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Vincent stepped out of the car, and looked up at the church. All around, as far as eyes could see, destruction spread -- countless bombed out buildings, with only partial walls and columns left standing; blocks reduced to rubble, ruined furnitures and bits of clothing and household items strewn out on the streets. Parts of the church compound had sustained damage, broken windows and burned walls, but the main church building stood tall, the cross on its steeple rising above.

Deliberately, Vincent sank to his knees in front of the church's main steps, unheeding of the dust staining his white cassock, and bent to kiss the first step. It was this church he had been trying to come to, this church that the late Holy Father had called every night, speaking to its parishioners and others who sheltered here.

He had been in a rusty old car heading toward this church, having snuck into Gaza from Israel through an underground tunnel that the Patriarch of Jerusalem had somehow known about. The Patriarch used the tunnel to smuggle what supplies he could into Gaza when he could, and the plan was for Vincent to join the group doing a supply run, come to this church, talk to its leaders, and decide whether to publicly announce his presence in Gaza.

But the car had been halfway to the church from the border when the world exploded into flames.

Vincent had been thrown from the car. Vaguely, he recalled a body covering his, shielding him from the worst of the flames and shrapnel. Most likely it was young Jacob, the only one in the group aware of his true identity, who had been seated next to him in the car. His body had been found along with the rest of the group when Israeli forces came looking, after the Vatican had informed them what Vincent had done.

But Vincent --

Vincent sat up, and found himself struggling to stand. His still healing legs wouldn't bear his weight, and doctors feared they might not ever -- he might need to walk with a cane for the rest of his life. But now, strong arms circled his waist, giving him leverage to rise and stand. The Patriarch of Venice held him up, supporting half his weight as he guided him up the steps.

"Are you not afraid of Sister Agnes?" He whispered into Vincent's ear. "Getting your cassock dirty like that! And it's white, too!"

"Is that why you refused to be Pope Emeritus?" Vincent whispered back. "So you could go back to wearing black and red?"

"Oh, of course!" Tedesco made a show of sliding a hand up and down his black cassock with red trims. "So much more convenient! What fool decided the Pope wears white? It's not worth the trouble, I tell you!"

And as they reached the top of the steps, Muhammad came forward, along with his family. They were still all too thin, but not gaunt and emancipated as they had been when they had taken in Vincent. The children ran out ahead, running into Vincent's legs with enough force that Tedesco had to brace him to keep him from falling. Laughing, Vincent hugged the kids, kissing them and asking how they were. The youngest girl, Maram, looked at him wide-eyed and said, "You are all white!" making everyone laugh.

Muhammad reached Vincent, and they embraced tightly. "Oh, God," said Muhammad, "It is odd to see you in white! What do I call you? Your Holiness, is that right?"

"Vincent. I am always Vincent to you."

"Well, to think we saved the Pope! That's quite something, right?"

"That you did. But you did something even more important."

"Huh?"

Vincent turned, guiding Muhammad to stand beside him on top of the steps, facing the people gathered below. Tedesco came to stand on his other side.

"The world is here," Vincent said, gesturing at the cameras and reporters. "The world is here, watching this man, because he saved the Pope. But what I want the world to know is that he didn't save the Pope, he saved a man. A stranger, who he didn't know. As far as he knew, I was just another body, lying in the streets after an Israeli bomb attack. But he stopped. He checked all the bodies, to see if anyone was still alive. When he saw that I was in fact living, though wounded, he built a makeshift stretcher from the car parts lying on the ground, and pulled me all the way to his family's tent, through a considerable distance.

"He bound my wounds with the T-shirt he had been wearing. Wrapped me in blankets even though that left him shivering in the cold. He gave me water that his family had collected from the rain, even though there was precious little of it for him and his family. And when the troops came, which we at first thought were Israeli troops, I couldn't convince him to leave me behind. He was building another stretcher so he could pull me, when people rushed in, shouting 'UN! It's the UN!'

"And when the UN commander came to our tent, and I was trying to tell him how much we needed to thank Muhammad for everything he had done, he said --"

"It's what we would do for anyone," said Muhammad. "It's how we survived the war."

Vincent nodded. "Yes, indeed. That's what I saw. That in the middle of the terrible, atrocious violence inflicted on them, the people of Gaza stood together, always caring for the least among them. That a mother made a 'cake' for her daughter out of leaves and flower, to celebrate her birthday when there was no food. That what food they were able to find, they first gave to the young, the injured, the infirm. I watched them prepare the bodies of their dead for burial, saw the love and care with which these people treated each other even in death. These are indeed the children of God, no matter if they follow the Quran or if they follow the Bible.

"The world has much to atone for the grievous harm we inflicted on them, if not directly, then by standing by too long before we intervened. The world has much to learn from them, their resilience, their perseverance, their refusal to lose sight of their love for one another in the face of such great evil. To paraphrase the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr., peace is not the mere absence of war, but the presence of positive good. And the people of Gaza have that in abundance.

"So we come here today, not to bring them peace, but to beg them to share their peace with us. To bless us with their forgiveness. And to allow us to walk with them as they build their future, here, in the land they call home."

With that, Vincent hugged Muhammad one more time, then turned to Ray, who handed him the bound copy of the freshly signed peace treaty between the Provisional Government of Gaza and the State of Israel.

"Annuntio vobis gaudium magnum," Vincent said, raising the treaty for all to see. "Habemus pacem."

I announce to you a great joy. We have peace.