Beauty through the twilight

A photo from this evening

Tonight marks the celebration of Corpus Cristi, the night in Italy when half of the city shuts down while the other half flocks to the windows and rooftops to watch the bishop process down the corso with the Holy Eucharist held high. The bells from one church peal and fade until the bells from the next church call you along to the final destination. The military orders come out in their very best regalia; banners stream, children bless themselves, and religious file through the streets in packs.

Last year my parents and I had the wonderful surprise of stumbling into Assisi in time for the feast. Nothing, I thought, could compare to that journey through the the narrow rock streets with the bells echoing from one side of the town to the other.

As I made my way to Maria Maggiore this evening, going down the same Via Merulana that the Pope would take from San Giovanni Laterno to Our Lady's Basilica, the sky was a smear of twilight blue and grey clouds behind the column and bell tower of Maria Maggiore. Waiting in my two-person deep spot in front of the main piazza, there were lovely surreal sights that seemed to have been borrowed from a different age.

A lone friar dressed in gray stood in the balcony of the facade, looking down at the crowds murmuringly waiting below. Scattered purple bishops and red cardinals bustled and assembled in the seats flanking the stupendous altar, set up to await the Eucharist's arrival. A monk on a ladder lit the lean candlesticks on one side, then moved the ladder on to light the next. Speakers scattered across the piazza gave Eucharistic reflections and led the attentive in every traditional Eucharist hymn known to the Latin and Italian world. The Czech non-Catholic couple who had asked me what was going on there tonight stayed there next to me, waiting for over an hour before the Pope even arrived, looking about in interest, amusement, and quite absorption.

The first sign of the procession's arrival were the first banners unfurling in the wind and the lay orders beneath them, the banners all embroidered with emblems of Our Lady or Our Lord, the followers all dressed in the particular order's cape or special vestment. There were medieval vests and thick heavy gold lanterns with red glass, swaying above the heads of their carriers. These people flowed into the area around the piazza's column, turned and waited.

Then came the nuns; hundreds of them, all carrying lit candles with colored paper bibs to protect from the dripping wax. They filed off to the right of the circular area. The priests followed; thousands of them, from every order and nation, dressed in their vestments, all moving to the left.

Then a pause; and then the murmur of clapping starting to rise, the flashes of light blinking around the corner I stood at; the first glimpse of the upraised gold cross and candlesticks above the heads of the crowd, and slowly emerging mere feet away, the magnificent sight of the upraised platform upon which the Eucharist rested. And there kneeling before Him, our beloved Pope gazing in perfect peace and happiness upon Our Lord, his upturned expression completely enraptured, seemingly unaware of the noise and business that he was passing.

I had my arms upraised filming the sight, but my eyes were locked the moment they rested upon the Pope's indescribably beautiful attention. I have seen that look of peace and light freedom before, but never had I saw it in such a religious context.

Love is the only word to summarize it.

Almost exactly four years and a month ago, my eyes locked for a moment with those of Pope John Paul II during the last Papal event I saw him alive. The profound impact of that moment will be with me my entire existence. Now in my memory there stands by its side the image of a Pope whose eyes were not turned towards me, but to an illuminated monstrance containing the Saviour of the world.

The love of the gaze, that permeates each, is the same.