and other Vatican officials to piggyback on Opus Dei's recent public success—the completion of
their World Headquarters in New York City.
Architectural Digest had called Opus Dei's building
"a shining beacon of Catholicism sublimely integrated
with the modern landscape," and lately the
Vatican seemed to be drawn to anything and everything that included the word "modern."
Aringarosa had no choice but to accept the invitation, albeit reluctantly. Not a fan of the current
papal administration, Aringarosa, like most conservative clergy, had watched with grave concern
as the new Pope settled into his first year in office. An unprecedented liberal, His Holiness had
secured the papacy through one of the most controversial and unusual conclaves in Vatican history.
Now, rather than being humbled by
his unexpected rise to power, the Holy Father had wasted no
time flexing all the muscle associated with the highest office in Christendom. Drawing on an
unsettling tide of liberal support within the College of Cardinals, the Pope was now declaring his
papal mission to be "rejuvenation of Vatican doctrine and updating Catholicism into the third
millennium."
The translation, Aringarosa feared, was that the man was actually arrogant enough to think he
could rewrite God's laws and win back the hearts of those who felt the demands of true Catholicism
had become too inconvenient in a modern world.
Aringarosa had been using all of his political sway—substantial considering
the size of the Opus
Dei constituency and their bankroll—to persuade the Pope and his advisers that softening the
Church's laws was not only faithless and cowardly, but political suicide. He reminded them that
previous tempering of Church law—the Vatican II fiasco—had left a devastating legacy: Church
attendance was now lower than ever, donations were drying up, and there were not even enough
Catholic priests to preside over their churches.
People need structure and direction from the Church, Aringarosa insisted,
not coddling and
indulgence!
On
that night, months ago, as the Fiat had left the airport, Aringarosa was surprised to find himself
heading not toward Vatican City but rather eastward up a sinuous mountain road. "Where are we
going?" he had demanded of his driver.
"Alban Hills," the man replied. "Your meeting is at Castel Gandolfo."
The Pope's summer residence? Aringarosa had never been, nor had he ever desired to see it. In
addition to being the Pope's summer vacation home, the sixteenth-century citadel housed the
Specula Vaticana—the Vatican Observatory—one of the most advanced astronomical
observatories in Europe. Aringarosa had never been comfortable with the Vatican's historical need
to dabble in science. What was the rationale for fusing science and faith?
Unbiased science could
not possibly be performed by a man who possessed faith in God. Nor did faith have any need for
physical confirmation of its beliefs.
Nonetheless, there it is, he thought as Castel Gandolfo came into view, rising against a star-filled
November sky. From the access road, Gandolfo resembled a great stone monster pondering a
suicidal leap. Perched at the very edge of a cliff, the castle leaned out over the cradle of Italian
civilization—the valley where the Curiazi and Orazi clans fought long before the founding of
Rome.
Even
in silhouette, Gandolfo was a sight to behold—an impressive example of tiered, defensive
architecture, echoing the potency of this dramatic cliffside setting. Sadly, Aringarosa now saw, the
Vatican had ruined the building by constructing two huge aluminum telescope domes atop the roof,
leaving this once dignified edifice looking like a proud warrior wearing a couple of party hats.
When Aringarosa got out of the car, a young Jesuit priest hurried out and greeted him. "Bishop,
welcome. I am Father Mangano. An astronomer here."
Good for you. Aringarosa grumbled his hello and followed his host into the castle's foyer—a wide-
open space whose decor was a graceless blend of Renaissance art and astronomy images.
Following his escort up the wide travertine marble staircase, Aringarosa saw signs for conference
centers, science lecture halls, and tourist information services. It amazed him to think the Vatican
was failing at
every turn to provide coherent, stringent guidelines for spiritual growth and yet
somehow still found time to give astrophysics lectures to tourists.
"Tell me," Aringarosa said to the young priest, "when did the tail start wagging the dog?"
The priest gave him an odd look. "Sir?"
Aringarosa waved it off, deciding not to launch into that particular offensive again this evening.
The Vatican has gone mad. Like a lazy parent who found it easier to acquiesce to the whims of a
spoiled child than to stand firm and teach values, the Church just kept softening at every turn,
trying to reinvent itself to accommodate a culture gone astray.
The top floor's corridor was wide, lushly appointed, and led in only one direction—toward a huge
set of oak doors with a brass sign.
Do'stlaringiz bilan baham: 
