Sometimes life offers up some truly surrealistic moments, even for those of us who no longer imbibe or inhale. Yesterday we drove up to Cleveland to see the Vatican Splendors exhibit at the Western Reserve Historical Society in the morning, and the Rock n’ Roll Hall of Fame in the afternoon. Further adding to the cosmic juxtopositional mix was a recent re-reading of an old favorite, Gospel by Wilton Barnhardt. Gospel is about the discovery and decrypting of an original gospel written by the disciple hired on to replace Judas, Mathias. The protagonist, Patrick O’Hanrahan, is an embittered ex-Jesuit who spends a great portion of the book regaling his assistant Lucy Dantan with all the terrible things the Catholic Church has done down the centuries. He is a man struggling with faith in the face of institutional religion. He’s ashamed of himself, and of his Church. And yet I believe this is a very reverent and religious work. Barnhardt tears the Church apart, and yet, at the end, Patrick and Lucy each find their way to God, despite their own — and the Church’s — human frailty. We don’t need to be perfect in order to be loved by God.
So here I am, visiting this Vatican exhibit, which tells the official story of the Church, and meanwhile I’m mentally comparing that story to the seamy underside I’ve just read about in Barnhardt’s novel. As a long-lapsed Catholic, I tried not to smirk too much as I went through exhibit. I’m not angry with the Church anymore, and I have raised my children as Catholic, as per my wife’s wishes. It was just so weird, to have just finished reading about all these things, and here they were on display, with so much not being said. Here’s the Swiss Guard, bravely defending the Pope during the Sack of Rome. Why was Rome being sacked? It doesn’t say. Apparently the Swiss Guard saved the day, though. Gospel claims, however, that “Only the arrival of the plague and the worst fire since Nero drove the troops away, convinced finally there was nothing left to plunder. (p. 277). ” Pius XII is present at the exhibition in the form of a rather menacing bronze (he seems to be trying to poke someone’s eyes out with his blessing fingers), but no mention is made of his collusion with Hitler. And so on.
Another, more subtle connection was the exhibit’s rather surprising emphasis on the fact that St. Peter lies buried on the site of the basilica in Rome bearing his name. Lots of evidence to support this, which I guess is the Church’s attempt to shore up it’s relevance (“See, we’re the real deal.”). There was also a reliquary with fragments of Peter on display. The connection here is that, in Gospel, in the actual gospel by Matthias, there comes a point where the disciple is led to the underground hiding place of the body of Jesus, kept in some crude mummified state. Matthias is about to see if this is indeed Jesus, and if, indeed, he was not resurrected. Matthias decides, at the last second, that he does not want to know. As he says, “I preferred, dear brother, in this final gesture, Faith to Truth. I recall it is said that at His shameful trial, Our Master was asked by the Roman procurator, “What is Truth?” Our Master made no answer…The Master of the Universe’s gift to us is not Truth, which we clearly don’t have the capacity to perceive; it is instead the capacity for Faith.”
This seems to have been the theme of the day, both at the Vatican exhibit, and then later, as we toured the relics and artifacts left by the gods of Rock. It was impossible not to see the similarities. I’m not being facetious when I point out how striking it was to see how similar the jewel-encrusted finery of the popes were to that of Elvis. It’s like they were the rock stars of an earlier age. Through these idols and their articles of clothing, their instruments (whether they be cruets and chalices or guitars and amplifiers), and their performances on the stage, we in the audience reach out to something divine, something Other, and Greater.
Perhaps the most surreal moment was, only a few hours after viewing the bone fragments of St. Peter, I found a lock of hair, belonging to former Rolling Stone Brian Jones, for sale. One in a reliquary, one in a plastic case, but both holy relics to help the faithful draw closer to the Divine.
The Rock Hall is a strange place, like touring some huge attic filled with antiques. It is, despite its name (the “Hall of Fame”), a museum. I stood inches away from the actual hand-written lyrics of famous songs, and the actual guitars played during historic performances, and it made me feel…old. These scratched-up, dusty instruments may have been genuine, but they bore little relation to the memories I have in my heart of those days, years ago. I saw the hand of time in those scratches, not the hand of Hendrix. The heroes of my youth could not have worn these clothes, or played these old, worn guitars. They are up in rock n’ roll heaven, with all the other gods, immortal and untouchable.
