dialogue that included comments like:
“You really must be kidding, Jon.”
“Are you really playing with a full deck?”
“You know, of course, that what you’re asking is impossible.”
“ Obviously the Holy Father can’t be involved in this…”
“Do you really want to commit professional suicide?”
“Well, I’ll help you as much as I can, even though I think it’s absolute lunacy.”
A week later, Kevin picked Jon up at Leonardo da Vinci Airport, and they drove into Rome over the same route as the ancient Ostian Way, the final road that the much-traveled apostle Paul had used on his way to execution. About a mile before they reached the Ostian Gate, Kevin pulled his car off to the right side of the road and parked in front of the Basilica of St. Paul Outside the Walls.
“Well, there it is, Jon, the Basilica di San Paolo fuori le Mura,” Kevin said with a grin. “The scene of the crime.”
“Oh, thanks for that vote of confidence, Kevin.”
“I assumed you’d want to get the lay of the land-even before getting settled in.”
“You’ve got it.”
They walked into the colonnaded forecourt of the basilica. There, in the midst of a well-clipped lawn guarded by two sentinel palm trees, stood a great stone statue of the apostle Paul, the sword of the Spirit in his right hand.
“Much too old and much too bearded,” Jon commented. “Why do so many artists and sculptors get Paul wrong? He couldn’t have been more than around fifty-five or sixty at the time of his death-not this aged geezer. And he had only a pointed, trimmed gray beard, not those cascades of hair hanging down from his chin.”
“You’re sure of all that? You knew him well?”
“I did. We studied together in Jerusalem.” Jon smiled, then added, “ All the earliest images of Paul in Eastern and Western art-even the catacombs here-show the fellow I described, not this one.”
“And of course, you Lutherans know more about Paul than us Catholics, who are fixated on Peter, right?”
“Guilty as charged!” Jon was glad that they could continue their banter despite Sullivan’s obvious concerns about Jon’s mission.
When they’d met at Johns Hopkins years ago, Kevin Sullivan had been a brilliant but bigoted student who was quite sure all Protestants were destined for hell and that salvation was impossible outside of the Roman Catholic church. For his part, Jon, the son of a Lutheran pastor in Hannibal, Missouri, was equally sure that Martin Luther had saved Christianity from the clutches of an apostate papacy. They’d spent many an evening in Baltimore hauling out theological ammunition and firing at each other, Jon ticking off all the points where he thought Catholicism had veered away from biblical doctrine while Kevin countered that Protestants wouldn’t have the Bible in the first place were it not for Catholics.
As they matured, however, each had moved from a right-wing conservatism to a centrist, more ecumenical stance. They quickly buried the religious hatchet, knowing that the true struggle was not Catholicism versus Protestantism, but Christianity versus a non-Christian world. In fact, for many years now, Jon and Kevin had been the closest of friends.
As they walked the perimeter of the forecourt and sauntered into the great sanctuary, Kevin gave a running commentary. “Okay, Jon, you know the background here. The site goes back all the way to Constantine and even earlier. But why, do you suppose, the emperor built the original basilica specifically here?”
“Eusebius might have told him. His Church History tells of an elder in the early Roman church in the 200s, a fellow named Gaius, who could point out the very spot on the Ostian Way where Paul was beheaded and buried- here!”
Sullivan nodded. “It still gives me a thrill. We’re standing at the very place where Second Acts ends. But now, fast-forward twenty centuries to the year 2000-Rome’s Jubilee year. Pilgrims came here from all over the world, but when they visited this basilica, they raised a howl of protests because they couldn’t get any access to Paul’s tomb under the high altar. And so Vatican archaeologists started digging here from 2002 to 2006, exposing what we’ll see in a moment under glass at the eastern end of this long sanctuary.”
“Right. I remember the international sensation when that Vatican archaeologist-what was his name?”
“Giorgio Filippi.”
“Right. I remember when Filippi announced that they had probably discovered the very tomb of St. Paul in a crypt under the high altar. Many of my Protestant colleagues were skeptical, of course, but Filippi’s claim had a lot going for it, including that marble slab over the crypt with the Latin inscription-PAULO APOSTOLO MARTYRO.”
“To Paul, apostle and martyr indeed. And while the earlier basilicas erected here were oriented to the west, this latest version looks to the east, yet all of them pivoted about this central shrine.”
“How come we haven’t heard a word about Paul’s tomb since then, Kev, not a word? Why haven’t they opened the sarcophagus to see if Paul’s remains are actually inside? I thought they would for sure in 2008-09-the so-called Year of St. Paul…”
“Well, the archpriest here is Cardinal Andrea Cordero Lanza di Montezemolo, and he’d have to give his permission first. But he hasn’t done so, at least not yet. I don’t know why. Maybe because many Italians would be horrified at any plan to examine the possible skeleton of St. Paul- if it’s inside. And yet this same wonderful breed of people can happily view the mummy of St. Francis encased in the glass altar at Assisi. Go figure!”
Now they had reached the end of the long colonnaded sanctuary, where the high altar dominated the basilica. Just below it were steps leading down to the crypt area. Along with a column of visitors, Jon and Kevin descended the stone staircase. There, behind a metal latticework screen, they saw the Vatican excavations under a slab of glass and one side of the actual sarcophagus exposed. Since photographs were permitted, Jon pulled out his small, slim Nikon and took a long series of shots-especially of the partially cleared lid above the exposed side of the sarcophagus. He had to wait his turn at times, since pilgrims were kneeling in front of the tomb and offering prayers.
Gathering in as much as possible, Jon spied a threshold at the opposite end of the excavation pit with a small access door. Made of simple crossed bars, the door seemed to have only a simple latch, not a lock. The passageway behind it was too dark to discern, but flash photography would take care of that. In fact, Jon’s camera was on a photography marathon, focusing on details large and small. All the while, Sullivan easily guessed what Jon might be up to but simply stood back and let him compound his own folly.
Jon thought that the passageway from the crypt must have led to a similar access door near the high altar, and his hunch was confirmed when he emerged from the crypt and found such a door directly in line with the access door inside the crypt. It also had just a latch, not a lock. More photographs.
Finally he said, “I have everything I need, Kevin. Let’s go check the visitor’s center.”
They walked over to the mini emporium at the south transept, where the faithful could purchase candles, rosaries, crucifixes and crosses of all kinds, imitation icons, plaster saints, and a multitude of guidebooks to Rome’s holy places. Like the tourist pilgrims around them, Jon purchased several color postcards as well as a booklet on the history of the basilica. On the wall over the cash register, there was a large plaster replica of the lid of Paul’s putative sarcophagus, complete with the holes through which pilgrims used to drop their written petitions and treasures centuries earlier-holes now mortared in.
The lid held a special fascination for Jon, and he photographed it from various angles. Later, he would compare the photos with his earlier shots of the real thing to determine if it were a faithful replica. Certainly the Latin phrase PAULO APOSTOLO MARTYRO seemed to shout that this was indeed St. Paul’s sarcophagus.
Just before they left the basilica, Jon remembered to pluck one of its flyers out of the tract rack. He wanted to know the basilica’s hours of admission.
The “hotel” where Jon was to stay for his three days in Rome was Kevin’s apartment on the Janiculum Hill with its great view of the Eternal City. That evening they indulged a bit at Kevin’s favorite restaurant on the Via Veneto in view of the dangers implied in the famed adage, “All work and no play…” But la dolce vita it was not, just a modest Italian dinner that began with pasta and minestrone and then proceeded through the next four courses, all nicely lubricated with Chianti.
After returning to Kevin’s apartment, their discussion turned to options other than the one Jon seemed to be pursuing.
