CHAPTER 4
I sat frozen by the shock of the answer. “C’mon. You’ve got to be kidding. Don’t you realize that I need some type of DNA sample that actually belonged to the person before I can clone them. I can’t clone Jesus. Where in the world are we going to get DNA from Jesus? I’m a scientist, a biologist, not some kind of miracle worker.” My staccato statements peppered the priest.
Father Russo only smiled. He fingered his bottle for a moment then began to speak. “In this bottle there’s…”
“There’s just a bunch of strings.” I was animated in my disappointment as I finished his statement, threw down my napkin and began to rise. The few people in the restaurant began to look our way. “You’re starting to sound like a religious nut. You come into my lab, and you get my hopes sky high that I’m going to finally do the one thing I’ve been waiting for, and then you tell me I’m going to clone…”
Russo held up his hand facing the palm towards me. “Stop, don’t say it. I want no one to hear the next few words. Give me time to explain. The fibers in this bottle have been tested. They contain enough DNA material to perform the task I’ve asked of you.”
“OK, but where does the Jesus part come in?” I asked.
The priest sucked in a breath. I could tell that he knew he needed explain this correctly or the whole project would fizzle. I was, most likely, the only scientist that could do the cloning, and at that point I was anything but happy. Russo held the bottle in the air twisting it like some type of holographic visual aid. “The cloth, these fibers are from, came from the body of Christ. When the Lord died, Joseph of Arimathea and others took his bloody body and prepared it for burial. They were in a hurry and had to wrap his form without ceremonially washing it, before the sun went down and their Sabbath began. When He was wrapped in the cloth, it soaked up his blood, leaving enough DNA code for you to work with.”
I sat quietly, listening to Russo finish his pointed explanation. “That burial cloth is the same one that was left behind when Jesus rose from the dead. It was so indelibly marked by his powerful transition back to life that it has his image fused to it.”
I started to track with the priest. I spoke again displaying interest, “You mean these threads are from the Shroud of Turin? But how in the world did you get these? I mean, that is a religious relic. I can’t imagine the curators of that museum in Turin are going to let you walk in and cut fibers from the Shroud.”
“You’re right, Matthew. If you, as a good Catholic, were to walk in and ask to see the Shroud privately, and take fibers to test, you would be refused. Now, if you were an attaché of His Holiness, closely connected to the Vatican, with all the right papers and credentials, you could walk in and take away what you wanted,” answered Father Russo.
My emotions were on a wild up and down roller coaster ride. After hurtling downward a few minutes before, I was racing back up with the realization that Russo was not a demented priest that should be locked away. He looked to be a wise and powerful comrade. “I’m sorry, I didn’t understand. Forgive me for speaking so quickly and not giving you a chance to explain. I’ve got to say that I’m still a little taken back by this. Cloning Jesus Christ is a more than I bargained for. It’s possible, but is it right?” By this point, I had lowered my voice to a near whisper.
Russo smiled widely and said, “This has already been discussed by theologians within the Vatican. Rest assured that this project has the total support of Rome.”
According to Father Russo’s diary entry, I later learned this was a lie. Only a month before our meeting, Russo was escorted into the chambers of His Eminence. The Pope barely looked up before he began to launch his tirade, “My dear, young Father Russo…” The diary recorded their discussion. “In the last year, you have been caught in a major financial scandal that has brought great disgrace to the Church, to your fellow priests at the Vatican, and to me. I personally realized that you were simply a pawn being used by others much like the Jewish scapegoat spoken of in the Holy Word. Because of that, I asked that you be kept on here until we could find the proper assignment. Now, I’ve heard that you have visited Turin where the Shroud is kept and removed fibers for examination. Has anyone instructed you to do so?”
Russo wrote, in his diary, of his intense fear of the real plan being exposed. He scrambled for answers. He never expected that the Pope would discover it so quickly. Words slipped into his mind and he spoke them, “Your Grace, I realized the importance of this relic to the Holy See. I felt that some impartial examination by scientists, not connected to the Vatican or to the liberal forces that would like to see us lose face again, would be helpful. I was simply attempting to regain your respect and trust. I have brought embarrassment to the Mother Church and now desire to restore my name and calling before the eyes of the faithful. Please, forgive me. I should have spoken with you first but I was afraid that you would have stopped me."
"You’re right. I would have stopped you and as of this moment I am stopping you. I can certainly appreciate your desire. It shows a truly sincere, repentant heart, but please do not move ahead with a project like this. It can be quite damaging to the church in the long run. I ask that you destroy those threads. We’ll find an assignment for you to sink your teeth into. Something that will help you regain your credibility. Johnny, please be patient, and until then take some time off and travel. See other parts of the world."
I guess his travels brought him to me and this breakfast. I felt the waitress brush by me: “More coffee, Father?”
“Yes, please.” As she left he returned to his conversation with me. “As I was saying, we have the backing of the Vatican but with one small problem. You may remember the recent scandal over finances at the Vatican Bank?”
I was puzzled and I’m sure it showed, “No, not really.”
“Well, it was discovered that large amounts of money were being laundered for the American Mafia through Chicago connections to the Vatican Bank. Because of that, finances for this project must be found outside the Vatican. The fiscal dealings in Rome are being tightly accounted for. Any withdrawal of the amount we’re talking about would certainly violate our desire for secrecy,” expounded Russo.
“So, what are you going to do?” I asked.
“I have contact with an American television evangelist who, I believe, will be interested in the project. He is doing quite well, financially that is, and I’m sure he will see the potential in this project. Have you heard of the Prophet Thompson? He’s got a very big following in the States,” John asked.
“I remember him and you’re right, he’s got the money. But I’m not sure he’s the genuine article. Aren’t all TV preachers just charlatans, trying to get people’s money?” I rubbed my forehead. This took another bad twist as far as I was concerned.
“Do you want an honest answer?”
“Yeah, go ahead. I need a dose of reality here,” I shot back.
“No, most of the preachers on TV are not fakes. But does it make any difference? His money can fund the project no matter what. If he’s a fake then one of those TV news programs will expose him and we don’t have to worry about it. We’ll claim that he was simply a financial backer and that we had no idea of his darker side. Now, if he isn’t a fake then he’ll be the perfect partner in this endeavor.”
I smiled nervously. I realized that Father Russo had thought this project through . I was uncomfortable and still had many unanswered questions, but I nodded my agreement. The young priest raised his cup of coffee to make a toast.
“To the Messiah Clone. May he honor the one I serve,” Russo said as I imitated his movement and we clinked cups. A chill ran down my back as I looked into Russo’s eyes. I saw something briefly. It was only a flash. More exactly is was like a blink of dark light, if there is such a thing. I had never seen it in anyone before. The muscles tightened in my neck and a shiver rose up through my spinal cord. At that time, I thought it must’ve been a reflection off the moisture in his eye, from the lights from the old chandelier above our table.
Russo took three slow, deep sighs and stood. It appeared to me like he was attempting to control something inside him. The sighs were raspy and his exhale had the faint odor of eggs, bad eggs. I didn’t remember him having eggs for breakfast that morning. While he was dropping money onto the table, he spoke quickly, “I’ll be back in about a week. Have the list of needs for your lab ready and anything else that is necessary. When I return we’ll begin.” He turned and dragged himself out slowly as if he were exhausted.
Days later, across the Atlantic Ocean, the Prophet Thomas Nigel Thompson was awakened by the voice in his head. According to his biography, it spoke loudly and repeatedly, Look for the priest. Look for the priest.
Thompson snapped up from his pillow. He couldn’t sleep but then again most nights were sleepless. He thrashed as if he were wrestling with someone most of the night. His secretary, Laura, often laid next to him observing these sleepless nights. Later, she privately told me that it appeared he was trying to cast off an enemy that grasped him in a choke hold. According to her, it wasn’t until he muttered phrases of defeat that he finally rested. That night, Thompson never reached a point of deep sleep. He kept hearing the voice. It kept talking. For the third night straight it said, Look for the priest.
When dawn came, Tom Thompson rubbed his face hard trying to wake up. He pushed on Laura’s side edging her body to the side of the bed, “Hey, are there any priests on my appointment list?"
Laura was very groggy. She thought she heard the word “priest” but wasn’t sure. “What’s that? You want a priest? Are you turning Catholic or what? You want that Extreme Unction stuff done to you?” she slurred with her morning voice.
Thompson was agitated. He had to know why the voice was saying, Look for the Priest. “I said, ‘Do I have any appointments with a priest?’” He repeated it with generous helping of irritation in his voice.
“I got a letter yesterday from a priest, a Father John Russo. He’s a Vatican attaché. He said he’d be in town today and wanted to meet with you. I tossed the letter. I figured we’d turn this nut away. He’s probably looking for money for some charity they’re running.”
“Listen, the moment he comes in, I want to see him. Interrupt whatever I’m doing. I have got to talk with this priest,” Thompson was adamant.
“OK, whatever. Can I go back to sleep now?” Laura asked with a certain amount of frustration and bewilderment.
Tom Thompson rose from bed and went into the shower. The voice quieted as he rubbed his body with soap and the cold blasts of water pelted his tired muscles. By the time he moved out of the shower stall, Laura had made his coffee and it was waiting for him. The voice had left him unable to sleep most nights. If it wasn’t for caffeine or other stimulants, Thompson could not have gotten through each day. He began to feel like himself again. The thoughts of the voice and the priest had left him. His mind went over his appointments and projects as he dressed. By six a.m., he was in his silver Jaguar headed for the T.N. Thompson Prophecy and Ministry Center. The large structure sat at the end of a long drive outside of Orlando, Florida. Most mornings, he thought of the impact that Disney had on the area. On the good days, he fantasized about building Prophet World, the first theme park for Christians. On his bad days, he tried to remember the earlier ministry days and their simplicity. As Thompson pulled into his parking space, he switched his focus to ministry duties and entered the building.
The television staff meeting was ending at 10:30 a.m., when Laura interrupted, “Rev. Thompson, Father John Russo is here.”
Thompson snapped up. His head spun from rising so quickly, and then the voice began, Listen, receive, follow. Tom Thompson rubbed his eyes and gathered himself. “OK, we’ll finish this later. I’ve been expecting Father Russo and I need to get right to him. And Billy, make sure that we get time on that station in Atlanta. Let me know about that, this afternoon.”
The television ministry team left as Father Russo squeezed by them in the doorway. “Hi, I’m Father Russo. Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”
“I’ve been expecting you for several days now.”
“How? Your secretary said that my letter just arrived yesterday,” Johnny was taken back.
“That’s why they call me Prophet Thompson. Please come in and have a seat. I’m very anxious to hear what you have to say. For some reason I feel like this is very important. So, spill the whole story, and let’s see what we can do,” Thompson said. He directed the priest to the soft chairs next to the large picture window overlooking several acres of soft green grass and palm trees.
Russo spoke, “I’m not sure exactly where to begin. I’ll explain the chain of events and tell you why I’m here. Over a year ago, a Doctoral thesis by Matthew MacDonald, on the subject of cloning human beings came to my attention. MacDonald claimed he had found a way to clone life from DNA patterns."
The Prophet held up his hand and indicated a need to stop the discussion. “Listen, Father, before you go any further. Explain how this cloning stuff works. I’m not a rocket scientist or a biological scientist. I didn’t even do well in Junior High science. I’m just a backwoods preacher that God has called to touch people’s lives.” Thompson almost believed the string of half truths he told everyone.
“I’ll keep the process simple since I only understand it on a simple level myself,” John began. Thompson smiled as he thought the two would be able to understand each other. The priest continued, “MacDonald uses nano-surgery to remove the nucleus from a body cell and then isolates the DNA code. At that point he can change it to match any code he desires. It’s like your garage door opener. If the neighbor is on the same frequency, you just pop it open, flip the switches on the opener, and the remote code is changed. MacDonald does the same thing. Once he’s changed the code, he replaces the nucleus. The ovum then develops without fertilization. The embryo then is made up of cells from the new DNA code.”
“OK, I’m with you so far,” Thompson said with genuine interest. Even without the voice in his head, Thompson felt there was something intriguing about this. He later revealed that his first reaction was to wonder who in the world does this guy want to clone?
Russo continued, “I’ve met with MacDonald. He is absolutely sure he can clone from a DNA pattern. It will take him roughly three months to complete the project.”
Thompson was lost. “Who cares how long it will take? What are we trying to do here?” Father Russo realized that he was getting ahead of the story and needed to put the conversation back on common ground.
“Let me explain. Because of my close connection with the Vatican, I was able to travel to Turin, Italy where the Holy Shroud is kept. I removed several strands of fiber.” Russo pulled the bottle from his case and spun it around in front of Thompson. “These strands were soaked with the blood of Jesus. They give us the original DNA for the Messiah. With MacDonald’s expertise, my connections, and your money, I believe we can clone the one person who can change the course of history.”
Thompson leaned forward. He was drawn into Russo’s conversation. There was an eagerness in his spirit and in his voice, “Please, tell me again. Who is it we’re going to clone?”
Russo was hesitant but read the look in the Prophet’s eyes. “Jesus Christ,” he said as calmly as a man ordering lunch.
Thompson almost fell off his chair. The concept was hard to comprehend. To clone Jesus seemed somewhat blasphemous. He was torn between laughing at the priest or jumping on board when the voice began. Listen, follow, receive, join. Thompson shook his head to stop the voice but it only got stronger. Russo thought he had lost him. He began to pack the bottle away and prepared to leave. He’d find backing somewhere but Thompson didn’t seem to be the one. And yet, he had felt very directed towards this Prophet. As he stood to leave, Thompson stopped him and spoke, “Hold it, don’t go anywhere. I’m very interested. I’ve just got some questions.”
Russo sighed as he dropped with relief back into his chair. “Please, ask. I feel like I’ve gotten ahead here and your questions may clear things up."
“First of all, how do we know this is the DNA of Jesus? There ain’t a whole lot of us outside the Catholic church that believe the Shroud is from Jesus’ body,” Thompson questioned.
“You’re right. There is documentation on this Shroud back to only 1354 A.D. Around the Fifth or Sixth Century, St. Nino, a native of Jerusalem, referred to the burial cloth of Jesus. Around the Seventh Century there were several references to the Shroud and the imprint that was on it. In 1171 A.D, William of Tyre, who accompanied the King of Jerusalem to Constantinople said that the Shroud was preserved at the palace.
“The image was like a negative in a photograph and since this process didn’t exist in the early centuries we can deduce that no one would have been able to predict what a negative would look like. All experiments have proven that there is no sign of it being painted. From this evidence, I assume that this really is the Shroud of Christ. Yes, there are some questions as to its authenticity but the evidence in favor outweighs the evidence against it.” The priest finished with hope that he had explained the historical data completely enough to influence Thompson’s decision to aid in the project.
Thompson drew in a breath and exhaled his words, “Suppose it is genuine and you have this DNA, and you have this biologist, then what? Who carries the baby? And what do we do with him, once we have this clone of Jesus?”
Excitedly Russo spoke again, “I have a young nun in the north of Italy who is willing to carry the child to term. Her name, most fittingly, is Maria. Once the child is born we’ve got to teach him everything in the Bible. I mean everything. He needs to be able to quote every passage. He must sound like the original Jesus sounded and think like the original Jesus thought, and…”
Thompson stopped him in mid sentence, “Wait a second, you mean he wouldn’t have all the thoughts of Jesus, already?"
“Not at all. This is just a physical clone. Most likely, that’s where the similarities will stop,” answered Russo.
“So, whatever we feed into this clone is what it will be?” Thompson stated as his mind barreled through the possibilities.
“Yeah. I guess you could put it that way.”
Thompson lifted his body from the chair and walked to the window. He was staring at the scenery, smiling. “Father Russo, do you grasp what that means? If the world believes this is Jesus, which he’ll be physically, but what he thinks and does is controlled by us, then, well, the world is ours.” The world is ours. Form an alliance, now! The voice was loud enough to cause Thompson to grab his head. The priest noticed this.
“Is there something wrong? Are you all right?” asked the Father.
“Just a headache. I’ll be fine. In fact, I’ll be better than fine. I want to form a partnership, now! But I have a few stipulations to add to our deal.”
“If they’re reasonable I’m sure we can work things out.” Russo felt the presence within him again. He took in the deep breaths but the feeling was uncontrollably stronger than ever before and he had quit fighting it. He exhaled in rasps. As the Prophet had said, “The world is ours.”
“I want that baby to come poppin’ out on December twenty-fifth, and I want the glorious event to be exclusively televised on my show. Nobody else gets a camera in there. As he grows, I want him on my programs. When he does miracles and wonders, I want those on my shows. The world has got to see me linked with him. I want the world to think of me as the Great Prophet, who speaks for and with Jesus Christ. Is that agreeable with you?"
“I have no problem with that. In fact, I have a feeling, we’ll be working together for many years. I’m also looking for something out of this.”
“It looks like were both in very agreeable moods. What is it?” asked Thompson.
“I want to be the Vicar of Christ,” Russo stated his wants quickly.
“The what?”
“Pope, my dear Protestant friend.”
“Why not?” The Prophet dropped back into his seat laughing. They looked at each other. Something hellish connected.