June

One of the things I liked about Dr. Wu's office was the wall of pictures. An enormous corkboard held photographs of patients who had beaten the odds after having Dr. Wu operate on their failing hearts. There were babies propped up on pillows, Christmas card portraits, and boys wielding Little League bats. It was a mural of success.

When I'd first come to tell Dr. Wu about Shay Bourne's offer, he listened carefully and then said that in his twenty-three years of practice, he had yet to see a grown man's heart that would be a good match for a child. Hearts grew to fit the needs of their host

body—which was why every other potential organ that had been offered to Claire for transplant had come from another child. "I'll examine him," Dr. Wu promised, "but I don't want you to get your hopes up."

Now I watched Dr. Wu take a seat and flatten his palms on the desk. I always marveled at the fact that he walked around shaking hands and waving as if the appendages were totally normal, instead of miraculous. Those ridiculous celebrities who insured their breasts and their legs had nothing on Dr. Wu and his hands.

"June..."

"Just say it quickly," I said, full of false cheer.

Dr. Wu met my gaze. "He's a perfect match for Claire."

I had already gathered the strap of my purse in my fist, planning to thank him hastily and beat a retreat out of the office before I started crying again over yet another lost heart; but these words rooted me to my seat. " I . . . I'm sorry?"

"They have the same blood type—B positive. The tissue crossmatch we did of their blood was nonreactive. But—here's the remarkable part—his heart is just the right size."

I knew they looked for a donor who was within 20 percent of the patient's weight—which for Claire meant anyone between sixty and a hundred pounds. Shay Bourne was a small man, but he was still an adult. He had to weigh 120 or 130 pounds.

"Medically, it doesn't make sense. Theoretically, his heart is too tiny to be doing the job his own body needs . . . and yet he seems to be healthy as a horse." Dr. Wu smiled. "It looks like Claire's got herself a donor."

I stilled. This was supposed to be wonderful news—but I could barely breathe. How would Claire react if she knew the circumstances behind the donation? "You can't tell her," I said.

"That she's going to have a transplant?"

I shook my head. "Where it came from."

Dr. Wu frowned. "Don't you think she'll find out? This is all over the news."

"Organ donations are always done anonymously. Plus, she doesn't want a boy's heart. She always says that."

"That's not really the issue here, is it?" The cardiologist stared at me. "It's a muscle, June. Nothing more, and nothing less. What makes a heart worthy for transplant has nothing to do with the donor's personality."

I looked up at him. "What would you do, if she was your daughter?"

"If she was my daughter," Dr. Wu replied, "I would already have scheduled the surgery."

Lucius

I tried to tell Shay that he was the topic on Larry King Live that night, but either he was asleep or he just didn't feel like answering me. Instead, I took out my stinger from where it was hidden behind a cement block in the wall and heated up some water for tea. The guests that night were the nutcase reverend that Father Michael had sparred with outside the prison, and some stuffed-shirt academic named Ian Fletcher. It was hard to tell who had the more intriguing backstory—Reverend Justus with his drive-in

church, or Fletcher—who'd been a television atheist until he'd run across a little girl who could apparently perform miracles and raise the dead. He wound up marrying the girl's single mother, which in my opinion, greatly diluted the credibility of his commentary.

Still, he was a better speaker than Reverend Justus, who kept rising out of his seat as if he were filled with helium. "There's an old proverb, Larry," the reverend said. "You can't keep trouble from coming, but you don't have to make out a place card."

Larry King tapped his pen on the desk twice. "And by that you mean . . . ?"

"Miracles don't make a man into God. Dr. Fletcher ought to know that better than anyone."

Unrattled, Ian Fletcher smiled. "The more you think you're right, the likelier you are to be wrong. That's a proverb Reverend Justus probably hasn't encountered yet."

"Tell us about being a television atheist," Larry said.

"Well, I used to do what Jerry Falwell did, except instead of saying there's a God, I said there wasn't one. I went around debunking claims of miracles all over the country. Eventually, when I found one that I couldn't discredit, I started wondering if it was really God I objected to . . . or just the sense of entitlement that seems to be part of affiliating with a religious group. Like the way you'll hear that a person is a good Christianwell, who says Christians corner the market on virtue? Or when the

president ends a speech with 'God bless the United States of America'... why just us?"

"Are you still an atheist?" King asked.

"Technically, I suppose you'd call me an agnostic."

Justus scoffed. "Splitting hairs."

"Not true; an atheist's got more in common with a Christian, since he believes you can know whether or not God exists-but where a Christian says absolutely, the atheist says absolutely not. For me, and any other agnostic—the jury's still out. Religion is intriguing, but in a historical sense. A man should live his life a certain way not because of some divine authority, but because of a personal moral obligation to himself and others."

Larry King turned to Reverend Justus. "And you, sir, your congregation meets in a former drive-in movie theater? Don't you think that takes some of the pomp and circumstance out of religion?"

"What we've found, Larry, is that for some people the obligation of getting up and going to church is too overwhelming. They don't like having to see or be seen by others; they don't enjoy being indoors on a beautiful Sunday; they prefer to worship in private. Coming to the Drive-ln Church allows a person to do whatever it is he needs to do while communing with God-whether that's wearing pajamas, or eating an Egg McMuffin, or dozing off during my sermon."

"Now, Shay Bourne isn't the first person to come along and stir the pot," King said. "Few years back, a Florida State football quarterback was found lying in the street, claiming to be God. And a fellow in Virginia wanted his driver's license changed to reflect that he was a resident of the Kingdom of Heaven. What do you think it is about Shay Bourne that makes people believe he might be the real deal?"

"As far as I understand," Fletcher said, "Bourne's not claiming to be the Messiah or Mary Poppins or Captain America—it's the people supporting him who have christened him, no pun intended. Ironically, that's very similar to what we see in the Bible—Jesus doesn't go around claiming to be God."

" ' I am the way, the truth, and the life; no man cometh unto the Father, but by me,'" Justus quoted. "John, 14:6."

"There's also evidence in the gospels that Jesus appeared in different forms to different people," Fletcher said. "The apostle James talks about seeing Jesus standing on the shore in the form of a child. He points it out to John, who thinks he's nuts, because the person on the shore isn't a child but a handsome young man. They go to investigate, and although one sees an old, bald man, the other sees a young guy with a beard."

Reverend Justus frowned. "I can quote the Gospel of John forward and backward," he said, "and that's not in there."

Fletcher smiled. "I never said it was from the Gospel of John. I said it was from a gospel. A Gnostic one, called the Acts of John."

"There's no Acts of John in the Bible," Justus huffed. "He's making this up."

"The reverend's right—it's not in the Bible. And there are dozens of others like it. Through a series of editorial decisions, they were excluded— and considered heresy by the early Christian church."

"That's because the Bible is the Word of God, period," Justus said.

"Actually, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John weren't even written by the apostles Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. They were written in Greek, by authors who had a modicum of education—unlike Jesus's fishermen disciples, who were illiterate, like ninety percent of the population. Mark is based on the apostle Peter's preaching. Matthew's author was probably a Jewish Christian from Antioch, Syria. The Gospel of Luke was allegedly written by a doctor. And the author of the Gospel of John never mentions his own name . . . but it was the latest of the four synoptic gospels to be written, roughly around A.D. 100. If the apostle John was the author, he would have been extremely old."

"Smoke and mirrors," Reverend Justus said. "He's using rhetoric to distract us from the basic truth here."

"Which is?" King asked.

"Do you truly believe that if the Lord chose to grace us with his earthly presence again—and that is a big if, in my humble opinion—he would willingly choose to inhabit a convicted murderer, two times over?"

My hot water started to boil, and I disconnected the stinger. Then I turned off the television without hearing Fletcher's answer. Why would God choose to inhabit any of us?

What if it was the other way around . . . if we were the ones who inhabited God?

M I C H A EL

During the drive to Maggie's parents' home, I wallowed in various degrees of guilt. I had let down Father Walter and St. Catherine's. I'd made a fool of myself on TV. And although I'd started to tell Maggie that Shay and I had some history between us that he didn't know about—I had chickened out. Again.

"So here's the thing," Maggie said, distracting me from my thoughts as we pulled into the driveway. "My parents are going to be a little excited when they see you in my car."

I glanced around at the quiet, wooded retreat. "Don't get much company here?"

"Don't get many dates is more like it."

"I don't want to burst your bubble, but I'm not exactly boyfriend material."

Maggie laughed. "Yeah, thanks, but I'd like to think even I'm not that desperate. It's just that my mother's got radar or something—she can sniff out a Y chromosome from miles away."

As if Maggie had conjured her, a woman stepped out of the house. She was petite and blond, with her hair cut into a neat bob and pearls at her neck. Either she'd just come home from work, or she was headed out—my mother, on a Friday night, would have been wearing one of my dad's flannel shirts with the sleeves rolled up, and what she called her Weekend Fat Jeans. She squinted, glimpsing me through the windshield. "Maggie!" she cried. "You didn't tell us you were bringing a Mend for dinner."

Just the way she said the word friend made me feel a rush of sympathy for Maggie.

"Joel!" she called into the house behind her. "Maggie's brought a guest!"

I stepped out of the car and adjusted my collar. "Hello," I said. I'm Father Michael."

Maggie's mother's hand went to her throat. "Oh, God."

"Close," I replied, "but no cigar."

At that moment, Maggie's father came hurrying out the front door, tucking in his dress shirt. "Mags," he said, folding her into a bear hug, which was when I noticed his yarmulke. Then he turned to me and held out a hand. I'm Rabbi Bloom."

"You could have told me your father was a rabbi," I whispered to Maggie.

"You didn't ask." She looped her arm through her father's. "Daddy, this is Father Michael. He's a heretic."

"Please tell me you're not dating him," Mrs. Bloom murmured.

"Ma, he's a priest. Of course I'm not." Maggie laughed as they headed toward the house. "But I bet that street performer who asked me out is starting to look a lot more palatable to you ..."

That left two of us, men of God, standing awkwardly on the driveway.

Rabbi Bloom led the way into the house, toward his study. "So," he said. "Where's your congregation?"

"Concord," I said. "St. Catherine's."

"And you met my daughter how?"

I'm Shay Bourne's spiritual advisor."

He glanced up. "That must be unnerving."

"It is," I said. "On many levels."

"So is he or isn't he?"

"Donating his heart? That's going to be up to your daughter, I think."

The rabbi shook his head. "No, no. Maggie, she could move a mountain if she wanted to, one molecule at a time. I meant is he or isn't he Jesus?"

I blinked. "I never figured I'd hear that question from a rabbi."

"Jesus was a Jewish man, after all. Just look at the evidence: he lived at home, went into his dad's business, thought his mother was a virgin, and his mother thought he was God." Rabbi Bloom grinned, and I started to smile.

"Well, Shay's not preaching what Jesus did."

The rabbi laughed. "And you were around the first time to know this for sure?"

"I know what it says in scripture."

"I never understood people—Jewish or Christian—who read the Bible as if it were hard evidence. Gospel means good news. It's a way to update the story, to fit the audience you're telling it to."

"I don't know if I'd say that Shay Bourne's here to update the story of Christ for the modem generation," I replied.

"It makes you wonder, then, why so many people have jumped on his bandwagon. It's almost like who he is matters less than what all of them need him to be." Rabbi Bloom began to scour his bookshelves, finally lighting on one dusty tome, which he skimmed through until he found a certain page. "Jesus said to his disciples, 'Compare me to someone

and tell me whom I am like.' Simon Peter said to him, 'You are like a righteous angel.' Matthew said to him, 'You are like a wise philosopher.' Thomas said to him, 'Master, my mouth is wholly incapable of saying whom you are like.' Jesus said, 'I am not your master. Because you have drunk, you have become intoxicated from the bubbling spring which I have measured out.'"

He snapped the book shut again as I tried to place the scripture.

"History's always written by the winners," Rabbi Bloom said. "This was one of the losers." He handed me the book just as Maggie poked her head into the room.

"Dad, you're not trying to pawn off another copy of The Best Jewish Knock-Knock Jokes, are you?"

"Unbelievably, Father Michael already has a signed copy. Is dinner ready?"

"Yes."

"Thank goodness. I was beginning to think your mother had cremated the tilapia." As Maggie ducked back into the kitchen. Rabbi Bloom turned to me. "Well, in spite of how Maggie introduced you, you don't seem like a heretic to me."

"It's a long story."

"I'm sure you already know that heresy comes from the Greek word for choice." He shrugged. "Makes you wonder. What if the ideas that have always been considered sacrilegious aren't sacrilegious at all—just ideas we haven't come across before? Or ideas we haven't been allowed to come across?"