"Pope Fiction" by Patrick Madrid
Envoy Magazine Feature Article, March/April 1997


It can be hard, sometimes, to tell fiction from reality. Remember the one about the woman who wanted to dry off her pet and used a microwave (with disastrous results)? Or how about the widely believed tale about Procter & Gamble having a satanic "666" cleverly disguised as stars in its corporate logo--remember that one? We've all seen a jillion urban legends come and go, some with astonishing staying power. The thing they have in common is they're fake. Our culture is hip-deep in myths--some benign, some malicious, but all accepted as gospel truth by the average Joe. This is also true of the many anti-Catholic myths about the papacy. A lot of people believe there once was a Pope Joan or that the pope is the Beast of Revelation 13. In this article, five of the most common "pope fictions" are debunked for your reading pleasure.

As my friend Rita pulled to the side of the road to check her map, she noticed the car that had been behind her for the last mile or so also stopped, and pulled alongside.

Thinking the middle-aged woman in the other car had stopped to offer assistance, Rita rolled down her window and smiled. "Could you help me with some directions, please?" she asked through the rolled up window of the other car. The woman couldn't hear her through the glass, but she understood the question. Staring hard at Rita, she shook her head and scowled.

Perplexed, Rita asked, "Could you roll down your window, please?" pantomiming the motion of turning the window handle. The woman shook her head again and her scowl deepened.

Then, leaning across the front seat of her car, her face inches from the window, she mouthed slowly and clearly: "I HATE THE POPE." Then she made an obscene gesture with her finger, pulled back onto the road, and drove off.

Rita was dazed and wondered what could have provoked such a bizarre expression of hostility. Then it dawned on her: The bumper sticker on her minivan read, "Follow me, I'm behind the pope!" and included a picture of a smiling Pope John Paul II. Apparently it so offended the woman that she had to go out of her way to let Rita know.

Was she an anti-Catholic Evangelical Protestant? A Jehovah's Witness on her way home from a meeting at the Kingdom Hall? A secularist of no particular religion? Perhaps she was a "pro-choice Catholic" who hates the pope because his efforts to defend the sanctity of unborn life clash with her agenda to "Keep Abortion Legal." Maybe she's mad that he won't compromise Catholic teaching that the sacrament of holy orders is reserved to men. Who knows?

There is one thing we do know. A lot of people dislike, even hate, Pope John Paul II, not because of his personality or ethnicity or whatever, but because they don't like the Catholic Church. The pope is the flesh-and-blood reminder of that Church and its teachings -- he personifies Catholicism -- and for some this is particularly offensive. Some make their dislike for the papacy felt in articles, tracts and videos, calculated not merely to refute Catholic teaching, but to undermine the trust Catholics have in the Church and the pope.

Millions believe myths and legends and historical inaccuracies about the papacy, almost all of which were concocted centuries ago by critics of the Church. Many labor under the twin burden of ignorance and an unwillingness to be shown the truth, heirs of a generations-old anti-Catholicism handed down from family, friends, social circles and nearly 300 years of subtle, American, Protestant propaganda.

But there's hope. John Henry Newman, a Protestant scholar who converted to Catholicism in 1845 and became a leading apologist and later a cardinal, said in his book Apologia Pro Vita Sua, "When I was young . . . I thought the pope to be the anti-Christ. At Christmas 1824 I preached a sermon to that effect." If Newman could be brought to see the truth, so can that angry woman driver who HATES THE POPE.

As apostles for Christ, we have work to do. The myths and misconceptions that form the vast body of "Pope Fiction" are widespread and pernicious -- but like other ills, they can be counteracted and cured with a healthy dose of the facts. Let's examine five of the more common ones.

Fiction 1
Peter was not the first "pope." He didn't have any special primacy or jurisdiction over the other apostles or other early Christians. In fact, he denies this by referring to himself as merely a "fellow presbyter" (1 Peter 5:1)-an office lower than an overseer (bishop). If anything, Paul had a greater authority than Peter.

Although St. Peter never called himself "pope" in Scripture, he did indeed have a special apostolic primacy and jurisdiction. The Scriptural evidence for this is substantial and explicit.

Of the Twelve Apostles, St. Peter is by far the one mentioned most often in Scripture. He appears 195 times. The next most often mentioned Apostle was St. John, who comes in at a whopping 29 times. St. James the Greater is mentioned 19 times, St. Philip 15, and the numbers dwindle rapidly for the others. Does this in itself prove St. Peter's primacy? No, but it does shed considerable light on his importance. What does that light reveal?

Among other things, we see that when the Twelve Apostles are listed by name (Matt. 10:2-5; Mark 3:16-19; Luke 6:14-17; and Acts 1:13), St. Peter's name is always first -- and Judas Iscariot is always listed dead last. Far more commonly, though, the New Testament refers to simply "Peter and the Twelve," as if to say that the tempestuous fisherman signified in himself the unity of the whole apostolic college.

There are many other biblical signs of St. Peter's preeminence among the Apostles. He is the only one who receives a name change from Christ. He was Simon, but Christ calls him "Rock" (Matt. 16:18). Name changes given by God that we read about in Scripture have huge significance and imply an elevation in importance and a special mission given to that person by God (eg. Abram to Abraham, Jacob to Israel). He is also singled out by Christ to receive the keys of the kingdom of heaven and is promised, "Whatever you (singular) bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you (singular) loose on earth will be  loosed in heaven" (Matt. 16:19).

St. Peter is the lone Apostle Christ calls out of the boat to walk on water (Matt. 1:28-29). At the tomb of Christ, St. John waits to allow St. Peter to enter ahead of him (John 20:6). It is to him among the Apostles that God first reveals the Resurrection (Mark 16:7). The risen Christ appears to him first, before the other Apostles (Luke 24:34). Christ preaches the gospel to the crowds from St. Peter's fishing boat (Luke 5:3). St. Peter is told by Christ, "Simon, Simon, behold Satan has demanded to sift all of you like wheat, but I have prayed that your (singular) faith may not fail. And once you (singular) have turned back, you (singular) must strengthen your brethren" (Luke 22:31-32).

Christ makes St. Peter the shepherd of His Church (John 21:15-17). In Acts 1:13-26, St. Peter leads the other Apostles in choosing Matthias as successor to Judas, and he leads the Apostles in preaching on the day of Pentecost (Acts 2:14). He performs the first Pentecost miracle (Acts 3). He speaks in the name of all the Apostles and for the whole Church when the Twelve are brought before the Sanhedrin for a trial (Acts 4). It is to St. Peter alone that God sends the revelation that gentiles are to be allowed into the Church (Acts 10), and he is the Apostle who first welcomes them into the Church (Acts 11). St. Peter's dogmatic pronouncement is accepted, and causes all disputes to cease at the Council of Jerusalem (Acts 15). After his conversion and healing from blindness, St. Paul visits St. Peter to have his teachings confirmed by him (Gal.1:18).

Having said that, what should we make of St. Peter's reference to himself in 1 Peter 5:1 as a "fellow presbyter"? Does this signal that he was unaware of his special role as chief of the Apostles? The answer is found in the same passage. "Clothe yourselves in humility in your dealings with one another," he says, "for God opposes the proud but bestows favor on the humble. So humble yourselves under the mighty hand of God, that He may exalt you in due time" (1 Peter 5:5). Since he was cautioning his Christian audience to be humble, it makes perfect sense that he would take his own advice and, setting an example for them, speak of himself in humble terms. And in doing so, he was following Christ's command, "Whoever wishes to be great among you shall be your servant, whoever wishes to be first among you shall be your slave" (Matt. 20:26-27). But this humility shouldn't blind us to the substantial body of biblical evidence showing that he did receive a special apostolic preeminence and authority from Christ -- evidence that critics of the papacy often ignore or strain to explain away.

St. Paul, like St. Peter, was also humble when referring to himself. He was by far the most prominent and prolific New Testament writer, responsible for about half of the New Testament, but he said, "I am the least of the apostles, not fit to be called an apostle, because I persecuted the Church of God" (1 Cor. 15:10), and, "To me the very least of all the holy ones, this grace was given" (Eph. 3:8). On numerous occasions he called himself a mere deacon, the very lowest level of ordained ministry in the Church (cf. 1 Cor. 3:5, 4:1; 2 Cor. 3:6, 6:4, 11:23; Eph. 3:7; Col. 1:23, 25). But clearly, St. Paul had an authority far greater than that of a deacon.

As with St. Peter, these examples of St. Paul's humility are balanced by statements of his authority: "Although I have the full right to order you to do what is proper, I rather urge you out of love" (Phil. 8-9), and, "[A]lthough we were able to impose our weight as apostles of Christ. Rather, we were gentle among you, as a nursing mother cares for her children" (1 Thess. 2:7).

St. Peter's calling himself a "fellow presbyter" doesn't disprove his primacy any more than St. Paul's habit of calling himself a "deacon" proves he had no authority greater than a deacon's.

Fiction 2
The bishop of Rome can't be the "successor to Peter," since Peter was never in Rome. The Bible nowhere says he went there, and Paul, who did go there, never mentions Peter being in Rome. If Peter were the "pope," he certainly would have mentioned it.

Trying to prove St. Peter did not go to Rome and die there is a lot like trying to prove that St. Matthew didn't write the Gospel of Matthew. True, the Bible doesn't explicitly say he went to Rome, but the surrounding historical evidence is more than sufficient to prove that he did.

But first, we should ask, "If St. Peter didn't go to Rome, where did he go? Where did he die?" We'd expect to find plenty of evidence in the writings of the early Church telling us where this prominent Apostle carried out his final years of ministry, if it were some place other than Rome. But the historical record contains no hint that he ended his days anywhere but Rome. No other city except Rome ever claimed to possess the site of his martyrdom or his tomb (and early Christians were extraordinarily diligent about making and proving such claims). No other city -- not even Antioch, where he resided for a time during his apostolate -- claimed he ended his days among them. No Church Father or Council or any other early Church record indicates that he finished his days anywhere but in Rome.

That's the lack of evidence side of the coin. The flip side is the mountain of evidence proving he did go to Rome. Everyone everywhere in the early Church agreed that St. Peter went to Rome, ministered there for more than two decades, and suffered martyrdom by inverted crucifixion in A.D. 65, under the persecution of Emperor Nero. Given the grave danger to the early Church from a hostile Roman government, it makes perfect sense that St. Paul would not mention St. Peter's whereabouts in his letters. He didn't want to draw unfriendly attention. It's also quite possible that St. Peter had not yet arrived in Rome when St. Paul was writing. We even see St. Peter himself making what seems to be a cryptic reference to his presence in Rome when he says "The chosen one at Babylon sends you greetings, as does Mark, my son" (1 Peter 5:13). "Babylon" was a commonly used code word for Rome among Christians, because its pagan decadence and opposition to Christ was reminiscent of the idolatrous wickedness associated with ancient Babylon.

But once St. Peter had been martyred, the testimonies of his sojourn in Rome with St. Paul poured forth in a flood from the early Christian writers. Perhaps the most detailed of these early accounts came from St. Irenaeus of Lyons (d. 200) in his apologetics work, Against Heresies. He gave a detailed account of succession of the bishops of Rome, from St. Peter down to his own day. He referred to Rome as the city "where Peter and Paul proclaimed the gospel and founded the Church." Other notable early examples were St. Ignatius of Antioch (d. 107), who referred to the Church at Rome as "the Church of Peter and Paul" (Letter to the Romans); St. Cyprian (d. 251), who described Rome as "The place of Peter" (Epistle 52); and St. Jerome (d. 420), who called Rome "the See of Peter" (Epistle 15, to Pope Damasus). Around A.D. 166, Bishop Dionysius of Corinth wrote to Pope Soter, "You have also, by your very admonition, brought together the planting that was made by Peter and Paul at Rome . . ." (quoted in Eusebius, Ecclesiastical History, 2:25).

Besides the vast amount of historical evidence showing that St. Peter went to Rome, modern archaeology has cinched the case even tighter by a definitive scientific demonstration that his bones (studies showed that they are of a powerfully built elderly man who died of crucifixion) are interred directly beneath the high altar in St. Peter's Basilica in Rome, several levels down, where the original first century Vatican hill sloped away toward the Tiber River. This was just outside the walls of what was once Nero's Circus -- precisely where all the early Christian and even non-Christian records say St. Peter was crucified and buried.

Fiction 3
The papacy is a medieval Roman invention. The early Church knew nothing of a "supreme pontiff." Other bishops didn't regard the bishop of Rome as having special authority to operate the way modern popes do.

Archbishop Fulton Sheen once said, "It is easy to find truth; it is hard to face it, and harder still to follow it." This is certainly true for some when it comes to facing the historical evidence for the papacy in the early Church. The hard-core purveyors of pope fiction refuse to believe that the papacy was established by Christ. But if the equivalent of the modern papacy was merely a Roman invention of the eighth or ninth century, how do we explain the fact that for the preceding 700 years, the bishops of Rome were regarded (and regarded themselves) as having a special, unique authority and responsibility for the whole Church? Here are a few of the hundreds of examples that could be given.

The earliest account we have of a bishop of Rome exercising authority in another diocese comes from St. Clement's Epistle to the Corinthians. It was written by Clement, bishop of Rome, around the year A.D. 80. In it he responds to the Corinthians' plea for his intervention. The entire letter is written in a fatherly, kind way, but it is also clear that Clement was quite aware he had a special authority. Two key phrases stand out as testimony of this: "But if any disobey the words spoken by Him [Christ] through us, let them know that they will involve themselves in sin and no small danger"; and "For you will give us joy and gladness if, obedient to what we have written through the Holy Spirit, you root out the lawless anger of your jealousy" (59, 63). Clearly, this early bishop of Rome wrote as one who expected his words to be obeyed.

Pope Victor I (reigned 189-199) worked to settle a dispute among the bishops of the East and West over when to celebrate Easter -- known as the Quartodeciman controversy. The other bishops recognized his unique authority when they followed his directive to convene local and regional synods to deliberate on the issue. Most of the bishops decided to adopt his proposal that the whole Church celebrate Easter on the first Sunday after Passover. Those who didn't, he threatened with excommunication. The fact that no bishop in the world -- not a single one -- disputed his authority as bishop of Rome to carry out such an excommunication is a powerful piece of evidence that the early Church recognized the unique authority of the bishop of Rome.

Shortly before his death in A.D. 200, St. Irenaeus of Lyons wrote to Pope Victor asking him to relent and allow the Eastern bishops to maintain their celebration of Easter according to the Hebrew lunar calendar, evidence that he recognized the pope's authority to threaten excommunication. Pope Victor did not in fact relent, but it's important to note that St. Irenaeus, like most of the bishops, submitted to the pope's ruling. After all, it was Irenaeus who wrote of the Church at Rome: "For with this church, because of its superior origin, all the churches must agree; that is, all the faithful in the whole world, for in her the apostolic tradition has always been preserved for the benefit of the faithful everywhere" (Against Heresies 3:3).

Around the year 220, Pope Callistus wrote, "Callistus, archbishop of the Church Catholic in the city of Rome, to Benedictus, our brother and bishop, greetings in the Lord. By the love of the brotherhood we are bound, and by our apostolic rule we are constrained, to give answer to the inquiries of the brethren, according to what the Lord has given us, and to furnish them with the authority of the seal of the apostles" (First Epistle 1). Clearly he was well aware of his special role and authority in settling problems in the Church, even in other dioceses.

Later, the same pope wrote a letter to all the bishops of Gaul, saying, "Callistus to our most dearly beloved brethren, all the bishops settled throughout Gaul . . . We beg you not to permit anything to be done in those parts contrary to the apostolic statutes; but, supported by our authority, you should stop what is injurious, and prohibit what is unlawful . . . Observe this law, which has been laid down by the apostles and fathers, and our predecessors, and has been ratified by us . . . We have replied to your interrogations shortly, because your letter found us burdened overmuch, and preoccupied with other judgments" (Second Epistle, To All the Bishops of Gaul 2, 6).

In the year 382, Pope Damasus wrote about his authority as bishop of Rome, anchoring it to the fact that he was the successor of St. Peter. He said the Church at Rome "has been placed at the forefront, not by the conciliar decision of other churches, but has received the primacy by the evangelistic voice of our Lord and Savior Who says, 'You are Peter, and upon this rock I will build My Church, and the gates of hell will not prevail against it; and I will give to you the keys of the kingdom of heaven, and whatever you shall have bound on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you shall have loosed on earth shall be loosed in heaven' . . . The first See, therefore, is that of Peter the Apostle, that of the Roman Church, which has neither stain nor blemish" (Decree of Pope Damasus 2-3).

In A.D. 404, St. John Chrysostom wrote to Pope Innocent, "I beseech your Charity to rouse yourself and have compassion, and do everything so as to put a stop to the mischief at this point" (First Epistle to Pope Innocent I). Note that Chrysostom, the archbishop of Constantinople, a powerful diocese, recognized the need to appeal to the bishop of Rome to resolve a controversy.

Many other examples of the primacy of the bishop of Rome in the early Church could be added. Even from the earliest years, the bishop of Rome had -- and everyone recognized that he had -- a special authority in the Church. Those who say the papacy is a "medieval Roman invention," are either ignorant of history or dishonest.

Fiction 4
In the middle ages, there was a "Pope Joan," a woman who hid her gender and rose through the ranks of the Church, became a cardinal and was elected pope. No one knew she was a woman until, during a papal procession through the streets of Rome, she went into labor and gave birth to a child. She and the baby were killed on the spot by the mob, enraged at her imposture.

A lot of things are said about the alleged "Pope Joan." Depending on who is telling the story, she was a courageous feminist, a clever opportunist, a brilliant scholar who couldn't make it as a woman in a man's world. She is said to have been a wise ruler and an astute theologian, though, oddly, no decree or theological teaching purporting to have come from her has made its way down to our day.

In any case, the fact is, there was no Pope Joan. She exists only as pure legend, but one that makes for a sexy story. And when it comes to sexy stories, you know Hollywood will try its hand at making a blockbuster out of this piece of pope fiction. New Line Cinema (that's right, the same good folks who produced The Last Temptation of Christ) has reportedly bought the movie rights to Pope Joan, the best-selling 1996 novel by Donna Woolfolk Cross. Her book is couched as an historical "novel" -- embellishing on a grand scale the rather sparse details that have clung to the legend of a brilliant, plain girl who rises to the highest levels in Church service, culminating in her being elected pope by an unsuspecting college of cardinals. The way the book is written and the way it's being promoted support my concern that it will be seen by most of its historically ignorant readers, not as a novel, a fiction, but as a real biography of the one woman who "made it to the top." When the movie comes out, this problem will certainly grow in proportions.

It's important to remember that even if there had been a female impostor pope, this would just mean that an invalid election had taken place, nothing more. Other invalidly elected claimants to the papal office have come and gone over the centuries, and the fact that a woman made that list would simply mean that a woman made that list. She would not have been pope -- no one invalidly elected would be. And nothing in the Church's teachings about the papacy would be injured or disproved.

But in reality, the Pope Joan story is all sizzle and no steak. The basic outline of the main legend (actually, there have been several competing legends over the centuries) has it that in the ninth or tenth century, a plain but extraordinarily brilliant young woman contrived to enter the university disguised as a man. Her intellect outstripped her male classmates and she shot to the top rank of students. Talk of her prowess in law, science, rhetoric, philosophy and languages was widespread.

In another legend, popularized by several 13th century works such as the Chronicle of Martin Polonus, the Universal Chronicle of Metz and Wonders of the City of Rome, she traveled first to Greece with her boyfriend (why he wanted a girlfriend who disguised herself as a man is unknown), made a name for herself in the university there, then traveled to Rome.

Here all the legends converge into the main one that has come down to our day. Once in Rome, Joan managed to enter religious life (although no legend is able to say which order she entered), was ordained a priest and earned a high reputation as a notary in the papal court. Eventually, she was noticed by the pope and made a cardinal. You can guess what happens next. She is eventually elected pope, takes the name John, and sets about skillfully ruling the Church. It's at this point that the most dramatic scenes of the story unfold.

The legends vary as to how Joan's gender and identity were discovered. One holds that she was granted a vision by God in which she was shown two options for her fate, being discovered and disgraced by the world or roasting in hell for her crime. She chose the former. Another version says she got pregnant by one of her curial advisors and somehow was able to maintain the charade until she gave birth to the baby. At that point her secret was discovered and she was deposed as pope and sent to a convent to do penance for the rest of her life. According to this legend, the child she bore went on to became the bishop of Ostia, about 30 miles southwest of Rome, and when she died, he had her body buried there. Of course, no evidence exists to support this.

The main detail these legends have in common is that Joan was discovered because her hanky panky with a cardinal or secretary resulted in pregnancy, and the childbirth exposed her fraud. The main legend is the most gory on this point. In it, Pope Joan goes into labor while riding in her sede gestiatoria -- the portable throne in which popes were carried -- as her procession passed the Coliseum on its way from St. Peter's Basilica to St. John Lateran Cathedral. The procession halted, the baby was born, and the confused and angry onlookers killed Pope Joan and her baby on the spot. Most accounts say she was killed by stoning, another says she died in childbirth as the mob watching the spectacle shouted and insulted her. Still another says she was dragged to death behind a horse as punishment. Either way, the legends agree that the Romans didn't appreciate the unpleasant discovery.

Several odd historical details gave weight to the legend, including the fact that among the carved busts of the popes in the cathedral of Sienna was one of an unnamed woman. No one knows who created it or how it was put there, but when Pope Clement VIII (reigned 1592 -- 1605) discovered it, he ordered it reworked enough to represent Pope Zacharias, whose image had not previously been included in the collection. This is not surprising, though, given the widespread belief in Europe in the Pope Joan legend during the 13th through 18th centuries. Versions abounded, and many credulous folk, Catholics included, were sincerely convinced that there had indeed been a female pope.

But the facts of history show otherwise. The primary proofs that this is all just a fable are these: First, the earliest point that we can trace the legend to is the mid-13th century, but the legend didn't really gain wide currency until the late 14th century. No evidence of any kind exists from the ninth century (when Pope Joan was alleged to have reigned), nor do we see any in the 10th through 12th centuries. None of the annals or acts of the popes that were written between the ninth and 13th centuries (and none after that, either) mention her.

Church historian J.P. Kirsch wrote that "Not one contemporaneous historical source among the papal histories knows anything about her; also, no mention is made of her until the middle of the 13th century. Now it is incredible that the appearance of a 'popess,' if it was a historical fact, would be noticed by none of the numerous historians from the 10th to the 13th century. In the history of the popes, there is no place where this legendary figure will fit in. Between Leo IV and Benedict III, where Martinus Polonus places her, she cannot be inserted . . ." (Article on Pope Joan, Catholic Encyclopedia, 1913).

So where did the legend come from? There are two likely possibilities. The first is that the Roman population became disgusted with the corrupt influence wielded over Pope Sergius (reigned 904-911) by the powerful and wealthy Theodora Theophylact, and more specifically by her young daughter Morozia, a cunning and exceptionally attractive woman. It appears that Morozia was Sergius' mistress and bore him at least one son (the future Pope John XI). The fabulously wealthy and prestigious Theophylact family wielded immense power in Rome during the 10th century, even, sadly, over several popes. This is a sorry episode in the history of the Church, one which displayed a decadence and immorality that even popes, at times, could fall prey to -- a reminder to us all that men, even the holiest of men, are not invulnerable to temptation and personal weakness. Despite their sins, Christ's promise that the Church would be protected from error was not, nor has it ever been, broken.

From the details of Sergius III's pontificate, it seems clear that he was a vain, violent and sensuous man. It's quite possible that the disgusted faithful took to mocking him or one of his immediate successors because he was perceived to have been under the influence of the Theophylact women. Some historians trace the legend of a female pope to Morozia, saying the people called her "Pope Joan" to mock the weak popes she controlled, in the same way some American first ladies have been called "president" to mock their perceived weak husbands.

Another possible explanation for the Pope Joan legend lies in the conduct of the much maligned Pope John VIII (reigned 872-882). He appears to have had a very weak personality, even perhaps somewhat effeminate. Cardinal Baronius, in his Church history Annals, suggests that John VIII's reputation as effeminate gave rise to the legend. Indeed, it would seem that over time, the common folk added ever more lurid embellishments until the vulgar jokes about the hapless (and certainly male) pope ballooned and metamorphosed into a female "popessa."

Fiction 5
The pope is the beast spoken of in Revelation 13. Verse 1 says that he wears crowns and has "blasphemous names" written on his head. Verse 18 says that the numerical value of his name adds up to 666. The pope's official title in Latin is Vicarius Filii Dei (Vicar Son of God). If you add that up using Roman numerals, you get 666. The pope's tiara is emblazoned with this title, formed by diamonds and other jewels.

I wasn't very good at math in school, but even I can follow this argument and run the numbers well enough to show it's bogus. (Besides, answering this question is apologetics at its most fun!) The charge that the pope is the beast of Revelation 13, because his title adds up to 666, is especially popular with Seventh-Day Adventists, but it's also widely repeated in some Protestant circles.

Vicarius Filii Dei does have the mathematical value of 666 in Latin. Here's how it works. Like many ancient languages, such as Greek and Hebrew, some Latin letters are also used for numbers: I = 1, V = 5, X = 10, L = 50, C = 100, D = 500 and M = 1000. The letter "u" is rendered as V and the letter "w," which doesn't exist in the Latin alphabet, would be rendered as VV. So this title would read in Latin as VICARIVS FILII DEI.

When calculating the value of a name or word, letters that don't have a numerical value are ignored. For example, drop out the no-value letters in my name, PATRICK MADRID, and you come up with 2102 -- 1 (i) + 100 (c) + 1000 (m) + 500 (d) + 1 (i) + 500 (d) = 2102. By the way, this is one reason why, as far as I know, no one has yet accused me of being in league with the anti-Christ. The numbers just don't add up.

But in the case of VICARIVS FILII DEI, they do add up to 666. Isolate the numbers and this is what you get: 5 (v) + 1 (i) + 100 (c) + 1 (i) + 5 (V) + 1 (i) + 50 (L) + 1 (i) + 1 (i) + 500 (d) + 1 (i) = 666.

But there are problems with this. The first is that Vicarius Filii Dei, or "Vicar of the Son of God," is not now, nor has it ever been, a title of the bishop of Rome. The second problem is that virtually no one, including many unsuspecting lay Catholics, knows that this papal "title" is a fabrication. To an untrained ear, it sounds enough like one of the pope's real titles, Vicarius Christi (Vicar of Christ), to pass the test. Unfortunately for those who traffic in this particular piece of pope fiction, the real title, Vicarius Christi, adds up to only a measly 214, not the infernal 666. In fact, none of the pope's official titles, such as Servus Servorum Dei (Servant of the Servants of God), Pontifex Maximus (Supreme Pontiff), or Successor Petri (Successor of Peter), will add up to 666. That's why you never see any of them used by anti-Catholics.

If the person making this claim disputes these facts, ask him to furnish even one example of a papal decree, ecclesiastical letter, conciliar statement, or any other official Catholic document in which the pope calls himself or is referred to as the "Vicar of the Son of God." He won't be able to find one, because none exist. Vicarius Filii Dei has never been a title of the pope.

Poof! That part was easy, but some people, especially Seventh-Day Adventists, will ignore the evidence (or lack of it) and hold tenaciously to the notion that "Vicar of the Son of God" is an official papal title and therefore identifies the pope as the Beast of Revelation. What else can be said in response?

Using the same math exercise we did above, point out that the name of the woman who started the Seventh-Day Adventist church, Ellen Gould White, also adds up to 666 in Latin. (L + L + V +D + V + V + I = 666). Then ask if this proves that she is the Beast. I can assure you the answer won't be "yes." If the answer is "no," ask how this numbers game could possibly prove the pope or anyone else is the Beast. If you're answered with silence, it's a good bet that you've made some progress with the person.

The main fact to impress on someone who uses this argument is that a papal title had to be invented, one that could produce the magic number, in order to give this argument legs.

But we're not quite finished cutting it off at the knees. The charge that the pope is the Beast because he wears a crown, and Revelation 13:1 says the Beast wears crowns and has "blasphemous names" written on his head, must also be answered. This we can do more quickly.

Since about the year 708, many popes have worn at non-liturgical ceremonial events a special papal crown called a tiara, but the stylized beehive-shaped papal crown of three diadems that we have come to know as a tiara emerged only in the early 14th century. Although it was customary for tiaras to be encrusted with jewels and precious ornaments, there is no evidence -- no statue, bust, painting, drawing or even written description of any of the many tiaras that were crafted -- that any papal tiara ever had the name or title of a pope emblazoned on it.

This is significant, because there have been medieval and Renaissance popes whose extravagant vanity prodded them to have lavishly ornamented, jewel-encrusted tiaras made for themselves. And we possess paintings and statues and other representations of them produced during their lifetimes that show these tiaras (we even possess some of the actual tiaras). If any popes in history would have been tempted to succumb to the bad taste of spelling out "Vicarius Filii Dei" in diamonds across the front of their tiaras, these men would have -- but they didn't. No pope did. One particular anti-Catholic tract I've seen shows a plain metal tiara with Vicarius Filii Dei written in diamonds across it. But it was a drawing -- not a photograph of a museum piece or even a photo of a painting of a tiara.

It had to be drawn, of course, because the "666 papal crown"-- as with all the other pope fictions--has only ever existed in the minds of those who perpetuate this fantasy.

The Best Way of Life


There are so many different ways of life. Some people have a long life, and some a short life. Some are rich, and some are poor. Some are healthy, and some are often sick, or they are crippled or blind. Some are grand folk who get a lot of honor and praise; many live plain, simple lives, and nobody knows anything about them, and some may even fall into disgrace without much fault of their own. Some have lots of friends, and some are lonely. Some are single, and some are married. Some are clever an quick at learning, and others are slow. And a life may change from one kind to another, like going through different towns on a journey.

Which of these different kinds of lives is the best for me? Which should I want to have? Is it better (for me) to be rich or to be poor? Is it better to be healthy or to be ill?

Perhaps you are almost ready to laugh at these questions. You say, "Oh! I know the answer to that; of course it's better to be healthy and rich."

But wait a minute. Here is a different question: Which is the best train to take from London if you want to go to Liverpool? Why, the train that goes there, I suppose! And if there are many, then the train that goes the quickest and straightest way.

All lives lead to Heaven or to Hell

Well, now, where are all those different kinds of lives going to? For they don't go on forever. They are all going to Heaven or else to Hell. Now, which life (for me) is the best? I can hear you all answer at once: "Oh! the life that goes to Heaven is best, and the surer it is to get me there, the better it is!"

Then let us try again. Is it better to be rich or poor? Suppose (it's rather a funny thing to imagine) that a poor man knew that being poor was taking him to Hell; should he try to get rich? Yes! If he was sure, he should! And suppose a rich man knew that his riches were taking him to Hell; shoudl he try hard to get rid of his riches and be poor? Yes, indeed he should.

I should choose the life that will lead me to Heaven

Well, that is the great lesson of this part of the book. Any kind of life can take a man to Heaven, although some kinds (such as lives of honor and riches) very seldom do, and they are very crooked roads! But the only question worth asking about all of them is: "Will this kind of life take me to Heaven?" If it will, it is the best; if not, it is the worst, however nice the name of it sounds.

The picture is rather like a sort of map. All the roads go to Heaven and to Hell; and they go through all sorts of places with the names of the different kinds of lives. Sometimes I can choose my own road; but generally God chooses it for me, and then I know it is a good road for me, if I keep in the right direction. Of course, Heaven is much more lovely and Hell much more dreadful than they are in the picture.

Yes or No?


1. If you manage to love God right, does it matter what else happens to you on earth?
2. Is a long life always better than a short one?
3. Is it better to be rich than to be poor?
4. Is it always better to be well than to be ill?
5. Is it always better than to be ill than to be well?
6. Does it all depend?
7. Does it depend on which helps you most to love God?
8. Does it depend on anything else?
9. Then should you want to be rich and healthy and live long, regardless of whether all that will help you to love God or not?
10. Is the best kind of life the kind that you can use best to get to God and save your soul?
11. Are these retreat pictures meant just to amuse you?
12. When you look at them, should you think about God and your soul all the time?

CHAPTER 1
Paris, October 1794-

In your letter to me, my dear friend, you emphasize the extraordinarily brave attitude with which women, the so-called weaker sex, face death every day of these terrible times. And you are right. With admiration you cite the poise of "noble" Madame Roland, of "queenly" Marie-Antoinette, of "wonderful" Charlotte Corday and "heroic" Mademoiselle de Sombreul. (I am quoting your own adjectives.) You conclude with the touching sacrifice of the sixteen Carmelite nuns of Compiegne who mounted the guillotine singing Veni Creator; and you also mention the poignant and steadfast voice of young Blanche de la Force who finished the hymn that the executioner's knife silenced on the lips of her companions. "How nobly," you say toward the end of your eloquent letter, "the dignity of man tri- umphs in all these martyrs of the kingdom, of the Girond~ and of the persecuted Church, martyrs caught in the waves of devastating chaos."

O dear disciple of Rousseau! As always I admire your cheerful and noble faith in the indestructible nobility of human nature even when mankind is tasting most desolate failure. But chaos is nature too, my friend, the executioner of your women martyrs, the beast in man, fear and terror-all these are nature too! Since I am far closer to the frightful happenings in Paris than you, who have emigrated, permit me to confess candidly that I interpret the amazing resignation of those who die every day, less as an inherent natural grace than as the last supreme effort of a vanishing culture. Ah, yes! you despise culture, my dear friend, but we have learned to appreciate its value again, to respect conventional forms which prescribe restraint even to mortal terror and - in a few cases - something quite different. Blanche de la Force was the last on your list of heroines. And yet she was not a heroine in your sense of the word. She was not elected to demonstrate the nobility of mankind but rather to prove the infinite frailty of all our vaunted powers. Sister Marie de l'lncarnation, the only surviving nun of Compiegne, confirmed me in this idea. But perhaps you do not even know that Blanche de la Force was a former nun of Compiegne ? She was a novice there for a considerable period of time.

Let me tell you a little of this exceedingly important episode in her life! For I believe it is the beginning of the famous song at the foot of the scaffold. You know the Marquis de la Force, Blanche's father. So I need not tell you of his esteem for the skeptical writings of Voltaire and Diderot. You have heard of his sympathy for certain liberal patriots of the Palais Royal. His trends were purely theoretical and he never dreamed of concrete results. This Sophisticated aristocrat did not think that the subtle spice of his conversation would ever season the crude cookery of the people. But let us not criticize the sad errors of our poor friend; for he, like so many others, has atoned for them. (Ah! my friend, when all is said and done, most of us were very like him. ) Here we are only concerned with the motive that could induce a man like the Marquis de la Force to entrust his daughter to a convent.

While Blanche was in Compiegne, I spoke to her father on a few occasions in the cafes of the Palais Royal where he was rhapsodizing about liberty and fraternity with similarly minded friends. Whenever anyone asked him about his daughter he answered ruefully that he considered "the prisons of religion" -this was his name for convents-as undesirable as those of the state. Nevertheless he was forced to admit that his daughter felt happy there, happy and safe. "Poor timid child," he usually added, "the sad circumstances of her birth apparently determined her whole attitude toward life." And this, indeed, was the common view of the matter .

You, my dear friend, will scarcely understand the Marquis' allusion, because at the time he has reference to, you yourself were still a child. He was speaking of the notorious fire-works catastrophe at the wedding of Louis the Sixteenth, then a dauphin, with the daughter of the emperor of Austria. Later this catastrophe was regarded as an evil omen that foreshadowed the fate of the royal pair . Well, perhaps it was not merely an omen but also a symbol of fate. (For revolutions are caused and conditioned, to be sure, by mismanagement and mistakes in the existing system. But their essential character is the violent outbreak of the deadly fear of an epoch approaching its end. And it is this I had in mind when I spoke of a symbol. ) For it is not at all true that neglect on the part of the authorities was responsible for the unfortunate accident on the square of Louis the Fifteenth. This rumor was spread by people who wished to delude themselves about the mystery of that sudden and vio- lent terror of the masses. Mystery, as you know, is intolerably annoying to enlightenment such as ours. As a matter of fact, the authorities were at their post. All the usual precautions had been taken with model efficiency. The carriages of the nobility, and among them the conveyance of the young Marquise de la Force, who was an expectant mother, were greeted respectfully by the crowd of pedestrians near the heavy water wagons of the pompiers, which were conscientiously held in readiness for all emergencies. Police officers stood at the intersections of the streets which ran into the square, and kept order. In spite of the "wretched times," which were almost pro- verbial, people looked well-dressed and well-fed. Practically every individual represented a well-to-do burgher of decent thinking and behavior. It was difficult to imagine them as part of the anarchistic chaos of half an hour later. For they were full of eager anticipation of a festive spectacle and re- sponded to the police in orderly fashion. In short, the dreadful incident which followed was sudden and inexplicable. For it was an omen.

A harmless little blaze in the room where the fire- works were stored, and wild and instant panic, al- though there was absolutely no danger, caused mad confusion. At the street corner the policemen were unable to make a gesture-for they had disappeared!

The happy and loyal citizens had disappeared. There remained only a wild monster, a mass of human beings stifled by their own terror: it was chaos that slumbers in the depths of all things and breaks through the solid armor of habit and custom. Through the windows of her fine carriage, in the midst of that fearful throng, the Marquise saw a gruesome spectacle. She heard the despairing cries of those who had fallen to the ground, she heard the groans of trodden bodies. But she herself was as safe in her great coach as if she had been on a ship secure on storm-tossed seas. Involuntarily she put out her slender, aristocratic hand and bolted the door . The bolt was a little rusty because the coach hailed from the time of the Fronde, when all carriage doors had been supplied with bolts since one never knew when there might be occasion for flight. But these bolts had not been used for a long time! The Mar- quise felt quite safe though she was considerably disturbed. This is not surprising for the sight of a crowd is always painful to the individual. Now whether the horses, confused by the noise and the turmoil, began to run of themselves, or whether the coachman lost his head and tried to escape, at any rate the coach began to move and drove straight into the screaming, raging, despairing crowd. AImost at once the horses were stopped and the car- riage door forced open. Seething chaos followed. For a moment there was something that resembled the revolution to come.

"Madame!" shrieked a man who bore a blood- stained child in his arms, "you are safe and secure in your coach while the people are dying under the hooves of your horses! But soon, I tell you, it is you who will be dying and we shall sit in your coaches." And even as he spoke the Marquise saw his menacing expression mirrored in hundreds of terror-stricken faces. In another moment she had been dragged from her carriage and her own ex- pression of fear merged with that of the mass. Rumor had it later that Blanche de la Force was born in the half-wrecked carriage on the way home from the square. This is an exaggeration. But it is true that the Marquise arrived at her palace on foot with torn garments and the face of a Medusa, and that, as the result of her terrible experience, she was confined prematurely and died soon afterwards. Now I do not hesitate to associate the temperament of the poor child with the circumstances of her birth. Not only the superstition of the people but the opinion of qualified physicians consider such a connection quite possible. Blanche, thrust into the world too soon through the fright of her mother, seemed to have been dowered only with fear. At an early age she displayed a timidity which greatly exceeded the little fears one usually observes in chil- dren. (Children are afraid of all sorts of things and one is apt to consider this a lack of understand- ing.) If her own little dog barked suddenly, she trembled; and she recoiled from the face of a new servant as though he were a ghost. It was impossible to cure her of fearing a niche in the passage which she passed every day with her nurse. At the sight of a dead bird or snail in the garden she froze to a statue. It seemed as if this pathetic little person lived in constant expectation of some shocking event which she might perhaps avoid by eternal watch- fulness like that of small sick creatures who sleep with open eyes; or as if the great fear in her childish gaze penetrated the firm exterior of a sheltered life to a core of terrible frailty.

" Are you sure the stairs will not slip from under my feet ?" she inquired when she was taken to the solid tower of the Chateau la Force, the ancestral home of her race, where the Marquis spent the summer. This tower had already defied seven cen- turies and everyone could see that it was capable of lasting seven more. "Won't the wall tip over ? Are you sure the gondola will not sink? Won't people get angry ?" This was the kind of thing little Blanche was constantly asking. And there was no use explaining to her that there was no cause for alarm. She would listen attentively and reflect on everything she was told, for she was by no means unintelligent, but she continued to be afraid. Neither affection nor severity nor her own indubitable willingness to improve, altered her unfortunate temperament. Indeed her very willingness made matters worse for she became so depressed by the futility of her efforts that she considered the lack of that courage which everyone urged upon her as the most shameful disgrace. One might almost say that in addition to everything else she grew to be afraid of her own fear. I have said that Blanche was not unintelligent; she had a good mind and so in time she invented little devices to mask the true state of affairs. She no longer asked: "Won't the stairs slip from under me?" or, "Are you sure the gondola will not sink ?" But she would suddenly feel tired or ill, she had forgotten to learn her lesson or to fetch something she needed. In short there was some reason or other why she could not set foot on the stairs or in the gondola.

The servants laughed and dubbed her "rabbit- heart" but she did not improve, she even suffered more than formerly from her weakness because now she was trying to hide it. Sometimes one could see the agonies she was enduring. Never before had there been a comely child of noble birth who moved with such awkward timidity, who blushed so unfortunately as Blanche de la Force. The great title of her family was like a placard she bore unrightfully; the proud name of de la Force was idle mockery. No one who remembered her little face that paled so easily could call her anything but just Blanche. But "rabbit" was after all the most suitable name of all. This was the state of affairs when the Marquis de la Force engaged Madame de Chalais. This excellent governess undertook Blanche's religious instruction with decision and thoroughness and by this approach succeeded in overcoming the child's fears to a certain extent. For because of the liberal tendencies of the Marquis, this aspect of her education had been deplorably neglected up to this time, and since Blanche, unlike her father, had the pronounced needs of a religious nature, the omission must have been especially fatal for her. From a psychological point of view Madame de Chalais was probably wise in directing her young pupil's attention to the Christ Child before everything else. It was Blanche's first encounter with "le petit Roi de Gloire." (You, my dear friend, are acquainted with this charming little wax figure of the Carmelite convent in Compiegne, a figure that delighted the children at Christmas time when it was exhibited in the chapel. ) Le petit Roi had a crown and a scepter of gold which the King of France had given Him to show that le petit Roi was the ruler of heaven and earth. In gratitude for his gift, le petit Roi protected the King and his people: and so it was quite possible to live safely in France without having to think of slipping stairs and tottering walls. Only, of course, one must give due reverence to le petit Roi, just as the King always did. One could do this without bestowing crowns and scepters, by prayers and little acts of love, obedience and worship. If one was conscientious in all these things one might depend upon the protection of le petit Roi as confidently as the King of France himself. Well, I have told you that Blanche had a religious nature and yet in the beginning Madame de Chalais met with unexpected obstacles. In later years she preferred to keep silence on that score, although as a rule she liked to indulge in reminiscences of her educational methods.

"Surely you must see how easy it is for the King of Heaven to protect you," she once said to Blanche in her gentle obstinate way when the child was again hesitating to go upstairs. "Only think of the great power of even our own king on earth !" Blanche lifted her troubled little face to her governess. Sometimes her tremulous glances resembled flocks 0f restless birds. "But if He lost His crown ?" she asked pensively.

For a moment Madame de Chalais was non- plussed. It was true that this objection had never occurred to her. But almost instantly she rejected it-she was very apt in rejecting uncomfortable questions. Blanche sometimes imagined that they rebounded from the whalebones of her bodice which was a little too tight for her .

"You cannot believe in all seriousness, Blanche," she said, "that one loses one's crown as easily as a handkerchief. But one must have the proper respect for it! You promised me never to omit your prayer, and so you may rest assured that the King of Heaven will never fail to protect you. You can really go up the stairs without worrying."

Blanche quailed. It was the very stairway about which she had always asked whether it would slip from her. Involuntarily she freed her hand �rom the clasp of her governess and groped for one of the supports of the banister. And Fate had it that the support broke!

The little frightened birds in Blanche's eyes fluttered to Madame de Chalais in terror. For a mo- ment fear and security regarded each other almost with hostility. Then it suddenly seemed as if not the stairs but Madame de Chalais slipped, as though she had assumed the role of the child.

"How can you frighten me so ?" she cried. And she recoiled a little so that the bones of her tight bodice crackled softly.

Of course this mood did not last long. Madame de Chalais was not accustomed to yield to moods. And, as I have already said, Blanche's resistance weakened at that time when the ideas and symbols of Christian piety were crowding out the uncertain phantasies of fear from her imagination. I can quite understand this. Ah, my friend, what consolation there is in faith I From my own childhood days I remember the strange penetration of prayer through all the layers of being down to the very foundation of all things where falling is possible no longer. Undoubtedly Blanche must have had similar sensations. The poor child who had stubbornly refused all earthly guaranties of safety began to confide her little anxious heart to the shelter of the Supreme Power. The little rabbit took courage. Madame de Chalais even had the satisfaction of seeing her smile at her own former fears and of mocking them in mischievous jests that savored a little of youthful boasting but satisfied everyone nevertheless.

She was sixteen now, slender, with a small delicate mouth and a face that looked a little peaked and strained. Madame de Chalais had been careful to accustom her to a bodice as tight as her own, and so the girl's movements were graceful but some what constrained. No one, however, would have called her shy. Since everything had turned out so favorably, the Marquis de la Force set about planning a suitable marriage. for his daughter. But Madame de Chalais surprised him with the information that Blanche did not wish to marry, but that she desired to become a nun.