3. Provence, France

“People are like stained glass windows: they sparkle and shine when the sun's out, but when the darkness sets in, their true beauty is revealed only if there is light within.”
- Elizabeth Kubler-Ross

Sitting in a café in Avignon, reading the Guardian – a copy of the early edition, March 4th, 1963, flown in on the first flight that morning from London – I came across the most intriguing headline. It read: ‘What is our future? Society and Our Religious Past.’
I looked up at my morning coffee companion.
“Hey, Caitanya,” I said. “Listen to this.”
She stopped reading her book, a tattered copy of Pistis Sophia, a translation by Carl Schmidt. She reached for her cup, and, picking it up slowly, eyed me with her cool, solemn eyes. The last word in studied sophistication.
“What is it, Roald?” she said. “Is it another sign?”
“What?” I said. She watched me, defiantly. “Another …? Stop working for one minute, Caitanya. You’ll strain a brain cell, perhaps a brain muscle too …”
“There’s no such thing.”
“Maybe not, but … Oh, just listen.”
I read the headline. She quietly watched me from the other side of the small, wooden table. We were outside. The weather was good, the morning traffic infuriating, but the cedars around the edge of the Square didn’t seem to mind. Their leaves danced to the tune of the warm breeze. The sun had climbed to its ten o’clock position, and cast deep shadows from the surrounding buildings. Faded rundles of cream paint wash, blistered, and peeling plaster. Pastel blue shutters. A brown and yellow striped awning stretched thinly over the pavement terrace.
I checked her face for sincerity. Her oriental looking eyes had intrigued me since we met, a month ago. I straightened the newspaper ceremoniously, with an apparently indignant flourish.
“Listen,” I said. “It’s a feature by Francis Golding.
“Not …”
“Yes.” I nodded, without taking my eyes off the article. “Our old friend, Francis Golding.”
I sensed Caitanya’s eyes rolling skywards at the mention of that name.
“‘Christianity,’” I read. “‘With Greek philosophy influencing it, is the foundation of Western civilization. It is the base-line of all our social, economic, political, and scientific thought, as well as the great guide for all our activities. Christianity, leaving aside Paulinism, is comprised of four canonical gospels: Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, all of which speak of the coming of the Messiah, and of the Parousia, or Second Coming.’”
I looked up at Caitanya’s face. She was watching her own fingers tapping on the table top, but I know she was concentrating. I sighed. It was forbidden, but I longed for a closeness with this elegant, albeit silver-haired, woman.
I continued:
“‘But, as far as truth goes, these texts are incomplete. They are full of holes…’”
“They’re full of something all right …”
“Caitanya! Just listen, will you?” Her mouth closed with a sort of snapping sound. I read on: “‘Indeed, these are the gaps that Paul, in his letters, attempts to address. These uncertainties have led to centuries, millennia, of disagreement, wars, corruption, and destruction on a scale never before witnessed by the Human Race.’”
“Yes, the Epistle’s of Saint Paul,” she said. “Paulinity.” She muttered something I couldn’t hear, but if I was to guess from her mouth movements, I’d say she’d said, ‘Bloody Paul.” So irreverent for a nun. I think that’s what I liked most about her.
“Shall I go on, my dear sister?” I said. Pleadingly, I think.
She waved her head upwards, and gestured with her long-fingered hand, as if waving the all clear for stopped traffic. A movement that was supple, and permeated with awareness.
“S’il vous plait,” she said. “Mais certainement, mon frere.”
“‘Now, shine a strong light on the gospels,’ says our friend Golding. “‘As the beams pass through, a shadow is cast beyond – the institutionalized gospels make the shade of the image. The hidden source texts, including the missing gospels, are the negative space between. This negative space, which in turn serves to highlight the canonical gospels, reveals itself as strong, original light. Zoroastrianism, Mithras, the Gnostic Gospels, the secret books…’”
“Yes,” she said. “And all the rest …”
I raised my eyebrows, and continued: “‘Are illuminated by such a probing light. Here is an echo of the past, from a time before the gospels were written. This is what Christianity doesn't want to tell you. This is what the Church doesn't want you to know. These are the secret, sacred, suppressed, often mystical writings – the missing truths. This is Q.’”
“Ah, yes. From the German, quelle.”
“Correct,” I said. “From the German word quelle.”
We looked at each other.
“Even the secular world is full of suspicion, regarding the teachings of the churches,” she said. “But that’s a good article coming from Francis Golding. I had him pegged as a luddite. You know, out of touch with the recently discovered codices.”
“I agree,” I said. “Listen. It ends: ‘Now imagine the whole world knew these secrets.’”
Caitanya was silent. I knew that meant she was thinking.
“Quelle,” she said. “Is also the French word for ‘what’. The feminine case.”
“As in quelle surprise,” I said, nodding my agreement. “Oh, look. There’s a sidebar. It’s a quote from Mario Castlevecci …”
“Who?”
“Mario Castlevecci. The president of the Maecenas Society.”
“What does it say?” I could see Caitanya was quite focussed now. “It says: ‘In those days the Church decided for political reasons to include only the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John in the Bible. The other gospels were banned. It is highly logical that the Catholic Church would have kept a copy of the forbidden gospels. Sadly, the Vatican does not want to clarify further. Their policy has been the same for years – ‘No further comment.’”
“Fascinating, Roald.”
“Castlevecci says more,” I said. “‘Entering the 4th Century AD, the Council of Nicaea met to decide what the official theology of the new, strongly emerging Christian Church should be. Concerning the nature of the Messiah, it was here that the founding fathers made the decision that the official belief would be that ‘Jesus is God.’  That would put a stop to the endless questions and debate surrounding the issue. Several decades later, in 367 AD, the bishop of Alexandria did urge Christians to ‘cleanse the church from every defilement’ and to reject ‘the hidden books.’’”
“Well, they seem to have been quite successful in that, don’t you think?”
“Yes. It is even probable that some Christians destroyed non-canonical gospels.” I knew, for a fact, that had happened. I’d seen it with my own eyes.
“So much for the success of Nicaea,” said Caitanya.

Website Copyright © Ron McLachlan, Wemyss Bay, December 2007