I had lost the sense of time with the jet lag and rush of our tour, but suddenly it was Wednesday and time to see the Pope. We had by this time self-assigned seats in the tour bus, and soon we were going around the circles that were Rome traffic on our way to Vatican City, the smallest country in the world. It was early - not 8 o'clock yet, but we were told there would be 100,000 people there, and when we were left off at the gate we found that this was no lie. As had become usual, we queued up behind our effervescent tour guide, Anna Marie, and followed her car antenna with a daisy that reached above the crowd through the walls and into the city itself, St Peter's Basilica several hundred yards away, a platform set at the entrance where papal dignitaries moved about like tiny puppets before the seething crowd. We shuffled about in maddeningly irregular lines before we were ushered through some temporary side gates and into the actual plaza, where decrepit plastic chairs had been set up by the thousands, and then we sat, far to the rear, to wait. The Pope would not make his appearance until 10:30 and we had nothing to do but watch as throngs from everywhere filled the seats and then every space not blocked off in between, truly 100,000. It was then that I got nervous: what if I had to go to the bathroom? As I thought about it, I felt I DID have to go to the bathroom, and spotting several port-a-potties over to the left tried to make my way over. But nothing doing: for some reason, large tracts of the plaza had been placed off-limits by more temporary gates, and like an imbecile rat in a maze, I had to admit defeat and head back to our group.
Ah, but there was a way! Over to the right was another corridor that I could access, and asking polizia along the way, I found that there was a bathroom way, way towards the front, just to the side of St Peter's. I made the long walk - perhaps 250 yards, and then was stopped cold by the lines. Several hundred other people had had the same idea, and we stood, hopeless, knowing only that we had about an hour and a half to go before the Pope appeared. What, I thought, would I be doing anyway but waiting?, and so I stood, jostling from one foot to another as the line moved soooo slowly. I began to resent the women in the line - women take so much longer to go - when someone else in our group who happened to come along (a woman) began to talk with the man next to us who, with a little discernment, we found was an American priest with a parish in Germany. He told us of his difficulty - that what was once East Germany was the least Christian country in Europe, and how he had to try to spread the word - the vision - all over again, like a missionary to a lapsed parish in 19th century Angola. Was there any hope for Christianity in Europe?, I had to ask. Well, yes, we always have hope, he said, and with God's help...until somewhere, along the line, the Father said, "and the US needs a national health-care system like Germany." But there is no money for that, I said; but there IS, he said; but we baby boomers are making it impossible, I said - there is no way the dwindling number of tax-paying youth can support us when we get older. I knew, I said, because my mother was now taking 10's of thousands from the state - and, even though the government had taken her house, she would STILL use more money than they would get.
We drifted apart in the line, he talking to some German parishioners and I not asking this, but thinking: is it the state that must take care of us? Isn't that how East Germany became pagan in the first place? But of course, neither of us really knew the answer. So many millions in need, one day including ourselves; so many people and not enough - not enough in a free society anyway, and maybe just not enough.
In the mean time, the toilet line had finally divided into male/female and then I knew we had hope. An hour had gone by and I had only half an hour left, but maybe now...the polizia were getting tougher as some people began pushing; one man shoved his way into the female line with his wife: she really had to go, and go now! People yelled, and the polizia pulled the man out and threw him against one of the fences. He and his wife were ordered out, or something, and while I watched, several of the Germans cut in front of me. But it was all right - I was near the end, men are fast, and soon was relieved. Gratefully, for now some cardinals were speaking from the podium, and I made my way back to the seats. Minutes later, the women who had gone showed up, too, and I was surprised: how did you get through so fast? "We didn't. We'll just have to wait." Ahh.
But now the ceremonies were beginning; papal dignitaries called out parish groups one by one in their language, a list that took over half an hour, each group called letting out a yell in the vast crowd, with some singing songs or playing with a band. Finally it was our turn, and we had 5 seconds to yell as they called, "From the United States of America..." and then on to others and others, in Greek, in Russian, in Croatian.
Then -was there a silence? - someone said, and then another, "there's the Pope! There he is!" Several of us stood on our seats and strained towards the basilica and there, after several seconds, I found him - a tiny, distant figure, hat-less, dressed in white, who drifted at the far end of the crowd like a specter, his motion too fast and smooth for travel on foot. Of course he was on a vehicle of some kind, but that could not be seen, and he drifted, waving white-clad arms that must have had hands, were I closer to see. This, I surmised, was all that we would see, and I was not surprised - it was enough, and expected. There was the great man, the new humanist who would bring the Church into the new century! There was the man with the common touch who slept in the side rooms alongside others, refusing the papal refuge, who always had lived with, and like the poor! There was the man for the age!
But there was more: those corridors had been put there for a reason, and soon we realized that his vehicle was to take him along all those ways, through the middle, past the back, along the sides, and that we would get to see him up close. And we did. Kissing babies along the way, soon he was almost within arm's touch, his white-white face shining his pleasure to be in our presence. He was a real man. He was that close. Round and round he went, not once, but several times, waving, smiling, beaming so that all who wanted could get what they had come for - a close-up of his presence.
After some time, he appeared on the podium and spoke. Translated, his message was one of trans-national tolerance and understanding, of bringing God to everyone, for that was every man's job - to help others along the way, their way, any way that would bring them to God. And the world, too; the world to God. By the time the translations were over, his voice was almost a whisper. He was now just a small, tired old man. His beaming smile had cost him, and it became apparent: he was the Martyr Pope. This was not his hope, his dream, this office, but his cross. So many people in need! Such an impossible task! Worlds of people pushing and shoving on this planet, each ready to fight for his place in line, his place in the queue, all on the verge of panic for their needs. All this, all these people, ready to explode; and only God could help - and he was His emissary. An impossible task, but he must have hope - he had to have hope. We could do it, we must do it, we could do it with our faith in God. But there was so little time. The hours were closing in. And he had to be there, it was his cross, his impossible task, it was his, and he was tired.
The crowd was silenced as we were blessed, and then he was gone and we were one of thousands again, pushing to get back to the streets of Rome, hoping to find one restaurant that was not so crowded, one small restaurant where we could find a seat. FK
Ah, but there was a way! Over to the right was another corridor that I could access, and asking polizia along the way, I found that there was a bathroom way, way towards the front, just to the side of St Peter's. I made the long walk - perhaps 250 yards, and then was stopped cold by the lines. Several hundred other people had had the same idea, and we stood, hopeless, knowing only that we had about an hour and a half to go before the Pope appeared. What, I thought, would I be doing anyway but waiting?, and so I stood, jostling from one foot to another as the line moved soooo slowly. I began to resent the women in the line - women take so much longer to go - when someone else in our group who happened to come along (a woman) began to talk with the man next to us who, with a little discernment, we found was an American priest with a parish in Germany. He told us of his difficulty - that what was once East Germany was the least Christian country in Europe, and how he had to try to spread the word - the vision - all over again, like a missionary to a lapsed parish in 19th century Angola. Was there any hope for Christianity in Europe?, I had to ask. Well, yes, we always have hope, he said, and with God's help...until somewhere, along the line, the Father said, "and the US needs a national health-care system like Germany." But there is no money for that, I said; but there IS, he said; but we baby boomers are making it impossible, I said - there is no way the dwindling number of tax-paying youth can support us when we get older. I knew, I said, because my mother was now taking 10's of thousands from the state - and, even though the government had taken her house, she would STILL use more money than they would get.
We drifted apart in the line, he talking to some German parishioners and I not asking this, but thinking: is it the state that must take care of us? Isn't that how East Germany became pagan in the first place? But of course, neither of us really knew the answer. So many millions in need, one day including ourselves; so many people and not enough - not enough in a free society anyway, and maybe just not enough.
In the mean time, the toilet line had finally divided into male/female and then I knew we had hope. An hour had gone by and I had only half an hour left, but maybe now...the polizia were getting tougher as some people began pushing; one man shoved his way into the female line with his wife: she really had to go, and go now! People yelled, and the polizia pulled the man out and threw him against one of the fences. He and his wife were ordered out, or something, and while I watched, several of the Germans cut in front of me. But it was all right - I was near the end, men are fast, and soon was relieved. Gratefully, for now some cardinals were speaking from the podium, and I made my way back to the seats. Minutes later, the women who had gone showed up, too, and I was surprised: how did you get through so fast? "We didn't. We'll just have to wait." Ahh.
But now the ceremonies were beginning; papal dignitaries called out parish groups one by one in their language, a list that took over half an hour, each group called letting out a yell in the vast crowd, with some singing songs or playing with a band. Finally it was our turn, and we had 5 seconds to yell as they called, "From the United States of America..." and then on to others and others, in Greek, in Russian, in Croatian.
Then -was there a silence? - someone said, and then another, "there's the Pope! There he is!" Several of us stood on our seats and strained towards the basilica and there, after several seconds, I found him - a tiny, distant figure, hat-less, dressed in white, who drifted at the far end of the crowd like a specter, his motion too fast and smooth for travel on foot. Of course he was on a vehicle of some kind, but that could not be seen, and he drifted, waving white-clad arms that must have had hands, were I closer to see. This, I surmised, was all that we would see, and I was not surprised - it was enough, and expected. There was the great man, the new humanist who would bring the Church into the new century! There was the man with the common touch who slept in the side rooms alongside others, refusing the papal refuge, who always had lived with, and like the poor! There was the man for the age!
But there was more: those corridors had been put there for a reason, and soon we realized that his vehicle was to take him along all those ways, through the middle, past the back, along the sides, and that we would get to see him up close. And we did. Kissing babies along the way, soon he was almost within arm's touch, his white-white face shining his pleasure to be in our presence. He was a real man. He was that close. Round and round he went, not once, but several times, waving, smiling, beaming so that all who wanted could get what they had come for - a close-up of his presence.
After some time, he appeared on the podium and spoke. Translated, his message was one of trans-national tolerance and understanding, of bringing God to everyone, for that was every man's job - to help others along the way, their way, any way that would bring them to God. And the world, too; the world to God. By the time the translations were over, his voice was almost a whisper. He was now just a small, tired old man. His beaming smile had cost him, and it became apparent: he was the Martyr Pope. This was not his hope, his dream, this office, but his cross. So many people in need! Such an impossible task! Worlds of people pushing and shoving on this planet, each ready to fight for his place in line, his place in the queue, all on the verge of panic for their needs. All this, all these people, ready to explode; and only God could help - and he was His emissary. An impossible task, but he must have hope - he had to have hope. We could do it, we must do it, we could do it with our faith in God. But there was so little time. The hours were closing in. And he had to be there, it was his cross, his impossible task, it was his, and he was tired.
The crowd was silenced as we were blessed, and then he was gone and we were one of thousands again, pushing to get back to the streets of Rome, hoping to find one restaurant that was not so crowded, one small restaurant where we could find a seat. FK
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