Man of the Cloth
Following the end of World War III, a great resurgence of religion occurred throughout the world. The surviving members of the human race, weary of the long years of death, devastation and deprivation, sought the solace of faith in a doctrine that preached love, peace, tolerance and brotherhood. Accordingly, vast numbers of men and women turned their backs on the pursuit of worldly wealth and material possessions and joined the priesthood.
One such idealistic young man was Aidan Powell, who completed his sacramental training and took his vows at the age of twenty-three, thus becoming Father Aidan Powell, an ordained priest. Before taking on the responsibility of seeing to the spiritual needs of the congregation of the newly constructed Saint John's Church, however, Father Aidan wished to make a pilgrimage to the Holy City where he could pay tribute to and be inspired by the lives of the saints and martyrs and walk along the same paths once trod upon by the Apostles John and Paul. He would pray at the blessed shrines and visit the museum to behold the holy icons and treasures of his faith. What he most looked forward to, however, was attending services at Saint Paul's Cathedral, the largest and most famous house of worship in the Holy Land.
The newly ordained Father Aidan Powell was accompanied to the airport by his aging parents. His mother, who was immensely proud that her only son had grown into such a fine man, wiped the tears of joy from her eyes with her handkerchief. So many young men and women died during the tragic conflict. Of those who survived, many went insane; others joined the lawless gangs that preyed upon law-abiding members of society. Thankfully, her Aidan had chosen to follow a different course. He sought a way to a better life through the spiritual teachings of the saints and apostles. Now he was a priest himself, a respected man of the cloth.
"Son," Leonard Powell began and then smiled, "or do I have to call you father now?"
"No," Aidan replied with his deep, masculine laughter. "I'll still call you father; you can continue to call me son."
"I just wanted to tell you how proud your mother and I are. You've been a good son, and we have no doubt you'll make a fine priest."
"I couldn't have done it if not for you and Mom. Even through the worst of times, I knew I could always count on your love and support. I only hope I can deal with my spiritual children with as much compassion, patience and understanding as you two have shown me."
Hearing her son's words, Mrs. Powell openly sobbed into her handkerchief. Mr. Powell was no less moved by the priest's heartfelt admission. After a final tearful farewell, Father Aidan boarded the transatlantic air shuttle. Once onboard, he removed his jacket, took his MusiCard out of his valise and sat back in the padded seat, making himself comfortable, knowing it would be at least several hours before he arrived at his destination.
The young priest gazed out his window at the receding Massachusetts coastline. It was ironic, he thought, that so many early settlers in America had crossed the Atlantic to escape religious persecution in Europe, and now he was crossing the same ocean seeking spiritual comfort—a modern-day pilgrim in an airborne Mayflower.
Father Aidan smiled at the analogy. Then he selected a song from the menu on his MusiCard, closed his eyes and meditated to the music of Freddie Mercury and Queen.
* * *
As the AutoTaxi raced along its track, conveying Father Aidan from the airport to his hotel, the novice priest studied the surrounding countryside. During the most recent Great War, most of the populated centers of the world had been either partially or totally destroyed. So much of this once-beautiful country still bore the ugly scars of battle. Every town and city through which he passed had its share of charred ruins and rubble. The Holy City was no exception. Fortunately, once peace was finally restored, faithful followers from every continent donated materials and volunteered their time to build a new city, a Mecca that attracted spiritual pilgrims from every corner of the globe.
The Third World War was quite different from the two previous world wars and countless smaller conflicts that had preceded it. There had been no heroic dogfights between pilots, no mighty warships or aircraft carriers, no submarines firing torpedoes at unsuspecting ships, no boots on the ground and no great battlefields where armed soldiers—little more than cannon fodder—fought each other in mortal hand-to-hand combat.
Instead, the third Great War had been conducted with terrorism. Through cowardly acts of violence meant to instill fear in the hearts of innocent men, women and children, the terrorists targeted not only enemy combatants but also the most cherished of the world's institutions. The deadly bombs and fires did more than kill and maim millions of people; they nearly destroyed the world's culture and history.
In Father Aidan's own country, the damage had not been nearly as extensive as it was in Europe, yet it was still doubtful if the United States would ever fully recover from her losses. Within a particularly devastating three-year period, most of the nation's landmarks were destroyed: the Statue of Liberty, Mount Rushmore, the Washington Monument, the Lincoln Memorial, the White House, the Golden Gate Bridge, the Empire State Building, Independence Hall and so many more. All the old buildings and monuments carefully preserved for generations were destroyed in an attempt to take away not only his country's past but also its hope for the future.
The terrorists had honed their craft. They knew where people were most vulnerable. That is where they hit them, and they always hit them hard. Art museums were blown up, destroying centuries' worth of priceless, irreplaceable paintings and sculptures including the Mona Lisa, arguably the world's most beloved masterpiece.
Sporting events were subject to attack, starting with that first deadly explosion at Yankee Stadium. After months of bombings of open fields, coliseums, stadiums and arenas, sports such as baseball, football, soccer, basketball and even the Olympics were abandoned. This loss was accompanied by a similar loss of other forms of entertainment: television, movies, live theater and literature.
By taking away these simple and necessary pleasures, the terrorists hoped to demoralize their enemy, and they nearly succeeded.
Music proved to be the one great healer the terrorists could not destroy. Despite the heartless and mindless slaughter of rock stars, country-western singers, jazz musicians and members of orchestras and opera companies, the terrorists could not remove music from people's hearts and minds. Even after the majority of the world's recordings, radios and live performances ceased to be heard, people would gather in their underground shelters or public safety centers, join hands and sing the songs that sustained them.
Father Aidan often wished he could forget those dreadful years that he and his family had spent in a living hell, yet it was through those harrowing times that his faith had been forged. He remembered the cherished songs that had "played" in his memory and helped him survive, to hold on until the end of the Great War.
So many painful memories came back to Father Aidan as he rode past the countless cemeteries, all of which contained a large number of "common graves"—huge pits dug to bury the assorted limbs, torsos and corpses so badly mutilated that the victims would forever remain unknown in their final resting places. Of course, those remains might have been identified by examination of fingerprints, dental work, DNA samples or any number of the forensic methods used before the Great War. But once the bombings and killings escalated and reached a fevered pitch, no one bothered to identify the dead; they were too busy trying to save the living.
Finally, the AutoTaxi came to a stop. Its door automatically opened, and Father Aidan got out. He took his bag from the luggage rack and entered the Woodstock Hotel. Its lobby was filled with portraits of famous musicians drawn from memory by survivors of the Great War. Father Aidan recognized many of the faces even though the drawings were somewhat crude: Buddy Holly, Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Mick Jagger and so many others whose music he loved.
After unpacking his bag, Father Aidan left the Woodstock and ventured out to explore the Holy City. He visited the shrines dedicated to various saints and gazed in admiration at the monuments erected in memory of the blessed martyrs.
For more than six hours, he toured the museum built to house holy relics carefully preserved by people hiding in their shelters. Those cherished icons represented a history of the new religion and included such revered items as a 45-rpm recording of "Love Me Tender" by Elvis Presley, an eight-track tape cartridge of High Tides and Green Grass by the Rolling Stones, a cassette tape of The Joshua Tree by U2, a compact disc of Yourself or Someone Like You by Matchbox 20 and an antique mp3 player with a collection of Green Day classics. Another room contained such treasures as a guitar pick once used by Eric Clapton, a ticket stub from a Creedence Clearwater Revival concert and, encased in glass in a place of honor, a long-playing recording of Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band.
Father Aidan looked at his watch. It was almost time for services to begin. He walked to the intersection of Abbey Road and Penny Lane, where the imposing Saint Paul's Cathedral stood, located in the heart of the Holy City, which had risen from the ashes of the former Liverpool in northern England. A feeling of tranquility descended upon him as he entered the cathedral through the massive wooden doors. He took a seat in one of the front pews and waited for the start of the service.
The cathedral was an architectural masterpiece. Its stained-glass windows, depicting the life of the Apostle, Saint Paul McCartney, were a wonder to behold. Above the altar was a huge golden cross superimposed with a peace sign, an emblem combining the symbol of the old religion with that of the new.
Profoundly inspired, Father Aidan lowered his head and began to pray:
"Imagine there's no heaven. It's easy if you try. No hell below us, above us only sky. You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one. I hope someday you'll join us, and the world will live as one."
When the Holy Father entered the cathedral, the congregation stood as a sign of respect. The elderly priest who led the service that day had been a famous musician long before the Great War. In his youth, he had appeared on stage with many of the holy saints to whom the pilgrims in the pews now prayed. Father Mike welcomed them. He shared with the congregation some of his experiences in the days prior to, during and immediately after the Great War, and the people were mesmerized by his words.
Then Father Mike went to the lectern and opened his bible.
"Today, I want to share with you the words of the good book. I will read a few brief excerpts from the gospel according to Saint Bon Jovi.
"Now I can't say my name and tell you where I am. I wanna blow myself away; don't know if I can. I wish that I could be in some other time and place, with someone else's soul and someone else's face. Tuesday just might go my way. It can't get worse than yesterday. Thursdays, Fridays ain't been kind, but somehow, I'll survive. Hey, man, I'm alive. I'm taking each day and night at a time. Today I'm down, but I know I'll get by. Hey, man, I'm gonna live my life, gonna pick up all the pieces and what's left of my pride. I'm feeling like a Monday, but someday I'll be Saturday night. Someday I'll be Saturday night. I'll be back on my feet. I'll be doing all right. It may not be tomorrow, baby; that's okay. I ain't goin' down; I'm gonna find a way.
Some of the pilgrims rose from their pews and vigorously applauded; others fell to their knees and wept as Father Mike read those words of inspiration. All of the congregants remembered only too well what it had been like to "feel like a Monday" during those long years of the Great War. Once the congregation fell silent and returned to their seats, Father Mike turned the page and read an excerpt from a second passage:
"We've gotta hold on to what we've got. Doesn't make a difference if we make it or not. We've got each other and that's a lot for love. We'll give it a shot. Oh, we're halfway there. Oh, living on a prayer. Take my hand and we'll make it, I swear. Oh, living on a prayer."
Father Mike fell silent for several moments. Then he closed his book, stood before the assembled pilgrims and lifted up his hands.
"Now let us pray," he said.
The elderly priest looked out over the bowed heads before him and began:
"When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom: let it be. And in my hour of darkness, she is standing right in front of me, speaking words of wisdom: let it be. And when the broken-hearted people living in the world agree, there will be an answer: let it be. For though they may be parted, there is still a chance that they will see. There will be an answer: let it be. And when the night is cloudy, there is still a light that shines on me. Shine until tomorrow; let it be. I wake up to the sound of music. Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom: let it be."
Father Mike ended his prayer, and the congregation, as one, responded, "Amen. Let it be." Then from beneath the altar, the priest took out his guitar and played for the pilgrims as the choir sang Father Aidan's favorite hymn:
"Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away. Now it looks as though they're here to stay. Oh, I believe in yesterday ...."
Father Aiden Powell wiped a tear from his eye and lowered his head in a prayer of thanksgiving. The Great War had been a devastating holocaust, yet he and his family had managed to stay alive. More importantly, the remaining population of the world had been blessed because their music had survived.
"Someday I'll be Saturday Night" and "Livin' on a Prayer" written by Jon BonJovi, Richie Sambora and Desmond Child. © April Music, Inc., Desmobile Music Company, Inc., Polygram Music Publishing, Bon Jovi Publishing.
"Imagine" written by John Lennon. © Yoko Ono, Sean Ono Lennon and Julian Lennon.
"Let It Be" and "Yesterday" written by John Lennon and Paul McCartney. © Paul McCartney, Yoko Ono, Sean Ono Lennon and Julian Lennon.
Salem and I have long worshipped John and Paul (and Bon Jovi).
