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Authors: Jerome R. Corsi
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stigmata.”
“What’s your point?” Castle asked directly.
“My point is that sometimes psychology does not explain all of religious experience,” Morelli answered equally directly.
“That leads me to conclude that you believe the Shroud is indeed the actual burial cloth of the historical Jesus,” Castle said, wanting to make sure he understood Morelli.
“Yes, I do,” Morelli admitted. “I struggled with the evidence for years, but finally I concluded I could not explain by any scientific methods how the Shroud of Turin had been created, regardless of how brilliant the forger might have been.”
“And you also believe Father Bartholomew died and returned to life, much as Jesus Christ himself did,” Castle said, pressing on.
“I’m not as sure of that,” Morelli admitted. “I didn’t get to be an advisor to the pope, especially not this pope, by giving him easy answers. My training is to question everything. The Vatican and I believe we need your expertise to get to the bottom of what is really going on with Father Bartholomew.”
Castle was beginning to feel more comfortable about the assignment, but there was still something he had to be clear about.
“One more thing,” he stressed. “I can’t promise you I can cure Father Bartholomew of whatever is going on. Father Bartholomew could spend years with me in therapy and I still can’t promise you I could cure him. Years from now, he might be much worse than he is today.”
“I understand.”
“Okay, then,” Dr. Castle said, having made up his mind. “I will take the case, but it will cost the Catholic Church a lot of money for me to do so.”
“The Vatican is prepared to pay your fees.”
“And I reserve the right to publish a book on my findings, with or without the approval of the Catholic Church.”
“The pope is prepared to agree to that as well.”
“One more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I want to speak with the pope myself. I spoke to him when hewas Cardinal Vicente and I want to talk with him again before I take on this assignment.”
“The pope wants to talk with you, too, but he wants to talk with you after you meet with Father Bartholomew.”
“Okay.” Castle agreed. “I will do that. But I have one last concern.”
“What’s that?”
“You are sure the pope doesn’t want to have it both ways?” Castle asked cynically.
“What do you mean?”
“If I conclude Bartholomew has a mental illness, the Vatican could always just say, ‘Castle is not a Catholic and he doesn’t believe in God. What did you expect him to find?’”
“In the final analysis,” Morelli said seriously, “you’re the doctor and the public will believe you, regardless of what the archbishop, the pope, or me—the used-to-be devil’s advocate, as you put it—has to say.”
“Okay, then. I will agree to see Father Bartholomew as a patient.”
“Thank you,” Morelli said in conclusion, reaching out to shake Dr. Castle’s hand. “I look forward to working with you.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Tuesday
Dr. Stephen Castle’s office, New York City
Day 6
Morelli brought Father Bartholomew to Dr. Castle’s office in a wheelchair. The priest was dressed in a full-length hospital robe, not his black priest’s suit and black shirt with its Roman collar.
Scrutinizing Bartholomew carefully, Castle realized how deceptive were the wheelchair, the hospital robe, and the heavy bandages on the priest’s arms. Far from being weak, Bartholomew had an athletic build.
Judging the priest to be less than six feet tall, Castle could see that Bartholomew, a mature man in his early forties, was still very strong, fully muscled in the upper body and shoulders. Though he was sitting in the wheelchair, the hospital robe appeared to cover well-exercised legs. If Bartholomew had ever played football, Castle was sure he had been a guard or a tackle, not the quarterback. Castle guessed the priest was no stranger to the gymnasium and he wondered if the
“What’s your point?” Castle asked directly.
“My point is that sometimes psychology does not explain all of religious experience,” Morelli answered equally directly.
“That leads me to conclude that you believe the Shroud is indeed the actual burial cloth of the historical Jesus,” Castle said, wanting to make sure he understood Morelli.
“Yes, I do,” Morelli admitted. “I struggled with the evidence for years, but finally I concluded I could not explain by any scientific methods how the Shroud of Turin had been created, regardless of how brilliant the forger might have been.”
“And you also believe Father Bartholomew died and returned to life, much as Jesus Christ himself did,” Castle said, pressing on.
“I’m not as sure of that,” Morelli admitted. “I didn’t get to be an advisor to the pope, especially not this pope, by giving him easy answers. My training is to question everything. The Vatican and I believe we need your expertise to get to the bottom of what is really going on with Father Bartholomew.”
Castle was beginning to feel more comfortable about the assignment, but there was still something he had to be clear about.
“One more thing,” he stressed. “I can’t promise you I can cure Father Bartholomew of whatever is going on. Father Bartholomew could spend years with me in therapy and I still can’t promise you I could cure him. Years from now, he might be much worse than he is today.”
“I understand.”
“Okay, then,” Dr. Castle said, having made up his mind. “I will take the case, but it will cost the Catholic Church a lot of money for me to do so.”
“The Vatican is prepared to pay your fees.”
“And I reserve the right to publish a book on my findings, with or without the approval of the Catholic Church.”
“The pope is prepared to agree to that as well.”
“One more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I want to speak with the pope myself. I spoke to him when hewas Cardinal Vicente and I want to talk with him again before I take on this assignment.”
“The pope wants to talk with you, too, but he wants to talk with you after you meet with Father Bartholomew.”
“Okay.” Castle agreed. “I will do that. But I have one last concern.”
“What’s that?”
“You are sure the pope doesn’t want to have it both ways?” Castle asked cynically.
“What do you mean?”
“If I conclude Bartholomew has a mental illness, the Vatican could always just say, ‘Castle is not a Catholic and he doesn’t believe in God. What did you expect him to find?’”
“In the final analysis,” Morelli said seriously, “you’re the doctor and the public will believe you, regardless of what the archbishop, the pope, or me—the used-to-be devil’s advocate, as you put it—has to say.”
“Okay, then. I will agree to see Father Bartholomew as a patient.”
“Thank you,” Morelli said in conclusion, reaching out to shake Dr. Castle’s hand. “I look forward to working with you.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Tuesday
Dr. Stephen Castle’s office, New York City
Day 6
Morelli brought Father Bartholomew to Dr. Castle’s office in a wheelchair. The priest was dressed in a full-length hospital robe, not his black priest’s suit and black shirt with its Roman collar.
Scrutinizing Bartholomew carefully, Castle realized how deceptive were the wheelchair, the hospital robe, and the heavy bandages on the priest’s arms. Far from being weak, Bartholomew had an athletic build.
Judging the priest to be less than six feet tall, Castle could see that Bartholomew, a mature man in his early forties, was still very strong, fully muscled in the upper body and shoulders. Though he was sitting in the wheelchair, the hospital robe appeared to cover well-exercised legs. If Bartholomew had ever played football, Castle was sure he had been a guard or a tackle, not the quarterback. Castle guessed the priest was no stranger to the gymnasium and he wondered if the
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