At five minutes to twelve, a group of people in line ask permission to pass. The square is already full and it’s not easy for them to get through. I know one of them, they are from Sicily.
“Hey, how’s it going?”
“Quickly!”
“When did you get here?”
“Just now.”
He tells me that as soon as the Pope has given his blessing, they have to dash off, because otherwise they will miss the train home. So, since they have so little time, they prefer to squeeze their way into St. Peter’s Square itself rather than be left on the outside.
Ten hours’ journey, five minutes with the Pope, and then another ten hours to go back home. Human life is no joke, he tells me, and he’s right. This reminded me of that barbarian king who saw a bird flying through the door of the great hall where he was eating with his barons and observed that our passage through this world is like that bird, a brief instant, a flutter of wings.
There is a difference, though, between that ancient king and my Sicilian friend: that ancient king was sad, while my friend is happy. That king was restless because of his own nothingness, he felt let down by life, whereas my friend is happy, even with the twenty-hour journey, because now he is here for these five minutes.
The meaning of our great civilization lies in the passage from  sadness to that joy. Nowadays, they want to destroy that great construction: at one time they tried to do it by shedding blood;  today they do it by spreading scandal (although we can’t say that it will not come to blood again).
When the Pope’s window opened, though, the whole square was transformed. Before now, I must confess, unkind considerations had prevailed in me. Every group seemed to be singing alone, shouting its own slogans, showing its own signs—balloons, banners, tee-shirts, etc.—and even those who were supposed to coordinate things were not doing a great job of it. In the press, they were stressing the names of the associations and movements that had joined in the demonstration.
But when the Pope’s window opened and he appeared, all this changed; the square turned to him and we became one, as one man.
Regina Coeli, laetare, alleluia
Rejoice Queen of Heaven, be happy, you, who for an unthinkable act of God’s preference held in your arms the King of the Universe as a child.
Quia quem meruisti portare,
And then, full of sorrow, you held in your lap His body killed by our evil. You, who more than any other human being had the right to weep, you, who with your tears consoled many mothers in tears for their children who died as infants, are killed in battle, or lost before birth, you, who in order to bring Mercy into the world accepted the greatest pain a human being could be given, rejoice: I, who am the last of human beings, dare to kneel before you to tell you that your Son is risen, as He said.
Resurrexit, sicut dixit,
So His words are not empty. We, who have lived that terrible Saturday in which even His words seemed empty, flatus vocis, a thread of a voice, and saw our hope at the point of falling to pieces, like a glass castle, we can say that your Son has conquered death. So pray for us.
Ora pro nobis Deum,
That from now on may not a day pass without this joyful announcement; “I have conquered death” resounding in our hearts, in our families, among our friends, and throughout the world.
On the big screen, the Pope’s face appeared happy and moved. We are no longer different groups, but just your children, your people. Only in unity with You, the foreseen Event that through a woman’s womb became our friend, and today has Your face, only from this can a people be born: not from philosophy or theology, not from analysis, but from something that is happening now.
Caravaggio’s painting, Penitent Magdalene, comes to my mind. I saw it here in Rome, in the Doria Pamphili Gallery. Painted when Caravaggio was 23 or 24 years old, this Magdalene is sitting before the observer with, beside her, the jewels she has discarded and the jar of perfume with which she will anoint the Lord’s feet.
What a simple gesture, with nothing bizarre about it, that gift of self that abandons the things of the past (not because they are not beautiful, but because there is something immensely more beautiful, Beauty itself)—how uncomplicated it is! Before such a persuasive Presence, what use is a string of pearls, or earrings?
Can we say that Magdalene joined Christianity? No, we can say that Magdalene ran to hear the voice of the One who first joined Himself to her, a poor woman, of the One who truly loves her, the voice that, upon hearing it for the first time, you answer, “It’s Him!”
A people, our people is this, and we are not afraid of the world’s malice, or the uncertain future. For us, the present, this present, in which people dare to insult the Pope as “the last of the barrowmen” (Péguy), is full of Christ, who helps us every day not to perish under the weight of the evil we do.
The Regina Coeli has just finished, and the Pope is speaking to us, moved and full of gratitude. He talks like a debtor, as if he owed us something, but we are the ones who owe him.
The group of Sicilians is already on its way—the train will not wait. My friend, passing behind me, presses my hand. I turn around and he thanks me, and I am not quick enough to ask, “For what?” He is already gone.
But even in this, there is no sadness.