Chapter Text
Lawrence’s faith was not reshaped the way he was promised it would when God tested him. The challenges and experiences he’d faced with the election of a new pope were eye-opening, but they were not transformative. He lowered himself to his knees the same way every night, at the edge of his bed, and his fingers still shook the same when his mind wandered and his prayer faltered.
A voice in the back of his mind whispered harsh criticisms and impossible doubts day and night, unrelenting and unforgiving in its cruelty. It promised the downfall of not only the Church, but also the people’s faith. Their belief in him and the cardinals, of Benítez as the pope, and of God Himself. Echoes of hatred and division rang through his head whenever he lay down to sleep.
Some part of Lawrence begged himself to write the voice off as a challenge from the Devil - a determination of hell-wrought lies that clutched themselves to his sleeves and stank of sin. Surely, someone should smell it - the scent of scandal and shame, and surely they should get it over with already and throw him out to the wolves and denounce him in the name of Jesus Christ. Otherwise he might suffer with anticipation for too long and drop dead from the stress.
Deep within he felt this truly was God’s will. A test of sorts, for him to suffer long and slow through diplomatic meetings in which members of the Roman Curia made in His image shouted at each other over the allocation of Christmas vigil donations and whomever would benefit best from them.
“All I’m saying is that, even with the excess of donations compared to our original expectations,” Cardinal Ramirez argued from where he was sitting at the head of the table, “We cannot afford to establish new benefits for all the sisters. There is simply not enough after our primary goals are covered.”
“Then perhaps we should change our primary goals,” Bellini suggested for the third time. He sat calmly opposite Lawrence, but his voice was tinged with a frustration he often couldn’t hold back when it came to their colleagues. “I personally think we could dedicate less towards mission spending money.”
“Well, we can’t base our budget around your personal beliefs, Cardinal. Not only do our missions rely on extra funds to help the people, but it also stimulates their local economy. Are you saying we need the money more here than those in third world countries?”
Bellini’s eye twitched, the first hint of annoyance he had shown all day, “Not ‘we’, but the Sisters of Charity. And do you really think the missions need all that money?”
A vein popped in Ramirez’s forehead. He leaned forward and spoke with a dangerous rage, “Just what are you implying here?”
A chair scraped against the marble floor as Benítez stood. When Lawrence looked up at him, a halo of lustrous sunbeams outlined his silhouette. He spoke softly, “Cardinals, let’s not argue over trivial matters. Adoration will begin soon and I’d like to be there on time.”
Even the Secretariat for the Economy could not argue with the Pope. Ramirez nodded silently in acquiescence, though his brows remained furrowed with anger. Bellini took the hint as well and leaned back in his chair.
Benítez spoke again, “I’d like to know what you think, Dean.”
Lawrence glanced up at him again in surprise. His Holiness looked down at him with an expecting grace. Taking a breath, he said, “We have less active missions in the winter. The funds from the latest mass could go towards the sisters’ travels as they are expected to make international appearances in February. Then we can expect to dedicate more towards the missions from the Easter surplus.”
“Consider it done. I think this meeting is over.”
Lawrence’s momentary shield against the sun stepped away from the table and pushed his chair in with a hurry. Pope Innocent XIV was out the door before anyone else could speak.
“Well then,” Bellini was the first to push himself up out of his chair, “That was highly unproductive.”
He circled the table to help Lawrence out of his own seat, allowing him to grip onto the fresh cloth of his recently laundered robes. Ramirez and the rest of his Council stood up to leave as well, muttering amongst themselves with displeasure.
“I must say it is nice His Holiness has a soft spot for you,” Bellini said, “You can be frustratingly neutral but at least you’ll vouch for my ideas.”
Lawrence shook his head, “These meetings can’t be good for my heart. I don’t even want to be here, let alone decide such matters as this. The role of Dean is unfit for these conversations.”
“I’m glad to have you here. It is nice not having to stand alone against these buffoons anymore.”
“Even you have the final say above Ramirez,” Lawrence reasoned, “I don’t see why it needs to be so complicated.”
“After the conclave, everything became a challenge.” Bellini swept all his papers together and ruffled through them distractedly, “His Holiness was kind enough to let me keep my position, but not everyone believes I should still have it. As I lost votes in the election, I also lost the respect of our peers. Some also believe they should retaliate against Benítez’s win, a sort of rebellion for Tedesco. Not to mention the rumors of your interferences.”
“My what?”
Bellini looked at him over the rims of his glasses, calculating with a hint of surprise, as if he had expected Lawrence to understand his meaning. “My friend, surely even you know what they are saying about the pair of you.”
A shroud of dread settled over him. It carried the same weight as his mozzetta the day the conclave began, heavy on his shoulders and a dragging reminder of his duty. It pained him to ask, “What are they saying?”
Bellini sighed. He looked around the room, confirming all the others had left and the two of them were alone. He said, “Your introduction to Benítez was an unwelcome surprise to most of us. By then we were convinced we were already familiar with all the candidates for the papacy. And then, one by one, these candidates were ousted in one way or another. You were somehow involved in all these events. Benítez should have had no chance. And yet, his votes grew. This man who had only lived in war-torn countries knew exactly what to say, what to appeal to, at exactly the right times.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Lawrence exclaimed, “Do they believe I was somehow responsible for the bombings and mass shootings? In what world would I do all that just for a chance to influence the voting?”
“Hey, I’m not saying I believe them,” Bellini raised his hands in subtle surrender, “Only what they’re seeing: That you broke the seal, engaged in dramatic expositions, and, of course, your devotion.”
“Devotion. Of course..?” Lawrence echoed. He found himself nearly speechless with the revelations and couldn’t bring himself to think straight.
“Well, you spend an exorbitant amount of time together. What little free time he has left over is yours and, still, he brings you to all his meetings despite your position. Like you said, there’s no reason for you to be here. What they’re really thinking is ‘How can two men have such undying trust and loyalty to each other if they’ve only known each other for mere months?’”
“I…”
“Listen, it’s not a big deal,” Bellini looked at him, the comprehension in his eyes so deep Lawrence pondered what it was that made him seem as if he truly understood, “Don’t worry about it. They will talk regardless.”
“Thank you, Aldo,” Lawrence started for the door, “I think I’ll go to adoration today, will I see you there?”
“No, I have to write up this report then head to another meeting,” Bellini followed in close pursuit. As they entered the hall and the door closed behind them he said, “If you’d like, we can have dinner together.”
Lawrence said, “I planned to eat with Vincent already.”
“I see,” Bellini gave him a knowing look, “Lunch sometime this week, then.”
Nodding, Lawrence headed down the hall, distracted in his thoughts and unhearing of Bellini’s retreating steps down the other end.
In his room, he pondered a nap to refresh himself after hours of long meetings. Fearing sleeping through the blessed sacrament, he sat on the edge of his bed and attempted to clear his thoughts before heading out again. Lawrence eventually walked into the Blessed Sacrament Chapel a half hour after the adoration service began.
At the base of the steps leading up the altar, the thurible hung from its chain and allowed clouds of incense to float into the chapel air where they dissipated into the scenery of the ceiling. The Eucharist sat in its throne upon the Communion Table, basking in the spotlight angled downwards and across the Tabernacle.
The pews were half-full with a weekday crowd, a diverse crowd of dedicated participants - fellow cardinals, Sisters of Charity, men and women dressed in business attire, ties and jackets loosened after a long day’s work. Small coughs and sniffles occasionally broke the silence in the chapel.
Benítez sat by himself on the left side of the altar in his freshly pressed white robes. The seats surrounding him were empty in a sign of security and respect. He was in the position most people found him in, head bowed, thumb and index finger thumbing the worn rosary from his time in the seminary in Manila. Lawrence averted his eyes, embarrassed to linger on such an intimate gesture.
He sat across the chapel from Benítez, to the right of the altar, and bowed his own head to attempt to pray. Still, the prayers did not come easily. He thought, Lord, I thank you for the opportunity to recognize Your Holy presence on this day. Give me the integrity to strengthen my faith and the ambition to pursue the intentions You have made for me.
After the plea his mind became empty. No matter how hard he tried, Lawrence couldn’t summon a single prayer, let alone a righteous train of thought. Another one of God’s humorous tests, the voice in his head insisted. How cruel.
Looking around, he felt a deep-seated shame growing through his chest. It was easy enough for him to excuse himself as less efficient than his fellow members of the Curia, a majority of them lived to pray and celebrate God’s name.
But what of the others? Those whose vocations laid elsewhere. His fellow business people. A man kneeled reverently three rows away from him, in the middle of the chapel, lips moving in silent prayer and eyes focused deeply on the Body of Christ. Even someone like this could be better than himself.
Disgrace sputtered through him. His mind supplied: Not that we dare to classify or compare ourselves with some of those who are commending themselves. But when they measure themselves by one another and compare themselves with one another, they are without understanding. 2 Corinthians 10:12.
He thought to ask forgiveness for commending not himself but his status as Cardinal, a member of the Roman Curia, one that may be employed to act in God’s favor, but was no closer to God than any other person.
Focusing again on the Monstrance, Lawrence attempted to follow the man’s example in hopes of creating his own prayer. He did appreciate the beauty the Vatican was allowed to possess. Less fortunate churches were not gifted the opportunities of art they so often indulged in. Although the Eucharist was holy enough on its own, the spiral of golden rays around it were breathtaking each and every time he set eyes upon it.
In his peripheral, Benítez was his own work of art in the chapel. The outfit he wore for Eucharistic Adoration did not call for the zucchetto, so his dark hair remained loose and free and fell forward to cover his face. The lock of hair Lawrence was so fond of had not yet escaped its hold, but he could see it fighting to fall just above Benítez’s eye. His dark hair and the tone of his skin were a divine contrast against the white of his robes.
The Pope was still entranced in his own prayer. His posture hadn’t changed since Lawrence last looked at him, but his fingers now moved through the third decade of his rosary. Benítez did not mouth his prayers like the businessman but sat perfectly still, eyes closed, as if a statue.
Lawrence thought that if an artist could perfectly capture the essence of Vincent Benítez in this moment, the Holy Trinity Itself would fall into the sin of idolatry.
The moment broke in an instant. Lawrence suddenly found himself staring into the eyes of Pope Innocent XIV, widened with a sort of curiosity and distracted surprise. Warm brown irises fixated on him and soon an understanding clear as day came over them. Lawrence flushed with the realization that he’d been caught staring, with a gaze so intense it had been felt across the chapel and over the presence of the Lord.
Hurriedly, he dropped his eyes and begged for an escape. This time the Lord was kind and offered a gift in the form of His teachings. He took the Bible from its housing on the back of the pew in front of him and flipped to a random page in hopes of an eye-opening passage.
The craving of a sluggard will be the death of him, because his hands refuse to work. All day long he craves for more, but the righteous give without sparing. The sacrifice of the wicked is detestable - how much more so when brought with evil intent! A false witness will perish, but a careful listener will testify successfully. The wicked put up a bold front, but the upright give thought to their ways.
So this was his punishment. For Lawrence to find himself made an example of in Proverbs. He briefly thought to open to the New Testament the next time he was looking for any sort of reprieve.
Minutes later he offered himself the chance to glance up again. Benítez was still looking at him, a kindness in his eyes, but his fingers had circled back to the beginning of his rosary as if he had not stopped praying at all. This time Lawrence didn’t look away. His lips twitched with a hint of a grin that Benítez returned with a soft smile of his own.
The tolling of the hourly bells broke their moment. Even Benítez, a typical painting of tranquility and cognizance, jumped at the sounds. Lawrence knew their rings by heart but he couldn’t bring himself to appreciate them as he did with the largest bell at Saint Peter’s Basilica, the one that rang only on certain occasions, like most recently at Christmas or months ago when the conclave had finally ended.
He watched Benítez finish his prayer with a final sign of the cross before standing to return to the altar. The final choreography of adoration had always been Lawrence’s favorite. Shame kicked in his chest again, that he would prefer the aesthetic wonders of adoration over the marvels of prayer and the goodness of the Lord. To watch the pope wrap the monstrance to avoid tainting it, and to see him return the Eucharist to its home, marked with Jesus praised by the apostles and surrounded by angels, was a blessing in itself.
The canvas altarpiece behind the Tabernacle portrayed the Holy Trinity looking upon it. As Benítez approached it, he looked so in place he nearly faded into the painting and became their object of affection.
Typically one should leave the chapel after restoring the Eucharist to its home, but Pope Innocent XIV was a man of the people. After the golden doors of the Tabernacle were closed, he stepped off the altar and circled around to chat with those leaving out the main doors. Lawrence stayed where he sat and watched the interactions.
“Thank you for coming.”
“I hope to see you next time.”
“I see you’re doing better this week. I had kept you in my prayers.”
It was clear Benítez felt more at peace here with the people than in meetings. Unlike earlier, he talked friendly and casually without hesitation. Most everyone shook his hand with an enlightened glee before they were gone, but he didn’t turn down the occasional hug, either, welcoming them in with a warm embrace.
The businessman was the last to leave. His approach was different from the rest, coming close to grab onto Benítez’s arms and pulling him close. He spoke so softly that Lawrence couldn’t make out the words, but he could tell from tone alone how enthusiastic he seemed. Benítez matched his tone and spoke quietly as well. He chatted excitedly with the businessman and when he heard another piece of news he pulled the man forward into a hug.
Lawrence sat up with a start. Benítez was far from touch-averse, but it wasn’t often he initiated exaggerated gestures such as this one. He watched them pull apart and his eyes lingered on the way the businessman’s hand gratefully squeezed Benítez’s before finally stepping outside the chapel and leaving.
As Benítez turned away from the backs of the leaving guests, Lawrence forced himself to look back down at his bible to avoid getting caught staring again.
If anyone turns a deaf ear to my instruction, even their prayers are detestable.
Lawrence sighed. The devil laughed inside his head, its cruel echo resounding in his ears. The Lord had no retort.
“May I sit, Your Eminence?”
“Your Holiness!” Lawrence exclaimed. He gestured at the empty space beside himself, “Please.”
Benítez had crept up with silent footsteps he was still unused to. He took the spot and turned to peer at him. They sat together for a few uncomfortable moments while he took Lawrence’s situation into account. His eyes roved over the bible in his lap, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of the page he was on, and eventually the verse Lawrence found himself struggling with.
“I’m glad to see you here,” he said, “How did you find the proceedings?”
“Terrific, as usual. Adoration never fails to render me speechless,” Lawrence said.
The way it also rendered him scatterbrained and empty, he didn’t mention. Benítez had a way of understanding what he meant, anyway. He took Lawrence’s hand in his and held tightly, “Have you still been struggling with prayer?”
Lawrence couldn’t bring himself to feel annoyed by it. He gave a tight-lipped grin, self-deprecating in its truth, “Is it that obvious?”
“Only to the trained eye,” Benítez assured him. It would have been obvious in the way he caught Lawrence staring earlier, but at least he was kind about it. “You come off composed in front of big groups, but I find that, in one-on-one situations, it’s quite easy to know what you’re thinking.”
Lawrence avoided looking at him. He turned his eyes back to the bible and studied the creases his fingers had made on the pages. “I’m afraid I’m not quite sure how to fix it,” he admitted.
“Oh, Thomas,” Benítez shifted and Lawrence saw his knees turn to face him more fully, “I don’t think prayer is something you can fix. Improve, yes, but fix? Perhaps not. Tell me, what about your prayer is broken?”
“I- I’m not sure,” he repeated, “It’s as though my mind goes blank whenever I try. I cannot even think of the words.”
“Do you think of anything at all?”
Not really. Mostly nothing. His own shame, sometimes. Sometimes, thick locks of brown hair and a matching set of eyes. Familiar hands stretching the fabric of a dove-white cassock and perhaps reaching towards the buttons.
Lawrence shook his head.
“Your homily before the conclave began. You had told me it was unscripted and it was as though the Holy Spirit spoke through you. Was that not prayer?”
It was. But I was not alone. You were there , Lawrence thought. He could not speak it. Instead, he said, “Often I try to speak with God. I cannot bring myself to do so, for whatever the reason. It feels as though I am in cohorts with the Devil. It has worsened my temper and I have provoked innocent people to make myself feel better.”
“Do you feel as if these interactions with others are genuine?” Benítez asked.
“I’m not sure. I have always felt frustration with people, especially my coworkers. What manager hasn’t?”
“And do you feel frustration, as a human being? With your fellow cardinals? With the bishops?”
“Of course.”
“As do I,” Benítez said, “It is only natural. I believe you are influenced by your title. You think you have a role to play, and you must uphold this appearance at all times, do you agree?”
“Yes,” Lawrence nodded, “But it all seems artificial. An act. I have these thoughts - terrible thoughts - and I cannot stop myself from thinking them. Sometimes I fear it is not the Devil, but my own soul that creates them.”
“And if I were to say they were indeed your soul?”
Lawrence blinked. He hadn’t expected the words. “Then I would implore you to reconsider my position again. The Dean of Cardinals and a Bishop of the Vatican should not devise these thoughts.”
“Your Eminence, might I hear these thoughts?”
Images ran through Lawrence’s head, impure pictures held back in an album in his mind, that he vowed to never pursue in the House of the Lord, let alone Saint Peter’s Basilica in conversation with the Pope. He shook his head, “What sorts of prayer do you have? I am always inspired by your dedication to it.”
Benítez placed his fingers underneath Lawrence’s chin and gently tilted his head up so they could look into each other’s eyes. He said, “I know you know better than this, Thomas. To me, prayer is the closest form of communication with God; it is completely personal and to attempt to imitate someone else’s is to put up a wall.”
His eyes were deeply imploring and dug perfectly into Lawrence’s soul. Not reprimanding, but begging him to understand. Frustration poured through Lawrence, but Benítez’s touch disallowed him from clenching his hands into fists. He snapped, “Then what can I do?”
“Thomas,” Benítez squeezed his hand in warning disapproval. His eyes sharpened with admonishment that made Lawrence feel the need to apologize immediately. He said, “Would you like to hear a verse I’ve been appreciative of recently?”
Lawrence nodded wordlessly. He felt the tips of Benítez’s fingers move with the bobs of his head.
Letting go of his hand and withdrawing the support under Lawrence’s jaw, he reached for the Bible resting in his lap. His agile fingers flipped deftly through the pages with a practiced ease and paused only when they reached the Gospel of Luke. Benítez glanced up at him, “Can you see from there?”
Without waiting for a response, he scooted closer. The cloth of their thighs pressed together and Lawrence felt his body heat through the fabric. He forced himself to stay still enough to gaze down at the verse.
Even though they were close enough to read the verse to themselves, Benítez read it to Lawrence softly, as though telling him a bedtime story,
“Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Doesn’t he leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it? And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders and goes home. Then he calls his friends and neighbors together and says, ‘Rejoice with me; I have found my lost sheep.’”
Lawrence looked up at Benítez again. His side profile was softly calm and the lines around his eyes crinkled when he noticed in his peripheral that Lawrence was staring, studying, committing every feature and line to memory. He continued with a small smile,
“ I tell you that in the same way there will be more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who do not need to repent. ”
When he finished reading, Benítez closed the book and placed it back on its shelf on the pew. He turned to steadily meet Lawrence’s gaze head-on and grabbed hold of his hand again. He said, “Tell me, how do you feel about the Parable of the Lost Sheep?”
Lawrence stared at their entwined fingers. Linked together, it felt more intimate between the two of them, far different from the usual respectful hold of prayer they adopted. Vaguely, he said, “I am well aware of the meaning of the story. It’s a must-read for every Catholic child.”
“We know each other well,” Benítez said, “You would understand why I would have a special connection with it. And I would understand if you felt a connection, too.”
“I do. I believe everyone would.”
“I agree. But if everyone was a lost sheep, who would be the ninety-nine righteous persons without sin?”
Lawrence felt as though he was back in Bible study, sitting in the front of class and eagerly raising his hand before the others so the nun in charge would like him best. He said, “Aside from Mary and Jesus, there would be no one.”
“Exactly,” Benítez nodded, and Lawrence felt a surge of pride, not unlike the ones he’d had sixty-five years ago, in the basement of his hometown church and beneath the praising eyes of the nun. “Sin is a part of the human experience. To live and fully appreciate God’s gift to us is to experience sin.”
Lawrence clutched tight at Benítez’s hand. He said, “But I don’t want to live in shame anymore. It’s eating me up inside.”
Benítez paused. He rubbed his thumb along the length of Lawrence’s and gazed down to where they were connected. Eventually, he said, “Although your thoughts are a part of you, they are hardly an accurate reflection of your character. If you were to visualize demonic ideals, as an example, what truly matters is your reaction, your responses to them. Even Jesus Himself considered the Devil’s temptations. Would you hold yourself to a higher standard than Him?”
Lawrence’s eyes widened. He shook his head. Of course the Pope would utilize his own techniques against him, calling upon the actions of Jesus Christ’s humanity in comparison.
“Good. I would like to assign you an honorary penance. It will be easy. I want you to relearn the basics of the rosary. One decade a day. Can you do that for me?”
“Is that all?” Lawrence asked. It seemed too easy. He practically already prayed the rosary daily anyway. The Pope was kind, but he was never one to underestimate the abilities of another, especially one of his managers.
“One more thing,” Pope Innocent reached into a pocket of his robes and drew out his rosary, “I want you to pray for me.”
“For you?”
“Yes, it seems as though you have placed me on a pedestal. However, I am human, imperfect, just like you. The sooner you recognize this, the better.” He let go of Lawrence and quickly placed the rosary in his still open hand. “And I want you to use this.”
“Wait,” Lawrence attempted to give the rosary back, “I know what this rosary means to you, I have my own.”
“No,” Pope Innocent refused to take it, “You will have more use of it then I will at this point.”
“But-”
“I’m afraid dinner will be later than planned, perhaps 8?” Benítez rose from his seat. He offered his arm to Lawrence, “I am already late for Benediction.”
Lawrence allowed himself to be helped up. He refused to look at the tension he put on the cassock and forced himself to make eye contact instead, “I’ll see you then.”
They headed their own ways, but the nearly silent click of Benítez’s shoes against the floor rang in Lawrence’s ears until long after they separated, when he undressed and changed into casual attire in his room and forced himself to stop thinking of the other.
The rosary claimed a spot on his bedside table, faded brown standing out against the dark grain of the table’s recently polished wood. It looked as if it was right where it belonged, Lawrence thought, and he mourned that he would have to give it back in less than a week.
He considered doing his penance quickly before it was time to meet Benítez for dinner but decided against it. If he was going to do it right, there was no need to rush. And still, he was unsure of how to pray for him, the holiest man he’d ever known, and a thousand times better than he could even begin to be. Neither the Lord nor the Devil offered any insight.