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The Messiah
“We all have that special dream when we are young,” said Bishop Kelly.
The others at the table murmured, nodded.
“There is no Christian boy,” the Bishop continued, “who does not some night wonder: am I Him? Is this the Second Coming at long last, and am I It? What, what, oh, what, dear God, if I were Jesus? How grand!”
The Priests, the Ministers, and the one lonely Rabbi laughed gently, remembering things from their own childhoods, their own wild dreams, and being great fools.
“I suppose,” said the young Priest, Father Niven, “that Jewish boys imagine themselves Moses?”
“No, no, my dear friend,” said Rabbi Nittler. “The Messiah! The Messiah!”
More quiet laughter, from all.
“Of course,” said Father Niven out of his fresh pink-and-cream face, “how stupid of me. Christ wasn’t the Messiah, was he? And your people are still waiting for Him to arrive. Strange. Oh, the ambiguities.”
“And nothing more ambiguous than this.” Bishop Kelly rose to escort them all out onto a terrace which had a view of the Martian hills, the ancient Martian towns, the old highways, the rivers of dust, and Earth, sixty million miles away, shining with a clear light in this alien sky.
“Did we ever in our wildest dreams,” said the Reverend Smith, “imagine that one day each of us would have a Baptist Church, a St. Mary’s Chapel, a Mount Sinai Synagogue here, here on Mars?”
The answer was no, no, softly, from them all.
Their quiet was interrupted by another voice which moved among them. Father Niven, as they stood at the balustrade, had tuned his transistor radio to check the hour. News was being broadcast from the small new American-Martian wilderness colony below. They listened:
“—rumored near the town. This is the first Martian reported in our community this year. Citizens are urged to respect any such visitor. If—”
Father Niven shut the news off.
“Our elusive congregation,” sighed the Reverend Smith. “I must confess, I came to Mars not only to work with Christians, but hoping to invite one Martian to Sunday supper, to learn of his theologies, his needs.”
“We are still too new to them,” said Father Lipscomb. “In another year or so I think they will understand we’re not buffalo hunters in search of pelts. Still, it is hard to keep one’s curiosity in hand. After all, our Mariner photographs indicated no life whatsoever here. Yet life there is, very mysterious and half-resembling the human.”
“Half, Your Eminence?” The Rabbi mused over his coffee. “I feel they are even more human than ourselves. They have let us come in. They have hidden in the hills, coming among us only on occasion, we guess, disguised as Earthmen—”
“Do you really believe they have telepathic powers, then, and hypnotic abilities which allow them to walk in our towns, fooling us with masks and visions, and none of us the wiser?”
“I do so believe.”
“Then this,” said the Bishop, handing around brandies and crème-de-menthes, “is a true evening of frustrations. Martians who will not reveal themselves so as to be Saved by Us the Enlightened—”
Many smiles at this.
“—and Second Comings of Christ delayed for several thousand years. How long must we wait, O Lord?”
“As for myself,” said young Father Niven, “I never wished to be Christ, the Second Coming. I just always wanted, with all my heart, to meet Him. Ever since I was eight I have thought on that. It might well be the first reason I became a priest.”
“To have the inside track just in case He ever did arrive again?” suggested the Rabbi, kindly.
The young Priest grinned and nodded. The others felt the urge to reach and touch him, for he had touched some vague small sweet nerve in each. They felt immensely gentle.
“With your permission, Rabbi, gentlemen,” said Bishop Kelly, raising his glass. “To the First Coming of the Messiah, or the Second Coming of Christ. May they be more than some ancient, some foolish dreams.”
They drank and were quiet.
The Bishop blew his nose and wiped his eyes.
The rest of the evening was like many another for the Priests, the Reverends, and the Rabbi. They fell to playing cards and arguing St. Thomas Aquinas, but failed under the onslaught of Rabbi Nittler’s educated logic. They named him Jesuit, drank nightcaps, and listened to the late radio news:
“—it is feared this Martian may feel trapped in our community. Anyone meeting him should turn away, so as to let the Martian pass. Curiosity seems his motive. No cause for alarm. That concludes our—”
While heading for the door, the Priests, Ministers, and Rabbi discussed translations they had made into various tongues from Old and New Testaments. It was then that young Father Niven surprised them:
“Did you know I was once asked to write a screenplay on the Gospels? They needed an ending for their film!”
“Surely,” protested the Bishop, “there’s only one ending to Christ’s life?”
“But, Your Holiness, the Four Gospels tell it with four variations. I compared. I grew excited. Why? Because I rediscovered something I had almost forgotten. The Last Supper isn’t really the Last Supper!”
“Dear me, what is it then?”
“Why, Your Holiness, the first of several, sir. The first of several! After the Crucifixion and Burial of Christ, did not Simon-called-Peter, with the Disciples, fish the Sea of Galilee?”
“They did.”
“And their nets were filled with a miracle of fish?”
“They were.”
“And seeing on the shore of Galilee a pale light, did they not land and approach what seemed a bed of white-hot coals on which fresh-caught fish were baking?”
“Yes, ah, yes,” said the Reverend Smith.
“And there beyond the glow of the soft charcoal fire, did they not sense a Spirit Presence and call out to it?”
“They did.”
“Getting no answer, did not Simon-called-Peter whisper again, ‘Who is there?’ And the unrecognized Ghost upon the shore of Galilee put out its hand into the firelight, and in the palm of that hand, did they not see the mark where the nail had gone in, the stigmata that would never heal?
“They would have fled, but the Ghost spoke and said, ‘Take of these fish and feed thy brethren.’ And Simon-called-Peter took the fish that baked upon the white-hot coals and fed the Disciples. And Christ’s frail Ghost then said, ‘Take of my word and tell it among the nations of all the world and preach therein forgiveness of sin.’
“And then Christ left them. And, in my screenplay, I had Him walk along the shore of Galilee toward the horizon. And when anyone walks toward the horizon, he seems to ascend, yes? For all land rises at a distance. And He walked on along the shore until He was just a small mote, far away. And then they could see Him no more.
“And as the sun rose upon the ancient world, all His thousand footprints that lay along the shore blew away in the dawn winds and were as nothing.
“And the Disciples left the ashes of that bed of coals to scatter in sparks, and with the taste of Real and Final and True Last Supper upon their mouths, went away. And in my screenplay, I had my CAMERA drift high above to watch the Disciples move some north, some south, some to the east, to tell the world what Needed to Be Told