Too often we participate in the globalisation of indifference – Pope Francis
Photo credit: Catholic Bishops’ Conference
by JayasankaranKK
We first met Joe at a diplomatic reception in Kuala Lumpur.
In 2013, Archbishop Joseph Marino became the first Papal Nuncio – the Vatican’s Ambassador – to Malaysia. It followed the establishment of diplomatic ties between Malaysia and the Holy See through a 2011 meeting between former Premier Najib Razak and Pope Benedict XVI.
Strictly speaking, an Archbishop is addressed “Your Excellency”. But Joe, an American from Alabama, waved away the formality.
We grew to become friends and soon began attending Sunday Mass at the chapel adjoining his official residence: it isn’t every day one gets to attend Mass celebrated by an Archbishop.
Sometime in 2015, Rebecca, then in government, said she had to go to Rome for some meetings. Having never been, I jumped at the chance.
After Mass the following Sunday, we casually informed Joe about our Rome visit. Just as casually, he asked: “Would you like to meet His Holiness?”
Of course, we said yes but, secretly, we didn’t see it happening. Not really.
We received the letter two weeks later. The note-paper inside was stiff and felt expensive. It also bore the crest of the Holy See and invited us to celebrate Mass with Pope Francis at the chapel of Casa Santa Marta in Vatican City.
When Francis became Pope on March 13, 2013, his choice of housing broke with more than a century of Vatican tradition. He chose a simple guesthouse bed over the Vatican’s most luxurious address.
The Casa Santa Marta (House of Saint Martha, the sister of the resurrected Lazarus) was the Vatican’s guesthouse, a spartan place where visiting cardinals were put up. That ended after Francis made it his home.
We were assigned a driver in Rome. Gabriel was a young and excitable Roman who often ferried Malaysian government officials about in Italy.
He refused to accept one thing, however. Gabriel flat-out didn’t believe we’d meet His Holiness.
He said we might be able to see him on the balcony but even that… he would shrug and wave his hands.
Too many people wanted to meet il Papa, he explained, it was difficult…and, again, the expressive shrug, a roll of those eloquent eyes.
The Mass was at 7.30am so we told the doubting Gabriel to pick us up at 6.00. He argued that the Vatican wasn’t open to visitors at the time, etc.
We insisted or rather, Becky put her foot down. OK, he grumbled, it’s your funeral (or its Italian equivalent).
Dawn was breaking over Rome as an increasingly incredulous Gabriel drove us to the Casa Santa Marta. He watched, open-mouthed, as the Swiss guards inspected our documents and checked against their list.
They let us in.
They saluted.
I looked back to see Gabriel dancing wildly around the car. He’d finally believed.
The mass was in Italian but a Catholic mass is not unlike McDonalds: the Mass is the same everywhere. In any case, a kind American sitting behind me gave us a word-for-word translation.
After that, we – nuns, priests, visitors, all colours, about 25 of us – were shown into a chamber where he stood to meet us.
The guy before us was so overcome, he fell to his knees before the pontiff. Francis helped him up and hugged him.
In the photo that now takes pride of place in our living room, Pope Francis is smiling gently, Rebecca is beaming while I’m grinning like an idiot.
We talked a little, in English, inconsequential stuff and he blessed us. It felt surreal but what I felt was unmistakable.
I had been in the presence of greatness, a palpable sweetness of character that was humbling.
WE