The See of Tranquility
Discernments of a lunar bishop
Welcome to the Incensepunk Magazine’s first monthly fiction story. The below story is by Jon James, who would like to thank Yuval Kordov for extensive edits on the piece.
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The distant sun completed her days-long crawl below the lunar horizon, bathing the cathedral in darkness. Only the myriad neon-colored lights stationed around the Tranquillitatis colony gave shape to the geodesic structures that kept the barren surface habitable, their domes straining against the black of the daytime sky.
Bishop Georges lounged in his office, across the concourse that connected him to his parish. The dim gray of the office lights was a much-needed reprieve from the month-long lunar day–for now. He knew, as in months past, that he would inevitably yearn for the hot rays of the sun again. It was easy to grow tired of either state. Another reminder we aren’t made for this place, he considered.
Mass was an hour away. For now, he was free to scroll his comms feed until it was time to vest. Dozens of messages blared on the screen, unread or with reminders to reply–lengthy missives from his diocese and his superiors in the Vatican, written beneath their terrestrial sky. Three years had passed since he was transferred to the Diocese of Tranquility, but already it was difficult to imagine azure skies, tangerine sunrises, clouds shimmering every hue of pink. It seemed like a fantasy from a film, some wild imagining of a far-off planet that humans might colonize someday. Like a miracle.
Georges skimmed past the messages for the hundredth time and tapped open a newsreel. A woman materialized on the screen, superimposed over an image of the Takashi Nagai observatory, gripping a sheaf of papers for effect. “Reports from the lunar observatory have confirmed: a new, highly unusual type of particle has been discovered.”
As though anything up here could be usual.
“For the first time ever, a laboratory outside of Earth’s magnetic field has been able to directly observe the effects of a coronal mass ejection. This comes after the enormous solar phenomenon observed last year. Scientists in the lab were surprised to report the presence of interactions that weren’t explainable under the existing solar model. These new particles–”
Forget it, Georges thought, quitting the feed. He wanted to still his mind, not fill it with meaningless science gibberish.
He spent the time before Mass in prayer and contemplation instead, staring out the window at the too-short gray horizon that bound the colony on all sides, begging God to help him see the beauty of this rock as easily as he had been able to on Earth.
The minutes dissipated like smoke until it was time to vest. As he walked the enclosed route from his office building to the cathedral–a bubble within a bubble–Georges muttered a short prayer to Our Lady of the Endless Stars, the widely-adopted moniker assigned to the Blessed Virgin among colonists.
Mary, Queen of the Universe, we humbly ask for your intercession for the protection of the faithful, wherever in Creation they may wander. Defend us from the terrors of the void and the dangers of alien soils. Our Lady of the Endless Stars, pray for us and for our intentions. Like your Son commanded, help us to shake the dust from our feet. Safeguard us from the hazards of unknown worlds. In your embrace we put our hopes and trust as we journey within your starry mantle. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
It had been two weeks since Georges had seen the cathedral in darkness. In daylight, it was a gray monolith jutting from the gray landscape, made as it was of lunar concrete. Its pillars cascaded in a facsimile of a gothic arch, but couldn’t shake the industrial sharpness of their molds. Against the backdrop of stars, it made him feel small.
Now that the sun hid behind the crater’s rim, the building felt more inviting. A kaleidoscope of neon colors beamed from the surrounding city, dancing on the surface in homage to the terrestrial sunset. Each flash brought life to the cold stone, like a candle’s flame before an icon.
The neon scintillation was interrupted by a procession of the faithful opening the great doors, despite the Introductory Rites being nearly an hour off still.
Georges pulled open the side door and went in to don his vestments.
* * *
The Mass had been unusually well-attended, especially for a weekday. Georges checked the calendar on his tablet as he walked back to his office, in case he had missed a special occasion while ignoring his other messages–the feast day of a beloved saint, perhaps. There was nothing of note.
Mass, as usual, had lifted his spirit. The pockmarked lunar terrain felt less empty as he bounded through the connector, no longer just a reminder of the sundered Earth he had left behind, cratered and irradiated. As the backlit silhouette of the colony streaked out into the pitted landscape, he saw… potential.
The reverie faded as he resumed his desk work. Responding to his presence, the terminal lit up with a cascade of new messages detailing exactly why so many had been at Mass that morning. The subject lines were all permutations of the same questions, praise, and even accusations regarding a reported apparition of the Blessed Virgin in the nearby Serenitatis colony. After skimming a few, and growing increasingly anxious, he found the witness report submitted by the seer’s abbess. The corresponding message escalated that anxiety to dread.
Georges stood, turning to his window, scanning the rim of the mare claimed by his own colony. The crater’s edge encircled the settlement, making the already close horizon of the moon feel even closer. Claustrophobic.
Beyond that horizon, in another far-flung pocket of civilization, a pilgrim had supposedly seen the Blessed Virgin herself. Impossible… assuredly. Georges wasn’t even sure he accepted the well-known apparitions from Earth: Lourdes, Fatima, Guadalupe. And now someone claimed to have seen the God-Bearer herself here, on the moon? He scoffed at the irony of the reporting colony’s name: Serenitatis. Investigating an apparition would bring him anything but serenity. Nonetheless, it was his duty to lead the canonical investigation to determine its veracity.
Plucking at his suddenly tight collar, Georges set to the task of transmitting his own deluge of messages: informing the nuncio Archbishop Carlo of his intentions, setting up requisite appointments with impartial specialists, and most importantly, arranging a meet with Sister Thea, the young nun who claimed to have spoken to Our Lady. He tried to console himself that the only thing unique about this case was the location. Ecclesiastically, it was well-trod ground; the Vatican had drafted a thorough document that mapped the labyrinth of red tape.
Following the prescribed process, Georges found his peace returning to him. As with all things, it had to be taken one step at a time. And the next step would be his interview with the witness. Haste was unnecessary; still, he had scheduled her visit for later this week. Over the centuries, the Church had increasingly come to value swift resolution.
Messages relayed, Georges quit his terminal and sat back, shrugging the stiffness from his shoulders. He withdrew a rosary from his desk drawer, the one made of lapis lazuli his sister, Zelie, had given him for his ordination. He didn’t pray the rosary often–an admission that would scandalize many of his parishioners if he were forthcoming–but it seemed fitting, considering. It was Monday Earth-time, which meant the joyful mysteries. The beads passed through his fingers like queued shuttlecraft as he meditated on the life of the Mother of God.
* * *
Though rushing was unnecessary, the wait until his meeting with Sister Thea felt like an eternity. By the time Thursday arrived, curiosity had bloomed into anxiety. She was due in his office any minute. If she was suspicious, or made heretical claims, the whole thing could be shut down in an instant. The piety of the seer was one of the most important aspects of determining the nature of the apparition.
Georges stole a guilty glance at his rosary, left on his desk since he had prayed it on Monday. He shuffled it back into its drawer, promising himself he would pray it more, just as he always did. As he waited, Georges perused other appearances of the Blessed Virgin, rereading what he had already read a dozen times over since the report.
Finally, a knock on his open doorframe pulled his gaze from Our Lady of Akita.
“Come in, Sister,” Georges said, rising to shake the hand of the nun.
The slightest of tremors vibrated at his wrist. Already he was scanning her face for signs of deceit, greed, self-importance, but the young vowess was unreadable. Her face was serious but soft, unburdened by stress lines around her eyes or brows. The pale irises of her eyes shone like stars against her dark skin. Though Georges felt himself humbled, it was the sister who genuflected, taking him by surprise. She dropped to her left knee, grasped his still-outstretched hand, and kissed his ring.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she intoned as she rose again.
Georges stifled his discomfort. A congregant hadn't kissed his ring since… perhaps ever? Is she posturing? he wondered, or just traditional?
“Please,” Georges said, recomposing himself, “have a seat, Sister.” He plopped himself down at his desk and the nun took her seat across from him. Properly settled, he focused on exuding the appropriate degree of scrutiny without sounding antagonistic. “I understand you have experienced something that may be supernatural in origin. Could you tell me about it?”
“Of course, Your Grace,” she began, clearly eager for this moment. “I was praying my rosary, the joyful mysteries…”
The woman trailed off, derailed by what must have been a look of surprise on his face. Georges’ eyelid twitched once, then again. Serendipity was a dangerous thing. “Go on,” he prompted, annoyed by his lack of focus.
“They… they weren’t the mystery assigned for the day, but I like to add them in for my second rosary. They’re my favorites.” She grinned cautiously, as if afraid of a more serious rebuke.
Georges nodded for her to continue.
“I was walking, as I like to do, while I prayed. The convent backs up against the grounds where the ark factory is planned. I like to wander it–it’s the only spot of bare ground we can access without a suit. And that’s when I saw Her.” Sister Thea paused to blink the moisture from her eyes.
Georges rested his chin on steepled fingers. “Tell me, Sister. What did Our Lady say to you? Not the whole thing, I’ve received your report. In your own words, what would you say is the central message?”
“The Holy Mother says…” Tears bloomed in Thea’s eyes, dimming those gentle stars, red-shifting them. “We have to leave the moon. Cancel all our other colonies. Go back to Earth. Learn to be stewards.” She wiped her tears on the corner of her wimple. A look of confused consternation creased her face. “But I thought the Church exhorted us to spread God’s glory across the solar system, and out to the stars?”
Leave the moon. Those three words had rocked him when he first read the communiques, and their retelling was no less potent. Maybe more so, given the sister’s fervor. Georges girded himself against bubbling fear.
“That has indeed been the stance of the Church, Sister. Because of the nature of this message, you will be under particular scrutiny. You will be interviewed by specialists. They will review your psychology. Theologians will study your report for errors. Your sisters in the convent, and any family you have outside, will be questioned about your life. So I want to tell you now, before all that: if there is any chance that this was something other than a genuine apparition, it’s not too late to withdraw your statement. There is no shame in daydreaming about Our Lady. Or in seeing shapes in the lunar rock and interpreting them through the mind space you were in at the time. There’s even a name for it–pareidolia.”
Georges studied her face, but there were no tells. A little betrayal, that he had implied she might not be sincere, but no doubt of her own.
Thea frowned with resolve and thrust her hand into her pocket. When she pulled it back out, her knuckles were white. She held her fist out to Georges. “She wanted me to give you this.”
Georges reciprocated with both hands cupped beneath her fist, and she let something drop. He inspected the object, brilliant blue but streaked with gold and white, and cool in his hands. A lump of raw lapis lazuli. A mineral not found naturally on the moon.
Georges fought to keep his face stoic as his mind raced, searching for moments where the importance of this stone between he and Zelie might have been spilled in the media. Her taunts as a child when he had read the passage from Isaiah in front of the entire school for daily Mass and pronounced it “lazooly”. Cruel, at first, but it eventually became an in-joke between them, and then a pet name for him: Zelie and Lazooly. When she had gone off to art school and learned the history of pigment, she shared with him the history of the stone, its importance in paintings of Mary in medieval art until a synthetic replacement was created. Even as she drifted from the faith, she continued to send him facts about the mineral. A study that found traces of it in the teeth of medieval nuns from licking their brushes as they painted Our Lady’s mantle. And, of course, the rosary she had commissioned for him for his ordination, sitting idle in the drawer of his desk.
The stone’s gleaming white streaks converged near the center, giving the impression of a lily. The message was clear–not distinct enough to convince skeptics, he was sure, but enough for him. Meant just for him. His heart beat a quickening pulse as his rational mind fought to catch up. Such an artifact ruled out a vision or other mistake, leaving only two options: hoax or genuine apparition. And his skepticism was rapidly dwindling.
Tears filled his own eyes as he reached for his rosary in the drawer. Words eluded him as his fingers slipped through the beads, still out of sight. His mind raced through constellations of possibility as his lips mouthed the words, “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…”
Georges wasn’t sure how long he sat in state, face pale as the lunar surface, before Sister Thea stood and left, saying “Thank you, Your Grace,” on her way out of his office. Her knowing smile indicated that she knew he had been won.
* * *
Rosary in one hand, Thea’s stone in the other, Georges prayed. He was ashamed for echoing Our Savior’s words in the garden, but they were the words that came to him: “Father, if you are willing, remove this cup from me.”
But he already knew the Lord’s will; His Queen had just delivered it to him. He would proceed with the investigation, and the next stage was his meeting with Archbishop Carlo. Conversations with the papal nuncio were generally unpleasant, and this one promised to be as bad as any. The man was self-important–as were most who rose to the level of archbishop, in Georges’ opinion–and he leveraged impediment as the primary means of exerting his authority.
The calendar alert on Georges’ terminal pinged, and he stuffed the prayer beads and gem back into his drawer. I should be more careful with that, he realized. It’s probably going to be a relic someday. He tapped the Call button to dial the nuncio and muttered a quick prayer to whoever the patron saint of annoying bureaucracy was. Probably Homonobonus.
The archbishop answered quickly, his tanned face filling Georges’ screen.
“Your Excellency,” Georges said, nodding in a head-only bow.
“Georges!” replied Archbishop Carlo, smiling. “How is that old rock?”
“Interesting, as always. Hence the need for this meeting.”
The nuncio’s cheerful facade slipped away like an eclipse. “Indeed, Georges, indeed. I read the report. Most concerning messages, I’m afraid. Most concerning.”
Georges straightened his back a measure. “I agree, Your Excellency. If it’s genuine, it will be highly challenging.”
“Genuine?” The man’s disposition continued to slide toward darkness. “Surely you don’t believe this sister truly saw the Blessed Virgin, in a construction site, on the moon?”
Georges fought to keep his face flat. Impartiality was key in such matters, especially given the impact of this particular claim. The Martian and Venusian colonies were launching soon. Declaring the apparition to be real would sink the nuncio’s expected expansion of influence across the solar system. “As you know, I must complete my investigation with the experts before I can approve or reject it.”
The nuncio’s face grew grave. “The message in that report is at odds with the Church’s declared stance on extraterrestrial colonization. I am sure that the theologians will find errors in the report that challenge its veracity. And what of the witness? Did she seem reliable?”
“I’m still awaiting her psychology report. She has no history of mental illness, however.”
The archbishop spun his ring back and forth. “I noticed in her report that she substituted the joyful mysteries for the appropriate mysteries for the day. An obsessive personality, perhaps. Ensure that it’s investigated by your experts.”
“Of course, Your Excellency.”
“And what of this gem? There seems to be nothing special about it. No image in it, like the tilma in Guadalupe.”
This was it: the moment where Georges would reveal everything to his rightful superior, or begin keeping secrets. Sweat beaded along his hairline, threatening to streak across his face like treacherous meteors. “There is the impression of a lily on one face of it, but otherwise it is an unremarkable sample of lapis.” Forgive me, Mother. He added more detail to mask his deception. “Historically, it’s been used in making blue pigment, in many cases for paintings of the Blessed Virgin.”
“We will want to have it tested as well. Determine its origins.”
“I’ve already sent a sample to our geologist.”
“You used your own geologist? Are they Christian? Could be a conflict of interest.”
“The scans will be shared with earthside colleagues of varying faiths, without revealing the purpose of the investigation. But to deliver the sample to Earth would have meant waiting for a shuttle…”
“I see. Well it seems you have all your chicks in a row, Georges. Now we wait, I suppose, on your specialists to send you their analyses.” Archbishop Carlo seemed lost in thought for a moment. “Tell me, Georges, what will you decide if the reports conflict? Say, all the scientific studies come in positive but the psychological profile raises red flags. It’s important to consider that now, before you are in the heat of things.”
Georges knew what the nuncio was really asking him: ultimately, the veracity of the private revelation was up to the presiding bishop. Church doctrine outlined the process by which to make the decision, but whether to issue a nihil obstat or to discourage veneration came down to him. Once, the process had taken years to investigate and accept or reject Marian apparitions, but time and pressure had accelerated the process, and it was clear Archbishop Carlo wished to resolve this quickly.
Still, Georges knew how to be diplomatic, too. You didn’t become a bishop without at least a little romanitas. “If there is any evidence that this apparition is not supernatural in origin, my conclusion will indicate it as such.”
“Very good,” said the nuncio, satisfied–for now, at least. “Oh, and Georges. I wanted to congratulate you.”
Georges stiffened. Other than the apparition, he couldn’t think of anything he had done that merited congratulations, especially from this man. “Your Excellency?”
“On the impending ground breaking of the space ark manufactory. I’m sure you are aware, but any ships that leave from that port of origin will be under your jurisdiction until they are large enough to develop a diocese of their own. Once they establish the colonies on Mars and Venus, you will be the first bishop to preside over multiple planets.”
Ah, appeal to my ego. Clever, but it presumed that Georges was motivated by the same goals as the nuncio. And the implication was clear: construction would be paused on the build site until Georges’ investigation was complete. If approved, the site would be purchased from the owners and converted to a holy site, possibly delaying construction for years.
“Ah, of course. Thank you, Archbishop. I only hope we can improve this video conferencing technology before then. I can’t imagine having to manage all my priests like this.”
Georges had avoided taking the bait, but the nuncio seemed mollified. His congenial grin returned. “God bless, Bishop.”
“Thank you. God bless, Your Excellency.” The screen flicked to black and Georges leaned back in his chair, breathing deeply of the recycled air. It wasn’t until he went to dab the sweat on his forehead that he realized he had withdrawn Sister Thea’s stone from his desk.
* * *
“–Coronal mass ejection forecasted some time next month. Historically, CMEs were not able to be predicted with much accuracy, due to the highly tumultuous nature of the sun. Further, due to Earth’s small size relative to the sun, a flare must eject at just the right time and direction to pose a risk of contacting the planet, even though flares are often many times the size of Earth in volume–”
Georges turned off the feed with a sigh.
The theologians’ report had come in that morning, by Earth-standard time. As expected, nothing was found amiss in the young nun’s message from Our Lady, but only because the Vatican’s directive to expand into the solar system, and eventually the stars, was too recent to be considered official to the old academics.
The psychologists, meanwhile, had one possible angle of attack, albeit a weak one. Enough, maybe, to prevent a nihil obstat–the most lenient declaration possible–but insufficient to shut down veneration. It was Sister Thea’s “obsession” with Mary that they had flagged–predictably so, being secularists. Of course, wouldn’t someone who was particularly interested in Her be precisely who the Blessed Virgin would choose to visit, if anyone?
That left only the scientists’ report to give him an out with the Vatican, while also respecting the apparition he knew in his heart to be authentic. Georges pressed a finger above his right brow, trying to massage away a budding migraine. He never slept well during lunar daytime, and the stress was making it worse.
Georges dialed Brother Michal, his contact in the recently expanded Vatican observatory on Earth. Michal wasn’t directly involved in the investigation, as that would constitute a conflict of interest, but Georges needed someone to explain the esoteric reports to him in plain language–someone trustworthy.
“Have you read the latest report?” Georges asked, when his companion answered.
“Hello to you too, Georges. Yes, I have. Interesting stuff. Very much so.”
“Is it? I couldn’t make heads or tails of it.”
Michal laughed, well-worn lines on his face creasing with joy. “Well my friend, that’s what you pay me for.”
Georges snorted. “But I don’t pay you.”
“Not in money, kolega. I am paid handsomely in the privilege of being able to review these documents before any other scientists have had the chance. That is far more valuable than mere liras.”
“So… what does it mean?”
“What indeed, my friend. What indeed. The scientists pose an interesting theory to explain away the apparition. But it’s complicated, theologically. Puts you between a rock and a hard place, so to speak.”
“Feels like home, lately. What’s their explanation?”
“You’ve heard reports of the ruachon particles, yes? Recently detected at the lunar observatory?”
“Sounds familiar, but I couldn’t pretend to have an inkling what they mean.”
“They’re bosons, a type of subatomic particle. Like photons.” Michal leaned into the camera, seeking signs of intelligent life from the other side.
Georges frowned. “So, it’s a new kind of light or something? Are they suggesting the apparition was a mirage?”
“Not quite. Many bosons are what’s called ‘force carriers.’ Things that make gravity work, or the nuclear forces. The theory your scientists are proposing, quite excitedly I’d say, is that ruachon particles are force carries… for consciousness.”
A stabbing pain shot back into Georges’ skull; he rubbed at it between thumb and forefinger, trying to process his friend’s statement. “Secularists will come up with anything to dismiss a miracle.”
Michal didn’t budge. “Don’t be so hasty to dismiss the science. It was our own who developed the scientific method, and the theory of the big bang. There might be something to it.”
“Michal–”
“Listen. Do you know the so-called ‘hard problem of consciousness’?”
“Not in the slightest, unless it’s similar to the unbearable lightness of being, in which case I am familiar.”
Michal laughed. “No, this is a science question. The fact is, the mechanics behind consciousness have continued to be a mystery, and not just for biologists and philosophers. Even physics requires it.”
“I could see how spiritualists like us want to understand it, but why physicists?”
“The observer effect. Only when a photon is observed does its wave function collapse. You know, Schrodinger's Cat. There’s no agreed-upon theory of how it works. The ruachon particles might finally answer the question.”
Georges’ migraine was radiating across his scalp, threatening to supernova. “But… what does all that have to do with Our Lady of Serenity?”
“Remember the solar phenomenon captured by the Takashi Nagai observatory? It was ruachon particles they detected. The flare hit the day before the apparition.” Michal’s normally jovial tone lowered to a serious whisper. “It takes up to a day for particles to travel from the sun to Earth–or the moon. A surge of ruachons could explain the vision. By that same token, ruachon flares could ultimately explain all visions. And not just of the Blessed Virgin. This could be the root of all religious experiences throughout history. After all, what is religious ecstasy, if not a heightened sense of consciousness?”
Georges shook his head and immediately regretted it. “Too far, Michal. Way too far. They just learned about these particles, and now they’re trying to explain away all of religion with them?”
Michal retreated from the camera for a moment, eyes turned to the heavens before recentering. “Georges, did I ever tell you why I got into astronomy?”
Georges squinted. “I’m not sure?”
“Because, kolege, when you look at the universe, you are seeing the fingerprints of God. Every star in the cosmos was created only for God to show His love for us. One hundred billion in our galaxy. Two trillion galaxies in the universe. All of that, created, not for us to conquer, and certainly not as the atheists say, to show us how small we are. Quite the opposite.
“The universe exists to show us how important we are. A universe so big that even at the speed of light, there are stars too far away for us to see how they formed. And we are the very center of it. Not in a Copernican sense, of course. But did you know that, on a logarithmic scale, there are just as many steps below us as above? All of this, every atom in the universe, was created so that we could understand how much God loves us. We are an atom in a grain of sand on an infinite beach, and yet no other atom matters as much. And the more we learn about the cosmos, the more we learn about God, and his love for us.
“This is the same. If this research is correct, all it proves is that almost fourteen billion years ago, God put the plans for us, the blip of time that we inhabit in the cosmic scale, into the laws that govern all of reality.”
Georges was silent for a moment, his migraine scattering like dust as he tried to absorb all that his friend was telling him. The ruachon particles could provide a secular explanation for the apparition… but could also be evidence of God’s plan for humanity from the creation of the universe? It was… it was everything, and nothing at the same time. Yet it was also exactly the answer he needed. Finally, he said, “Thank you, Michal. You’ve been more help than you could possibly know.”
“No, my friend, thank you. The paper I write on this will secure the funding increase I’ve been begging His Holiness for.”
The two laughed, heartily, then said their farewells and were separated again by the void of space.
* * *
Georges hated public speaking. Ironic, perhaps, for a role such as his, but he never viewed homilies the same as speeches. Even if the congregation numbered in the thousands, homilies were like lectures: he simply explained the Word to the people.
Giving press releases on alleged miracles was completely different. He could write notes, but no amount of preparation could prepare him for the unknowable reaction of the audience, or worse, the questions asked after.
Fortunately, or not, time did not wait for him to be ready. He stood at the pulpit, dozens of cameras glaring at him like stars in the evening sky. He crossed himself and said a silent prayer before speaking.
“Several weeks ago,” Georges began, his heart pounding like a pulsar, terrified that he was doing the wrong thing–or the right thing for the wrong reasons. “One of our religious sisters reported seeing an apparition of the Virgin Mary in the Mare Serenitatis, or Sea of Serenity colony. Since that report, it has been my role as bishop over the lunar diocese to investigate whether this was a genuine supernatural event.” The audience tensed in preparation for his decision, breath held, faces pushed forward, lenses zoomed. They would have to wait.
“However, before I declare my judgment, I would like to speak first on a few matters. First, I want to state that I have personally met with Sister Thea, and whatever else I am about to say, the one thing that is not in question is her faith. Sometimes, apparitions turn out to be hoaxes, or even scams, created by nefarious actors to profit off the faith of others. Sister Thea’s faith shines a hundred times brighter than my own.” Georges knew the nun would be in the audience, and hoped his statement didn’t make her uncomfortable. It wouldn’t matter in any case, once his speech finished. At least this way she might be canonized some day.
“Next, I want to highlight some of the messaging that Sister Thea shared with me about her experience. I’m sure many of you have read her report. I hear it’s being passed out on prayer cards outside these very doors.” He was glad the tension in the sanctuary was not so high as to suppress the chuckles earned from that. “Most notably, the messages contained an urgent plea for humanity to retreat from the lunar colonies, abandon plans to colonize other extra-terrestrial bodies, and return to the Earth. While this is at odds with the Holy See’s declaration on the exploration of heavenly bodies, our theologians have determined that such a statement does not add to the deposit of faith, nor does it conflict with any established doctrine or dogma of the Church.” By now, Georges’ nerves had subsided. In fact, he was almost starting to enjoy himself. He had written the speech to tantalize the media, to maximize the attention his statement would give.
“As another part of this investigation, the See has commissioned secular scientists–devil’s advocates, in the original sense of the word–to try to explain the alleged apparition scientifically. The explanation that these devil’s advocates have provided relies upon a new theory, which is to be substantiated by a peer-reviewed study in the next few weeks. I will do my best to summarize the explanation. Please forgive any errors, as I relied on crunching the night before, and rosaries the morning of, to get me through my physics finals.” Another few laughs. Fewer than he would have gotten on a Sunday morning, but nobody was here for his standup.
“You may have heard of a new type of particle discovered recently: ruachons. These particles are nearly undetectable on Earth, due to the planet’s magnetic field, but lunar scientists were able to identify them for the first time after a solar flare. It so happens that this flare occurred the day before Sister Thea’s vision of the Blessed Virgin. Here is where the new research comes in. A new theory proposes that these new ruachons are linked to consciousness. And that the surge in these particles from the flare could explain the apparition.”
A peace washed over Georges. He had put the theory out there, whether he believed it or not, and now it was free to have its effect. Carlo would be irate, of course, even though the outcome was technically satisfying the archbishop’s request. As procedure demanded, Georges had submitted his decision to his superior first for approval, but he doubted the man had read closely enough to understand the implications of the decision. And Georges hadn’t done him any favors–his own small play at romanitas, perhaps. He had left the scientific explanation in the researchers’ own words. Obscurity through transparency; malicious compliance.
Anyway, the archbishop probably wouldn’t be his superior much longer, one way or another. Georges had just given atheists their greatest argument since the problem of evil. But he wasn’t done.
“Because of the scientific explanation provided, I will not be granting a nihil obstat on the apparition of Our Lady of Serenity.” Here, in response to the whispers around the room expanding to muttering, he raised his voice. “However, in light of the piety and credibility of the seer, Sister Thea, and the lack of theological concerns, in accordance with the Norms for Proceeding in the Discernment of Alleged Supernatural Phenomena of 2024, and with the approval of the Vatican, I am declaring the apparition curatur. This means that positive fruits of this phenomenon have been identified, but careful discernment should be followed before devotion. In short, veneration is acceptable, but not encouraged.”
The murmurs had shifted into full conversation, on the verge of shouting.
“This need for discernment is compounded by what I have to say next.” Georges nearly yelled into the microphone, grateful for once for the amplification that usually irritated with pops and sibilance. “This is not a spiritual recommendation, but a practical one that has resulted from what I have learned during the investigation. While I cannot declare the Our Lady of Serenity phenomenon to be supernatural in origin, I can echo part of the message, however it originated. It has come to my understanding that scientists have identified the conditions for a coronal mass ejection in the coming weeks. This solar event is expected to be of an intensity not seen since the lunar colony’s establishment.
“Paired with the new research on ruachon particles and their effect on human consciousness, it is my recommendation that the moon be evacuated. Protocols have been established by colony authorities, and I am calling upon the Vatican and the lunar government to initiate them immediately. While we do not know the full impact of exposure to such a high number of ruachon particles without the protection of Earth’s magnetic field, we can extrapolate. Imagine a colony where everyone experiences a holy vision at the same time.
“In Exodus, the Lord declares: ‘You cannot see my face, for no one may see me and live.’ If you take Scripture seriously, I advise you with all my authority as the bishop of the See of Tranquility, whose jurisdiction spans all lunar colonies, to return to Earth–calmly and safely–within the next two weeks.”
The shouting had stilled, becoming the eerie silence of the void. The quiet lingered for a few seconds after he finished, then erupted into pandemonium. Georges stayed at the podium, trying to instill calm, to remind everyone that they had plenty of time for an evacuation, but nobody heard him over the din. Only the Angelus bells, miraculously, drew people back to their senses enough to prevent a stampede.
* * *
Georges was back on Earth, preparing for his new mission decontaminating the Holy Land, when news of the coronal mass ejection hit. He had abdicated his diocese on the Moon, but the Holy Father was waiting to see how his prediction played out before accepting the withdrawal. Technically, then, it was still Georges’ people who were dying up there on the faint sliver in the sky.
Reports said that the deaths numbered in the low thousands; better than Georges had feared–the lunar colonies housed almost half a million at the time of his speech. He wasn’t sure how many had stayed behind, or what the rate of madness among them was, but he suspected it was high. Surprisingly, at Archbishop Carlo’s direction, the Vatican supported the evacuation. The lunar government hesitated, until the paper on ruachons was published in haste. Then they, too, began shuttling refugees back to the Earth they were all trying so desperately to leave behind.
Georges wasn’t sure what his own fate would be. His diocese lay empty, corpses scattered about the lunar desert, slowly dissolving beneath the sun’s radiation.
Our Lady of Serenity, despite his conclusion, was all but confirmed among the faithful, though it would be many years before pilgrimages would risk visiting the lunar site again. The Pope withdrew his decree on colonizing the planets.
Had the hysteria–the lunacy, he thought darkly–not occurred, Georges suspected that he could have peaceably retreated to a dark corner of the Earth (of which there were many). But now that his predictions had come true, he feared what celebrity might bring him.
But then, such things could also be leveraged. His reclamation budget–heavy machinery and hazmat suits for his army of missionaries–had nearly maxed out, and many more costs would arise. Acres of noxious topsoil had to be disposed of. Blasted structures needed scrubbing, the water used to do so sequestered deep underground. Drone surveys showed several holy sites still intact; in time, those that had fallen with the bombs would be rebuilt.
Georges squinted at the sun, perched in her place in the ultramarine sky. Strange, how the sun and the moon appeared nearly the same size in the sky from here.
Someone called out for help from inside the warehouse. There was work to be done. Georges looked back down to the earth and got started.
Copyright © 2024 Jon James & Incensepunk Magazine
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Excellent work!
This is incredible! What an outstanding story, Jon.