His Holiness, Pope Julius IV, was in deep conversation with His Eminence, William Cardinal Murphy, Archbishop of Washington.  It was true that the subject of conversation was baseball, a game that His Holiness had followed up until his ascendancy to the Holy See, but nevertheless, it was one which he should have been able to enjoy without fear of interruption.

So it was with a great degree of irritation that he greeted the flinging wide of his apartment doors.  In strode the Right Reverend Monsignor Puccelli in a state of great agitation.  This in itself was no great surprise.  The Monsignor seemed to be in a permanent state of nervous near-collapse.  He took everything so personally, as though a moment’s inattention would result in the collapse of the Holy Church.  The Holy Church, which had already stood for millennia without his ministrations, and probably would stand an equal time after he had gone on to his reward.  The Monsignor was followed by a gaggle of lesser priests, pushing a large television on a trolley.  They ministered to its electrical needs as the intruder bowed before the Holy Father.

“Your Holiness, please forgive the intrusion, but it absolutely vital that you see this report immediately.”  Sweat beaded the man’s face and he moved in jerky twitches.  The Pope wondered how many cappuccinos it would take to reduce a man to that state.  Monsignor Puccelli seemed to have got there without the aid of stimulants.

“Calm yourself, Puccelli, calm yourself.  I’m sure whatever it is can wait a few more minutes while His Eminence and I finish our debate.”

“Forgive me, Your Holiness, but this really cannot wait.  We have never faced this catastrophe before.  I am sorry, but you must see this, now.”

He nodded to the ordained TV technicians.  The screen burst into life.  It was tuned to CNN.  On screen a young man was talking earnestly into the camera.

“ … amazing scenes.  Jerusalem has officially been placed under martial law, but no-one is taking any notice of that whatsoever.  Even Israeli army officers are flocking to the Wailing Wall, mixing with Muslim, Jew and Gentile.  People are helpless with emotion.  And here’s what started it all off.”

The scene on the screen shifted to the square in front of the Wailing Wall.  There stood a man in his thirties, dressed in white slacks and shirt.  He held his arms wide, and the stigmata could plainly be seen on his palms.  He was talking to the crowd around him.  Palestinians were kneeling bowed down in prayer.  Hassidic Jews too.

A young man in a wheelchair, an ex-Israeli veteran, by the looks of it, was wheeled up to the speaker.  His left leg was plainly missing from above the knee.  The look the two shared was silent, but spoke chapters.  The cripple’s was a plaintive look, bereft of hope.  The speaker’s made a mother’s love look harsh by comparison.  Both men wept.  Then the speaker reached out, touched the young man’s outstretched hand, and within a second the missing left leg grew in place.  There was a gasp from the crowd, then silence.  Everyone held their breath.

Then the young man slowly stood up, tears streaming down his face.  He turned to the crowd, raised his arms up high and shouted, “Hallelujah.”  The response from the crowd was instantaneous.  A wall of sound hit the audience in the papal apartment.

The reporter appeared on camera again.  He was crying.  “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry.  I’ve reported from war zones and trouble spots throughout the world.  I thought I was so cynical, but … I’m sorry … sorry, sorry ….”  He rubbed angrily at his eyes with the hell of his hand.

“Ahem … Those scenes have been repeated all day.  Jerusalem has come to a stand-still.  Arab, Jew and Gentile; Atheist and Believer.  Everyone I have spoken to today agrees, this man is nothing short of miraculous.  Second Coming, First Coming, it’s irrelevant.  Everyone that this hard-bitten old journalist has spoken to today says the same thing.  This is a messenger from God, at a time and in a place where we had all thought God had forsaken … And now … Oh sweet merciful Lord ….”  He started to weep again.

The picture switched back to the news studio, and as the presenters started to apologise for the break in transmission, the Monsignor signalled for the TV to be switched off.

The Cardinal faced the Pope, his eyes full of panic, desperately seeking a solution from the pontiff.

His Holiness spread his hands in a wide, lazy shrug.  “For this you interrupt my audience?”

“Your Holiness, we have had word from our people in Jerusalem.  It appears genuine.  The Archbishop himself has declared it to be the Second Coming and has dressed in sackcloth and ashes.  Actual sacks!  People are massing in St Peter’s Square.  You must make a declaration, otherwise people will flock to him.”

“It seems to me, Monsignor, that one of two things is true of this man.  Either he is our Lord, come again to rescue the faithful, or he is a false prophet, serving the needs of the devil.  If it is the former, then we must all flock to him, of course.  But we have waited two thousand years.  Another two hours will not matter.  If he is an impostor, then he will fail, just as surely as all the other false Christs have in history.”

“Your Holiness is right, of course, but it is much, much worse than that.”

The pontiff raised his eyebrows.  “Worse than the Second Coming?”

The cardinal nodded vigorously.  “Much worse, Holy Father.  He has said that he will end poverty by feeding the hungry and clothing the naked.”

“And this is a bad thing?”

The cardinal swallowed hard.  “He says he will do this by using every lira the Holy Church of Rome has, and every other church, synagogue and temple, for that matter.  He has already asked the court in Rome to hear his case.  Your Holiness, he intends to bankrupt us!”

The pope sat back and steepled his hands in thought.  Then a gentle smile slowly spread on his face.  He shrugged expansively.

“Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Monsignor.  You may leave now.  I will attend to the matter later.”

“Later?  But the church!  The money!  The court case!”

“Relax, Monsignor Puccelli.  All will be well.  After all, where is He going to find a good lawyer?”