Tunnel Vision

20

“‘Miracle? Coma Victim “Resurrected from the Dead.”’

“He has no memory of being in a coma, no meeting the dead or finding God. He’s a professed atheist, so he probably wasn’t exposed to the scriptures, especially in the original.” Elizabeth Luria removed her glasses and handed the newspaper back to Warren Gladstone. “Maybe there’s a rational explanation.”

Warren Gladstone made a steeple with his fingers. “St. Paul tells us that God sends signs and wonders to capture our attention. A professed atheist reciting the Lord’s Prayer in Jesus’s language while in a coma and on Good Friday and then waking up on Easter Sunday—those are signs enough for me.”

“Well, given all those who showed up, you’re not alone. I was there. I saw them.”

He looked over his glasses at her. “But you don’t share their conviction.”

His statement was almost accusatory. “Warren, those people who’d flocked to his bedside were blue-collar people, some from third world countries, all ardent Christians, desperate for miracles.”

“And you’re an enlightened Harvard University neuroscientist whose Episcopal upbringing no longer has a hold on you.”

“Warren, believe me that I want to believe. I want there to be an afterlife and God and all the promise of that. Why do you think I’ve invested so much of the last six years in this?”

“And we’ll reap our rewards and maybe show you the light at the end of the tunnel.”

Elizabeth smiled at his wording and took a sip of her tea. “We can only hope.”

“Then take heart in the signs and the theological possibilities.”

Elizabeth Luria and Warren Gladstone were sitting in the sunroom of her waterfront home in Arlington, overlooking the lower Mystic Lake. It was a beautiful home with four bedrooms and lovely views—views that still reminded her of all that had been taken from her. “I suppose,” she said. “But given the imprecise calendar dates over two thousand years, who can say exactly when Jesus died and was resurrected?”

“Except those are spiritual dates—dates of believers. And the boy’s breakthrough falls precisely on them.”

“So, God uses the same Gregorian calendar as the rest of us.”

“If God wants to get our attention, then yes, He does.” He picked up the article. “From the look of things, He’s gotten the attention of lots of folks, including mine.”

“Well, the mother’s not buying it. And clearly her son wasn’t raised on the Word of God.”

“The more powerful the message: The Lord spoke through a nonbeliever,” Warren said. “And another confirmation that the ways of God are mysterious to man.”

Warren Gladstone was an unwaveringly godly man and a good man. Elizabeth had met him through her late husband. Both had been raised in an Evangelical Christian tradition in Tennessee, Warren following his faith into a mainline Protestant seminary to become a televangelist. A dozen years ago, he’d founded the GodLight Channel—a satellite network that brought to the Northeast his ministry, now encompassing most of New England and parts of New York. Much of his success had to do with his enlightened social theology. Unlike most Evangelical preachers, Warren was a political liberal—a pacifist opposed to capital punishment and supportive of gun control. He also promoted the legalization of gay marriage and laws protecting abortion. It was his progressive views that drew liberal New Englanders, amassing him a tidy fortune that he hoped would expand coverage of his cable GodLight Hour into greater markets. He once told Elizabeth that he dreamed of building the first megachurch in the Northeast—a version of the ten-thousand-member Crystal Cathedral in Garden Grove, California. And Elizabeth, he believed, could make that happen.

Warren also was a godsend for her, embarrassing as it was. Owing to the nature of her research, she had been denied grant money even though she was a highly published tenured professor at Harvard Medical School. Critics accused her of abandoning serious neurological research for questionable pursuits. It was Gladstone and company that made possible her current quest and one that could lead him to the Promised Land.

“When you met the mother, what exactly did you say to her?”

“Nothing, really.”

“You didn’t tell her…” And he trailed off.

“No, I didn’t tell her I’d lost a son, too. That would have suggested a more disturbing bond.”

“Of course. And what was her response?”

“That she didn’t believe in miracles, but she thanked me. And that was that.”

“And you didn’t mention our…”

“No, of course not.” She walked to the window. Already the magnolia tree was fat with buds. Of all the trees in the world, she loved best the pink magnolia with their big fleshy leaves and intoxicating scent. But, sadly, full glory lasted only a week.

“Did you speak to anyone else?”

“No.”

“Emerging from a coma is not extraordinary. It’s what he uttered on the video that fills me with wonder.”

For a moment, she was taken back to the double funeral—a day that she had managed to get through only because of the consolation and compassion that had radiated from Warren Gladstone.

He had spoken of spiritual dates. Could any be more brutally ironic than her own “spiritual” date? Fourteen years ago, on a warm Sunday in May, she had announced that she wanted the day off just to hang around the house and not work, not to do chores, not do things for other people—just a day to and for herself. The weather was beautiful, and under the delft blue sky the lake looked like liquid sapphire. All she desired was to languish on the deck with a good book. The Red Sox were playing a home game, so she sent her husband and son to Fenway Park. But on the way home, their car was hit head-on by a drunk driver, and her son and husband were killed. While the faith of her Christian upbringing kept her from total despair, she could never reconcile that loss or the hideous irony of losing her family on Mother’s Day.

“His mother dismisses that,” Elizabeth said. “The rumor is that he might have written a paper on religion and found an Aramaic recording on the Internet and committed it to memory.”

“So you’re skeptical, too.”

“Yes. A lot of people were convinced that Jesus was present and was speaking through him. Except that the faithful are always seeking miracles and find them in unlikely places. Their yearning made him a spiritual figure.”

“And maybe he is.”

“And maybe it’s wish fulfillment,” she said, thinking that she’d kill to know there was an afterlife and that her child and husband were all right.

“Did you know he had an older brother who was murdered?”

“Yes, but I was not about to mention that.”

“What would you have said if you were?”

“That we both were robbed of the happiness of watching a son grow up. That we can’t bring them back. But … you know the rest.”

“Yes.”

“I have no explanation for what I saw. He spoke in a voice that apparently wasn’t his and in words that could never have been.” She gazed out the window. Maybe twenty feet in the water sat two rock islets. When Kevin was young, those rocks were the humps of giant turtles that would sing to them while they picnicked under the magnolia as the setting sun enameled the lake in gold. They’d sit until the stars came out and tell stories until Kevin dozed off, her heart roaring with joy. Now those creatures were rocks in the water, and her heart merely pumped blood.

“But this isn’t a case of bleeding statues or visions of the Virgin Mary,” Warren said. “We have a video of him speaking the words of Jesus. And from all reports he’s a nonbeliever who never enrolled in religion courses or wrote a paper on Jesus Christ. I see no other explanation. The young man was channeling the Lord.”

“It’s pretty to think so, but remains to be seen.”

“And we should do all we can toward that end.”

“We are.”

“I appreciate that, in spite of your skepticism,” he said.

They were quiet for a moment. Then Elizabeth said, “I have some sad news. Tom Pomeroy had a heart attack the other night. You didn’t know him, but he was instrumental in our mission.” The Boston Globe article on Pomeroy was a glowing review of his accomplishments as a biophysicist, perfecting software for interpreting data produced by magnetic resonance imaging, making it possible to observe individual human cells. “He was a good man.”

“I trust you’ll get on all right still.”

“Of course, and thanks to your generous support.”

“Dear Elizabeth, no one has ever accused you of being subtle.”

And he handed her an envelope containing a bank check for $1 million.