He will be called Benedict
Here it is in English. I liked it so much that I saved it onto my computer. No idea where it was posted originally!
AND HE WILL BE CALLED BENEDETTO
The silky rustle of his black cassock, moving with the cardinal’s stately walk, almost seems to echo in the airy arcade of the silent cloister.
The scarlet cap slightly off to one side stands out atop luxuriant white smooth hair.
From the shadows of a wide face, with robust and gently austere features, one sees the eyes – two pools, at once lively and attentive.
Interlaced hands close to the chest, barely touching a silver pectoral cross, allow a glimpse of the ring of office.
Elegant and erect in posture, only the gentle hunch at the shoulders betrays his age.
The broad band of red silk above the waist drapes gently down one side, its fringe swinging gently to the rhythm of his step.
“Your Eminence…”
In a warm soft voice, made even more persuasive by its tone of calm confidence, the fascinating cardinal replies with cordial courtesy.
I feel enwrapped and comforted by this unexpected gentleness on this evening of Good Friday.
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Easter morning – a veiled sun lights the great square.
The Holy Father did not celebrate this Mass. He will never do so again.
I recognize the Cardinal, draped in a pale gold chasuble, seated with his fellow cardinals at the top of the Piazza.
His eyes seem lost in dreams and reflect the greyness of the clouds.
The Mass today was very saddening. The blessing that ended it was harrowing.
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On the sad day of these saddest of all liturgies, there emerges from the Basilica a hierarchy of concelebrants: two long lines, red chasubles bizarrely flapping in the wind, dispose themselves along both sides of the altar, moving like dancers in a magnificent choreography.
And at the end of this long procession, the Dean of Cardinals makes his appearance. I am happy to see him again.
He takes his seat, unmoving, hands resting on his knees. He has a severe look, imperturbable, absorbed, almost remote, but watchful and scrutinizing. The thin lips are pressed together, almost in a grimace.
But it is in moments like these that the beauty of his face appears sublime – so intense and irresistible, subjugating and disarming.
Now he rises and starts to deliver his impeccable homily: the evocative accent, in a somewhat awkward slowed-down rhythm, shades into unexpected comforting tenderness.
He stresses some passages with gestures of his right hand, while the wind miraculously turns the pages of the Gospel resting atop the cypress coffin. As if it had been carefully scripted.
Every once in a while, his clear irises look straight ahead over the endless crowds that are in front of him.
Thunderous applause and impassioned cries interrupt him repeatedly. He blinks his delicate eyelashes as he respectfully waits till he can proceed.
Time and again, during the Mass, he puts on then takes off his eyeglasses, allowing us to see those beautiful eyes, which, widening, seem to merge with the blue of the sky, as, with intense veneration, he lifts the Host and holds it high.
Black sleeves show beneath the white amice, a wrist watch is visible. He murmurs the evocative monochord Latin verses in Bavarian-tinged accents.
Shock of hair ruffled by the wind, he finally executes the privilege of incensing the coffin of his great friend.
And the playful wind finally closes the book.
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Following the days of anguish and mourning, the big bells, which had been mute and still after their last inexorable tolling two weeks earlier, now once again let loose with the full force of their bronze solemnity to announce news of great joy.
The minutes seem interminable. I am assailed by intense emotion which grips my whole being. My heart accelerates like mad, I feel I am out of breath, that my heart will burst till it comes out through my ears, in a cascade of iridescent corpuscles.
Habemus Papam! And the incisive sound of his beautiful first name, with its German consonants, projects through the air… My God - it is him, it is him! It is really him!
I wanted it, I knew it, I felt it!
Lord, I thank you!
A satisfaction that was at first incredulous, perplexed and suspicious, became an immense joy, visceral, exaggerated, transporting me, and now it breaks free, overflows, as I thank God fervently for what He has allowed us to receive.
I have followed him, I have admired him, I have loved him, I have desired this…
I had prayed with all my being that the choice would fall on him, the candidate of my heart, whom I wanted to win the prize.
He will be called Benedict, a beautiful name rich with promise and joy! I had also imagined that name for him.
And there before my eyes, finally, the most awaited confirmation - There he was! Finally, the chosen one, the favorite, who faced us from that grandiose Loggia suspended between earth and sky!
I barely recognized him.
He had an unfamiliar look, an unusual smile, somewhat disoriented but alert.
His hands were no longer those of a cardinal, but they had not yet learned to be those of a Pope. They moved in front of an altered face, which wore an uncertain look that I had not seen before.
He tries to raise those hands, palms upward to the sky, almost as if he were asking for acclaim. Then he turns the palms down, as though to negate the first gesture, and repeats the sequence.
His arms open wide, ecumenical, and then he brings them close to him as in an embrace, again and yet again.
Even his voice sounds different to me, in his brief but emotional address.
On his shoulders he is wearing the same stole worn by his predecessors, from whom he remembers and takes on their gentleness and strength.
And now he too carries on his shoulders the same weight that they bore.
Now he finds himself in their place.
He imprints the air with three small Signs of the Cross: In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritui Sancti.
Thus did this simple laborer in the vineyard of the Lord present himself to the world that late afternoon of a day in April.
He had just become the First Pontiff of the Third Millenium.
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Surrounded by the festive embrace of the crowd, almost apprehensive but in decisive manner, he advances slowly, hieratic like an icon, wrapped in the solemnity of his splendid ceremonial robes. Archaic music accompanies him.
(After he has received the Fisherman’s Ring), his proudly austere face gradually transforms: the severity loosens up, finally turning into a long and enchanting smile that we have not seen before.
He raises his right arm, the hand open and firm as it acknowledges the crowd’s acclaim, perhaps surprised at their affection, and we see his long pianist’s fingers, recently adorned with the jewel of his office.
He looks happy.
Afterwards, there are repeated scenes of countless hands reaching out to him, imploring him, touching him, applauding him.
Image piles upon image, emotions crowd upon each other and shade off into new emotions. My perceptions are almost tactile, when I see those diaphanous eyes condense into intensely azure sparks.
I am overcome by a vague instinctive need for physical contact, at once delicate and sensual, as disconcerting as it is insistent, to welcome him totally.
I am assailed by a consuming desire to embrace him, to say something to him.
And now, his back is turned to me, (and I watch) his mitre bobbing as he inclines to acknowledge the cheers. Majestic and stupendous, he dispenses a loving smile to all.
He seems shy still, as he heads off now towards his wondrous and terrible destiny.
“To you, Benedict, Bishop of Rome, glory, peace and long life!”
From the depths of my heart, I thank you, Joseph.
And most of all, I thank you, Lord.
Sister Josephine
Ordine Benedittino delle Suore delle Sante Coccole
al Romano Pontefice
Trieste, May 2005