Mom, are we staying here?”
Our car pulled up to the Hotel Hassler, a five-star hotel at the top of the Spanish Steps, overlooking the ancient city. Our bodyguards escorted us through the teeming and gilded hotel lobby to the front desk. All the while, her head turning from side to side, Gilly stared around in a state of subdued wonder.
“Mommy, look. Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, look.”
I looked at the beautiful people, at the grand scale of the famous hotel lobby, at the rich appointments, and I laughed, delighting in my seven-year-old little girl’s innocence and astonishment.
Gilly wasn’t in Massachusetts anymore.
Our suite, like the lobby, was appointed in ruby red and gold, hung with Venetian mirrors and crystal chandeliers. There was a terrace the length of the suite with a fireplace and endless city views. On the table in the sitting room was an extravagant floral arrangement and a note from Father Raphael.
It read: Welcome, Brigid and Gillian. I will come for you tomorrow morning at nine and bring you to the Apostolic Palace. Pope Gregory is very eager to meet you.
We kicked off our shoes, and I was looking at the room-service menu on the video monitor when the room phone rang.
Gilly answered, “Heyyyy.”
Then, “Mom. Guess who?”
Chapter 110
I PEERED through the peephole and saw his face.
“Open up, Red. It is I, your humble scribe.”
I opened the door and told our bodyguards that Zach was a friend. I was so excited to see him-and yet puzzled. Zach insisted on making surprise drop-in visits. Why? He had a phone. I hugged my tall, journalist, book-writing friend, and Gilly flew across the room and jumped up into his arms.
“I’m a royal princess,” she said. “Would you like to see my domain?”
“I absolutely would,” said Zach.
As Gilly took Zach away, I shouted after him, “Why are you here?”
“Easter week at Vatican City. I was available to cover it.”
“Are you having dinner with us?”
“Uh. Sure. Thanks.”
I’d seen Zach every few months since he signed his book contract, and I knew him well enough by now that I could read between the lines on his face. Something was bothering him.
But Gilly had Zach under her spell. She gave him the grandest of tours. He taught her the waltz while I signed for room service that was delivered after scrutiny by our guards outside the door.
We tucked into a six-course gourmet dinner on our terrace overlooking the Spanish Steps, and after Zach pointed out the visible ancient landmarks, Gilly provided the entertainment.
“I wanted kittens for my birthday,” Gilly was telling Zach.
“Kittens and rodents are off the table,” I said.
Ignoring me, Gilly went on. “After I got turned down for hamsters and kittens, I asked for Jesus to come to my birthday party.”
I rolled my eyes. “She did not.”