“he’s been sitting since 6:46am,” they say on the news that night. “a moment ago he spoke, to say ‘please—turn off the lights.’ of course the officials complied . . . “
they go on, repeat how the polÃcia tentatively tried (and faithfully failed) to seal off Corcovado, how the people crashed the barricades with brotherly bravado, climbed through trees to throng by his pedestal-throne, how he doesn’t acknowledge their howls or hallelujas—doesn’t even seem to notice, now, acts as if he’s quite alone.
of course, some had gathered there even before the scales fell from his eyes—they’d seen the Africanews and they were waiting, cameras trained, well before the sun’slow rise. at half-to-seven sun hit stone and, as was happening everywhere the worldwide that day, cracks appeared, and grew wide, and soon the shellrock sheared away. here (as elsewhere) some were overzealous—reporters or penitents or skeptics—and were crushed by falling soapstone. no one worried! they knew (as, they said, they’d always known): the lame, the epileptics, even the AIDStricken were about to be cured, the dead restored, and all brought home to heaven. they smiled to each other, said “we’ll sit with the Lord by seven!”
well, this Cristo kept quiet. first he blinked, and looked to right and left. then, as if he’d just noticed his body, he lowered his outstretched arms. then he saw the people [sm]all around him, and crouched to see their faces, and took on a look of alarm. they pointed, and he picked up pieces of rubble, piled them neatly to one side. he reached careful to touch the wounded and lifeless; bones knit, eyes opened, mothers dropped to knees and cried. then he sat down on his stool and seemed to drift; the people called and cheered, but he didn’t lift a finger, didn’t bat an eye, just stared off into space, so they called all their cousins and uncles and friends and soon a solid mass of human heat had filled that place.
they calmed more quickly than you’d guess, and invented a method to relieve the mess. they formed two lines, one to come and one to go, and filed past ’til day became night; each person got a chance to reach up and touch His dangling toe. curses were lifted, infirmities relieved; demons were cast out, and doubters believed; but through it all he sat silent—then the sun went down and floodlights sparked to life. he raised a massive hand to shield his eyes; his voice was heavy as a concrete knife. the reporters frenzied to be first to repeat his words, and when it went dark again all those around repeated what they’d heard. they took up the call again, “speak to us! answer! we beg!” he heaved a sigh, shrugged cliff-shoulders, shifted one of his legs.
they took that as invitation and the questions started flying. some were surprised to find him dark-haired and tanned, to hear him speak the language of the land; to these he said, “people like you made me, so like you is how i am.” others asked of heaven, angels, hells, unanswered prayers; he held up his hands, shook his head, said “i’ve been simply standing here for nigh on eighty years, that’s all i know. i’m no soothsayer.” they finally came around, reluctant, to their question and their crisis, not sure if their faith would survive: “are you truly The Christ? we’ve heard from Cochabamba, Tlalnepantla, Palencia, Almada, and they all say their Christs have come alive.”
the Redeemer frowned, and stood up to his height. “make way,” he said, and spread his arms again, like parting seas. they moved as best they could to the sides, and he stepped down, surpassingly quiet and light, and headed down the mountain, toward the east. he didn’t speak again, striding field-long down the Rua Clemente, then south on Cabral, east on Pasteur, south again on Sodre; at the forest east again, and all along the people were saying, where, why, return, reply, until he crested Babylon Hill.
he paused there, looking east, then went down quick to the shore. his robes dragged, then floated behind, as he stepped onto waters unusually still, and walking under helicopter buzz he loped as he’d done in the lore—as his twins all the world around were doing, with the same goal of meeting in mind—east across the water, curving north at the cape, straight-backed toward his Bethlehem, to see how many of Himself he’d find.