The Year of the Three Popes…
I’m just back from signing the book of condolence for Pope Francis in Cavan Cathedral. I often visit the Cathedral to sit and reflect, and this time was extra contemplative.
Sitting in the warm light of the Cathedral, I wandered back to the ‘Year of the Three Popes’. It began on August 6, 1978, with the death of Pope Paul VI. For my childhood self he was a significant Pontiff, and I recalled the day I was told my aunt was going to be married in Rome with my granny saying, “God willing they might get to meet the man himself, the Pope.” And they did.
At that time my sister Maria was my world but, being older than me, she was growing up and away from her kid brother. I didn’t understand her transition into adulthood, I fretted the change in her was something sinister. I felt a foreboding, which was fuelled further when I picked up a card of Pope Paul IV from granny’s dressing table. The pope looked at me with an intense stare; he held his hand aloft, a large ring on his finger. I opened the card to see a short biography. My eye caught a list – Pope Paul VI, Born: Giovanni, Battista, Enrico, Antonio, Montini, Maria. This stunned me because one of his names was Maria. My mind muddled – did this confirm something wrong with my sister, Maria?
Now I know it was coincidence; but when you’re a kid with an over active imagination, you see signs in everything.
With the death of Pope Paul IV the Conclave began as cardinals from across the globe gathered to elect his successor. On August 26, the white smoke rose to announce the election of Albino Luciani; who became Pope John Paul I – The smiling pope. Sadly his tenure was brief, 33 days later, he passed away.
Thus began that year’s second Conclave, resulting in the election of Poland’s Karol Wojtyla, who became Pope John Paul II in honour of his predecessor.
Which brings me back to 1979 and Pope John Paul’s historic visit to Ireland – the day I faced my biggest fear.
It was late September when a roar startled me awake in the dead of night, “Gerard, get up – NOW, WE’RE LATE!” I heard the tinge of temper in my mother’s shout, and not wanting it to flare, I leapt out of bed.
We were off to see the pope in the Phoenix Park. Mam’s boss, the proprietor of the Melvin Bar on Bridge Street, was taking us; he was an easy-going man whose company I enjoyed. All seemed calm and ethereal as we drove out of Cavan and up the Dublin road. We quietly chatted, chilled about the day ahead. Then, as the sun rose, we grew silent when we saw the serpent of traffic snaking slowly towards Dublin – a sight that unnerved me.
On arrival at the Phoenix Park, the sheer number of people shook me. At the time Ireland’s population was three and a half million. That day there were one and a half million of us in one place. I don’t quite know how it happened, but my childhood fear was realised when I got lost in the mammoth crowd.
I shouldn’t have, for the event was organised with military precision; ticketed numbers gave us our place. We found ours and settled down to wait. When St Patrick, the pope’s plane, flew overhead there was a great outpouring of emotion that lifted the crowd to their feet, heads craned to the sky in awe-struck reverence of the giant Boeing-bird delivering the Pope to Ireland.
During the emotionally charged other-worldly surge, I must have strayed, for when I returned to earth – I couldn’t see Mam. Panic punched me, and in its daze I ran into the crowd and further away from our place. Such was my terror, I missed the Pope’s arrival, his address, and Mass. Then aware of increased sensation around me, I paused and watched Pope John Paul II coming towards me in the popemobile. The sight and image of him mercifully calmed me. I looked up and asked, “Help me find my mam?” Then there she was, found like a miracle.
Coincidence, perhaps? Yet that moment remains the most spiritually-uplifting experience of my life. It brings a quote to mind – “The more the panic grows, the more uplifting the image of a man who refuses to bow to the terror.”
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