 "Unlikely
Messengers"
by David M. Fitzpatrick
The bitter January cold stabbed
like frozen needles into Mitch Jensen’s face as he hurried through
the night. A wind whipped down the street, as invisible and
unrelenting as an angry poltergeist. He wasn’t dressed for this kind
of weather, and he could already feel his aching lungs constricting,
but then the city manager had made it sound like nothing short of an
emergency. He’d even left his Bible on the front seat of his car,
just so it was easy to keep his hands pulled inside his coat
sleeves. He brrr-ed aloud against the cold and mounted the steps to
Bangor’s City Hall. He’d never been there at two in the morning.
The lights were on and a waiting city
cop opened the door for him. Jensen felt the welcome blast of heat
in his face. “Morning,
Pastor,” said the cop. “Cold night for this.”
Jensen shivered, pausing to haul his
inhaler out of his jacket pocket and take a puff. “That it is. So
what’s this about?” “I’m just
supposed to let you folks in,” the cop said. He motioned for Jensen
to follow. “What other
folks?” Jensen asked as they headed up the stairs. He puffed again
on the inhaler, and felt his lungs relaxing. Oxygen was good.
“Lots of your religious colleagues,”
he replied amidst the hollow echoes of his boots thudding in the
stairwell. “I guess this one needs a bunch of different faiths.”
“What happened?” Jensen pressed as
they stopped at the top of the third-floor stairs.
Guilford’s brow furrowed on his solemn
face. “I was told not to talk about it, but... one of my officers
found him in Bass Park, near the Paul Bunyan statue. He was dazed
and not dressed for this weather. And when Officer Dickerson saw…
the thing… well, he called Chief Cullen, who called the city
manager, and here we are. You’ll see soon enough.”
They entered the third-floor hallway
and there was Officer Dickerson, a grizzled, heavyset city
patrolman. Like Guilford, he looked distracted.
“The last one,” Guilford said to
Dickerson. Dickerson looked
Jensen up and down. “Kinda young for a priest, aren’t you?”
“Actually, I’m a Methodist minister.”
“Oh, sorry—I don’t go to church much.”
A weak laugh stumbled out. “Although I guess I’d better start.
Anyway, they’re down the hall—city manager’s office.”
Jensen could feel the cops’ eyes on
him as he headed for the open door. This was easily the strangest
trip he’d ever taken to City Hall—not like council meetings or
registering his car. Suddenly, he thought about that Bible he’d left
in the car, and he was gripped by the idea of running back for it.
Then he fought the urge; it was really cold out there.
He found the city manager at the
receptionist’s desk, slumped back, looking dazed. There was a
flat-panel television on the wall, where a CNN anchor was delivering
the latest headlines at low volume. The city manager regarded Jensen
and said, “They’re in there.” He motioned to his own office. CITY
MANAGER WILLIAM STINSON, said the nameplate.
“Bill, what’s this all about?” Jensen
asked, leaning over the desk.
Stinson smiled. “It’s a miracle,
Mitch.” Jensen sighed and
straightened up. “I hope so. I’m very tired and I have to deliver a
sermon in a few hours.” “Skip
church,” Stinson said. “You’ll soon be delivering a sermon to the
whole world.” The time for
mystery was over. Jensen spun about, headed for the office door next
to the wall television, and threw it open. And he froze in his
tracks. The other clergy
looked up at him with deadpan stares. Father Murphy from St.
Andrew’s, not wearing a crucifix or carrying a rosary, was there.
Rabbi Sidney Levy from Temple Beth Yushurun, with his braided beard,
stood next to him. There was Reverend John Clark from Sunbury
Baptist in a jogging outfit instead of his usual polyester
three-piece. Finally, there was the normally elegant Amelia Largay,
minister of the Brewer Unitarian Universalist Church, who wore jeans
and a T-shirt and had a mass of disheveled blond hair haphazardly
tied back. But they were all
an afterthought compared to the man seated in front of the city
manager’s desk, whose attire was completely inappropriate for a
subzero January night. He wore loose-fitting gray shorts with the
blue University of Maine “M” on them, a Red Sox 2004 “World Series
Champions” T-shirt, and green L.L. Bean slippers. He wasn’t even
wearing a hat—but he did indeed have something on his head, so to
speak. He looked up with
dazed, mournful eyes, regarding Jensen’s bulging eyes and sagging
jaw. The guy was thirty-ish, and could have been a banker or a
millworker, a lawyer or a convenience-store clerk. He was an
everyman—except for the ghostly apparition hovering above his head.
“My God,” Jensen breathed aloud.
“That was our consensus,” Amelia said.
It was a giant ring, a foot in
diameter, hovering magically a few inches above the man’s head. It
glowed with a soft light, and Jensen could almost see golden rays
emanating from it. It seemed to be spinning ever so slightly,
shimmering like polished gold. Without a doubt, it was a halo.
In a weak voice, the man said, “I just
don’t understand.” Jensen’s
legs felt like immovable pillars of salt, but he struggled forward,
breathless. The closer he got, the more the halo seemed to shimmer
and rotate. The man angled his head to keep his pleading eyes on
Jensen, and the halo angled with him. Jensen reached out, and his
hand felt warm and tingly as it passed through the halo. He pulled
his hand back and said, “What’s your name?”
“Mike,” he said, and his voice was
tired and slightly hoarse. “Michael Barry.”
“When did this appear?”
“I don’t know. I was home watching TV, and the next thing I knew,
the police were talking to me and I was in the park, freezing, with
this thing over my head.” He looked at Jensen, with a helpless
expression. “What the hell is it?”
“It’s a halo, my son,” Father Murphy
proclaimed. “A symbol of sainthood.”
“I’m no saint,” Michael said. “I’m
anything but.” “No—halos are
just artistic representations; they aren’t supposed to actually be
visible,” Jensen said. “Triangular halos are used in representations
of the Trinity. A circle with a cross represents Jesus. Rings like
yours are for saints—who must be dead and later canonized in your
faith, Father.” “While square
halos are often depicted on unusually saintly people who are still
alive,” Murphy said, “you’re right that they’re not supposed to be
visible in life.” “Not so
fast,” Rabbi Levy said. “In Exodus, it was said that when Moses came
down from Mount Sinai he had a glowing or radiant face. Jerome
mistranslated this as ‘his face was horned’—an unfortunate image,
considering Satan’s usual depiction.”
“I wouldn’t call it a mistranslation,”
Father Murphy said. “It’s a misunderstanding of the metaphor.”
“I’ll have to go with my Catholic
colleague on this,” Reverend Clark announced with an upraised hand.
“Saints are products of Christianity. Holy indeed was Moses, but
certainly he isn’t—” “Oh,
stop it with the televangelism,” Amelia Largay said, rolling her
eyes. “If halos only appear in art, then why does Michael have one?”
“There is a belief that saints have
halos during their earthly lives, and that the truly pious could see
them,” Father Murphy said. “In other stories, the saint-to-be could
be seen with an aureola, a glowing energy radiating from his
body.” “Fanciful stories made
to fit Catholic beliefs,” Rabbi Levy snapped.
“This isn’t limited to Catholicism or
even to Christianity,” Father Murphy shot back. “Halos, nimbuses,
and other divine glows predate Christianity; they can be found in
ancient Rome, Greece, India, Egypt. And not just gods—even kings
were so depicted.” “Are you
implying that this isn’t a holy event?” Reverend Clark said.
“Not at all. Our Jewish friend is,
because his half-complete, Old Testament faith doesn’t feature such
things.” Levy began muttering
Yiddish epithets, but Jensen interrupted him. “Okay, everyone, let’s
put the brakes on the holier-than-thou debate,” he said.
“Clearly, this requires unity of our
faiths, not division.”
“Excuse me,” Michael said quietly.
All heads turned to him in surprise,
as if suddenly remembering the man with the halo was still there. He
said, “All this arguing about halos doesn’t answer why I, of all
people, have one.” Jensen
took a deep breath. “I apologize, Michael. We’re all just as stumped
as you are.” “I’m not stumped
at all,” Clark trumpeted. “My boy, the reason is clear: You’re a
saint on Earth, sent by God to bring His message to us! The Almighty
has chosen you as his new prophet on this Earth. Hallelujah and
praise Jesus!” There was a
long silence before Amelia said, “What did I tell you about the
televangelism, Reverend?”
“Even you and your pseudo-Christian ways can’t refute my logic,”
Reverend Clark said, and Jensen knew he was right.
“There’s no other explanation,” Jensen
said. “Michael, we can’t guess why, but it seems clear that you’re
God’s chosen messenger.”
“It’s a glorious honor, son,” Father Murphy said, resting his hand
on Michael’s shoulder. “Finally, God will speak to us again—through
you.” “But that can’t be
right,” Michael said, and his halo sparkled as he shook his head.
“Why can’t it?” Rabbi Levy asked.
Michael looked from face to face,
finally locking eyes with Jensen. “I’m an atheist.”
The room fell into stunned silence.
Jensen stared back at Michael’s blue eyes, incredulous.
“I spent my life in various Protestant
denominations, but eventually I decided I couldn’t believe all the
silliness and hypocrisy,” Michael said. “I started attending
meetings of the local chapter of United Atheists, and I’ve found all
the answers with science and reason. But now this…”
He trailed off, his head bowing to the
floor. The halo remained solidly fixed in place, giving Jensen his
first good view of it from the top, and it was beautiful. He could
see subtle silver sparkling as the shimmering golden ring spun
slowly in place. It was almost impossible to resist reaching out and
touching the ethereal phenomenon. It was as if the halo beckoned to
him. “I can feel it,” Amelia
said, stepping up beside Jensen.
He turned to her. “Spiritually?”
“No—I can feel it physically. It’s
like a wave pulsing through me. If I close my eyes and listen, I can
even hear it.” He looked at
her dubiously, as did the others.
“Go ahead, all of you,” she said.
“Close your eyes. Listen to it.”
Jensen closed his eyes and, judging by
the silence in the office, he guessed everyone else had, too. The
faint glow of the halo barely permeated his eyelids, seeming to be
everywhere within his otherwise-dark world. He felt the wave Amelia
had described, flowing through his entire body, over and over.
Then he heard it. Faint, nearly
imperceptible, but clearly there was a sound. Unmistakably, it was a
voice—no, a chorus of voices, all speaking together. Maybe there
were several choruses saying different things. He strained to hear,
and began to make out the voices. At first he thought they were too
faint or garbled, but he realized they were in another language.
“Why, that’s incredible,” came Father
Murphy’s soft voice, and Jensen’s eyes snapped open. Everyone stood
in awe. “Did you hear that?”
Amelia said excitedly. “I clearly heard voices, but I didn’t
understand them.” “I don’t
think anybody would,” Rabbi Levy said. “I’m a student of many
languages, and I can tell you this is like nothing I’ve ever heard.”
“It’s the language of God,” Reverend
Clark said. “The words of Heaven. Those were angels we heard,
cherubim and seraphim singing to us.”
Amelia didn’t tell him to cut the televangelism this time.
“It makes sense,” Jensen said. “God
willing, it’s the only thing that makes sense.”
“But why an atheist?” Father Murphy
said. “Why would God choose someone of no faith?”
“We’ve all questioned our faiths at
one point or another,” Jensen said. “Maybe this is God’s way of
testing Michael’s faith.” “I
can’t believe such a miracle is solely to test one man’s faith,”
said Rabbi Levy. “No, this is something far greater. The voice of
Heaven? The coming of a Messiah? A beacon to shine as irrefutable
proof of God? Perhaps all of those.”
“So… what do we do?” Michael said.
Jensen felt the smile crawling over
his face even as his chest tightened with all the excitement. “We
tell them,” he said, hauling his inhaler out again.
“Tell who?” Amelia asked.
Jensen turned to her as he puffed
another dose of the medication, his eyes gleaming like the halo over
Michael’s head. “Everybody. Call them all. This is the holiest of
all things, happening right here in our little city. We’re on the
front line of this incredible event, and we’re going to stun the
entire world.” Just then, the
door flew open, and City Manager Stinson was there, eyes wider than
ever. He looked caught between utter terror and overwhelming
excitement. “I think you’d
better come see the TV,” he said.
* *
* The men had names like
Matthew, Adam, Luke, and Michael. The women had names like Mary,
Ruth, Esther, and Eve. They were found all around the world,
wandering and unable to recall how they’d gotten there or what had
happened to them. And they all had halos. And they were all
atheists...
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This
is an anthology I edited, and it was a long time coming. It's part of my
long-term plan to develop niche titles that, while they appeal to
limited audiences, will have a long shelf life.