Papa, Can You Hear Me?

From Journal Entry on 6/16/19 – Rome, Italy

Today we went to see the pope’s regular Sunday address, rather fitting when you think about the fact that it’s Father’s Day.  We double-checked his schedule to ensure he would be speaking, then we headed off on our 30 min. walk to the Vatican.

It was hot today, close to 90 degrees, and I could feed the extra sunscreen I applied making my arms and legs sticky.  I anticipated great crowds with us standing in the middle of the colonnade’s arms before St. Peter’s, a sweaty, devout mass ready for mass.  On the way, we all bought water and the girls bought fans for a euro that were lined with faux lace and decorated with landmarks from Rome.  They literally said “souvenir” on them, as if there were any doubt, and Emily’s started to come apart before we even entered the Vatican.

We had to cross the Bridge of Angels before passing the fortress where the pope retreated during the sieges of Rome, the Castel Sant’Angelo.   The last angel on the bridge held a spear in a fearsome pose, as if guarding the fortress by himself.  My mind started asking a million questions.  How did the fortress stay in the church’s hands if the Vatican area close by fell?  Would they just hunker down there and beg other Catholic countries to come save them?  How much food did they keep there regularly, and for how long could they hold out?  Mitch later showed us the passage the pope would use to escape to the fortress from the Vatican, high above the crowds below.

Then, we entered the colonnade.  Surprisingly, there was no security like we were told to expect, which should’ve been our first clue something was amiss.  There were also fewer people than I expected, with only about 1/5 of it full.  Mitch told us that the pope speaks from a window to the right, so we chose to sit in the shade of the colonnade on the left.

There was such a fascinating mix of people there: tourists interested in the spectacle that is the papacy, who wore shorts and tank tops and sandals; devout religious pilgrims from many countries coming to hear the words of their beloved leader, dressed in long pants and dresses and fine headdresses; beggars and the lame who came to find blessings amid the religious crowds, just hoping for some crumbs from the table, dressed in rage and bandages, holding crutches and cups for alms.

We all waited together in anticipation, each hoping for a different kind of blessing awaiting us as the noon bells tolled.  We watched the windows high above as the sounds reverberated throughout the piazza.  As the bells began to fade in the distance, we grew antsy.  Something was wrong, for nothing was happening.  We watched.  We waited.  Still nothing.

We all waited together in anticipation, each hoping for a different kind of blessing awaiting us as the noon bells tolled.  We watched the windows high above as the sounds reverberated throughout the piazza.  As the bells began to fade in the distance, we grew antsy.  Something was wrong, for nothing was happening.  We watched.  We waited.  Still nothing.

Mitch and I double-checked different websites again to ensure there was a scheduled address.  Sure enough, June 16th was on the docket, but still nothing.  The realization that hit us began to wash over the crowed, and groups began to leave with long faces.  What happened?  Was he sick?  Why was there no announcement that he wasn’t coming?

I felt like a girl who had gotten all dressed up for the prom, only to have her date never show.  I guess I was more excited to see the pope than I realized based on the level of disappointment I was feeling.  I’m not Catholic, and I know enough history to have a very healthy skepticism about the office.  However, part of me still wanted to believe that this man was somehow going to have a holy presence that true spiritual leaders often do.

But then I realized that he is, in fact, just a man.  Just like every religious leader I’ve known.  Just like every father I’ve known.  Imperfect.  Flawed.  Human.  We put too much stock in these fathers, holy or not, and force them up on lonely pedestals, shocked when they have trouble staying up there successfully.  It’s unfair of us to demand it of them, or of them to demand from us.

The pope seems built from a system of separating him from his people.  Just look at the high window from which he speaks or the fortress to protect him.  What the church, and the world, needs is a father who walks beside them as an example, mentor, and support, not a man speaking to them from a gilded tower.  But did we build that tower and gild it and place him up there?  It gave me pause.

Later in the day, when the nine hour time difference made it appropriate, I called my dad.  He seemed surprised to hear from me.  “Are you in Rome?  You sound like you’re next door.”  We had our normal 2-3 minute chat before he handed the phone off to my mother who was itching for her turn.  He told me to keep posting pictures so he could see them on Instagram right before he jumped off.

It made me thankful to hear his voice today.  It might not have been the pope, but it was a more important father in my life for sure.  I thought about Mitch and wondered if Father’s Day still hurts him only a few years after his dad passed.  I didn’t have the heart to ask, and just tried to be extra sympathetic today.  For me, at least, when there was no holy father’s voice today, my dad could fill that void.