The Accidental Pope

by Ray Flynn

  As expected, Ryan and Colleen slept late. But at nine o’clock his son was sipping coffee with him and explaining his plans for the future of the family fishing business. He then told his father about the Polish-American girl he had met the night before and wanted to bring to midnight Mass.

  “Arrange it with Al,” the pope told his son. “I’ve got a pretty busy day ahead. When we get tomorrow’s Mass behind us you and I will have the time we need to go over family matters.”

  He glanced down at the sermon Sister Miriam had aptly typed up and which he had studied and restudied. “Take this, for instance. I went through years of past sermons delivered at Christmas morning Mass by previous popes, trying to discover a common thread to all of them.” He sighed deeply and held up the loose pile of typed pages. “I don’t know whether all this is one Billy Kelly talking or a distillation of platitudes mouthed by others over the last fifty years.”

  “I’d rather be out fishing than doing what you are.” Ryan stood up. “I’ll see you tonight. And good luck!”

  The pope smiled a little slyly. “I’ll look forward to meeting this girl you seem to like so suddenly.”

  Ryan’s date with Paula was set for twelve noon. He’d consulted with Colleen, who had called Maureen Kirby for advice. Ryan and Paula would take the treno trolley to the beach half an hour to the east and sample the mild weather and the boardwalk and have lunch at an ocean-side restaurant. Paula had not yet gone there, nearby as it was, choosing to visit later with someone special. That finally happened to be Ryan.

  They enjoyed lunch and the sunny afternoon, Ryan being well aware that the best place for him was well out of the way of his father and the Vatican staff. There was not only the Mass but also the pope’s small reception afterwards.

  “By the way,” Ryan said over a glass of wine after lunch, “I have passes for us to the Mass at St. Peter’s tonight. Good seats, right up front.”

  “How did you manage that?” Paula was impressed. “You’ve only been in Rome for one day and night! At Loyola only a few of the students were able to get tickets.”

  “You’ll see,” he replied with a mysterious smile on his face. “First, we are invited to a party at Maureen’s house.”

  “She has a house, a real home here?” Paula asked.

  “Her father is with the American embassy,” Ryan explained.

  “Oh, wow! I sure lucked out last night.” They were walking along the boardwalk above the beach. The breeze off the sea was mild. Paula put her arm through Ryan’s, leaning her head on his shoulder. They sat down on a bench looking out over the glimmering Adriatic.

  “This has been such a perfect afternoon,” Paula said softly. “I’m glad I saved the beach for something special.”

  “So am I, Paula.”

  “And we still have so much fun and excitement left. Maybe we ought to take il treno back so I can nap and get ready. I’ve been saving something especially nice to wear.”

  They stood up and walked back to the trolley. “Where is Maureen’s house?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, but we’ll have Jan driving us and my sister. They know the way.”

  “Where are you and your sister staying?” Paula asked.

  “We’ll go there after midnight Mass. I’d love for you to meet my dad.”

  “Is he connected to the government? Our government?”

  “No. He’s sort of independent. You’ll see.”

  “And you have to go back to the States after the holiday?” she asked bleakly.

  “I guess. I run the business on Cape Cod so Dad can do his thing here in Rome.”

  Paula laughed. “Usually it’s the other way around. The parents stay home and work so the kids can study.”

  “Well, you’ll understand when you meet my dad. And there is no reason why I can’t jump on a plane every so often to visit here with you. This is my first trip to Europe. Already I am beginning to see how my education has been neglected, blighted even.”

  “I’ve always wanted to see New England.” Paula squeezed his hand.

  “I have a hunch you will. Here we are. Il treno, next stop Rome.”

  They boarded and were back in forty minutes. Ryan hailed a cab and delivered Paula to the door of her hostel. He consulted his watch. “See you in three hours, at eight-thirty. Have a good nap. It will be another late night.”

  At eight-thirty Jan Christensen drove Colleen and Ryan to the Loyola College hostel, where Paula was waiting, and then took them to Villa Richardson on the hill overlooking Rome. As they stepped out of the car Paula gasped. “The American flag. This is the ambassador’s residence.”

  “Right,” Ryan agreed. “Maureen Kirby is the ambassador’s daughter.”

  “Oh, I hope I am dressed all right for this occasion.”

  “You look gorgeous,” Colleen exclaimed. “They’ll think you’re in Rome for the opening of your new film.”

  Any Christmas cheer lacking in Rome was made up for by the outpouring of seasonal celebration at the Kirbys’ residence. Maureen and her sisters had college mates and Chicago friends staying for the holidays. Decorations and balloons hung from the walls and ceilings. Paula, with Ryan and Colleen and Jan, fit in perfectly.

  A sumptuous buffet provided all the feasting they could desire, with wine and soft drinks readily available. Paula and Ryan enjoyed meeting the Kirbys’ friends and indulging in the festivities until Ed Kirby announced that the midnight Mass would be under way in an hour. Everyone with passes to the basilica should now be on their way.

  At Paula’s questioning look Ryan produced their tickets and they left with Jan and Colleen to drive down the hill. Paula was speechless when Jan drove them through the Vatican City gates and let them out at the diplomatic entrance of St. Peter’s. Chauffeur-driven cars carrying flags of all the nations of the world surrounded the entrance. “I feel like I’m at the UN in New York,” Paula said.

  Holding Ryan’s hand, Paula was swept through the entrance, where their tickets were examined. Inside the famed basilica, Ryan and his new friend were escorted to the front section where guests of the diplomatic corps were seated. Paula stared in disbelief as Ryan escorted her down to the front row, where a priest seated them next to Colleen and two teenagers.

  The organ swelled, the choir sang, the Swiss guards appeared approximately ten minutes before the Holy father entered the magnificent St. Peter’s, and the Mass was under way. Pope Peter II was seated between two cardinals. One stood up and pronounced a brief welcome in Italian. The familiar lessons were read, and then the pope stood up to read salutations, first in Italian, then in English. He greeted the diplomatic corps and all the other groups of guests who had been invited. Cardinal Bellotti read a homily, and the pope then shortened the proceedings by half an hour, saying Mass.

  Seventy-five priests gave Holy Communion simultaneously. It had been Pope Peter’s aim to cut down the interminable length it took to get through the Christmas Mass, and he succeeded, much to the relief and gratitude of the nearly three thousand communicants in the basilica who had been invited to attend.

  As the basilica crowd dispersed, Ryan and Paula, standing in the aisle, waited for the teenagers and Colleen to leave their seats. Escorted by Monsignor Cippolini, Meghan walked up to them and Ryan introduced Paula to his sister, who greeted her warmly. “Ryan, please bring Paula up to meet Dad and enjoy a little Christmas cheer with us. The Kirbys will be along and a few of the bishops have their mothers and fathers for Christmas.”

  Jan and Colleen led the way through the quickly receding crowd to an elevator at the rear of the basilica which lifted them to the upper level and the long hallway leading through the offices to the apostolic apartments.

  “Ryan, where are we going?” Paula asked.

  “You’ll soon see.”

  Swiss guards saluted with their halberds out as Meghan led the way. Doors swung open for them as they walked inside to the expanded quarters. Stewards stood behind the tables of champagne and juice. The room was
abuzz with activity. A few members of the diplomatic corps arrived. A smiling Ed Kirby, his family, and their close friends were first among them.

  “How did you get us into this party?” Paula asked, now sensing a further surprise. “The ambassador?”

  Before he could answer, there was a stir at the door as the halberd carriers came to full salute and Peter II walked in.

  “Your Holiness.” Monsignor Cippolini greeted him and turned to quickly announce to the teeming reception room, “His Holiness, Pope Peter II!”

  Ed Kirby strode over to him, the first to shake the pope’s hand American style. Several cardinals had to check their common instinct to kiss the “fisherman’s ring” the pope wore in honor of the Christmas midnight Mass.

  “A splendid occasion, Pope Bill.” Kirby congratulated his friend informally now.

  “I was getting thirsty for an Irish Mist. I’m only sorry Brian isn’t here, but he has a big affair going for the Irish, Catholics and Protestants. I hope they all behave!” The pope looked around the room and spotted his son Ryan with an especially pretty, light-haired girl. He walked over to them.

  “Merry Christmas, Ryan. This must be Paula.”

  “Merry Christmas, Dad. You did it all just perfectly.” The two embraced and Ryan reached for Paula’s arm, gently pulling her toward the pope. “Paula, meet my dad.”

  “Your Holiness.” Paula bowed before him, transfixed, not knowing whether to genuflect, kiss the ring, or whatever else.

  “You’re as attractive as Ryan said.” Bill put a hand on each shoulder and pulled her upright. “I look forward to talking to you after I have seen to our guests.”

  Maureen Kirby walked up to them, took the pope’s hand in both of hers, and said softly, “Merry Christmas.” She hesitated, then, “Pope Bill.”

  “Right. Exactly. I’m still looking forward to that Italian pasta you promised to make.”

  “Anytime.”

  Cardinal Robitelli had appeared between the Swiss guardsman at the door, and the pope went purposefully across the room. “Gino, Merry Christmas. Buon Natale.” Then likewise to Cardinal Bellotti. In deference to his always studied demeanor he said, “Eminenza, I’m happy you came to this small family reception. Of course you know everyone here.”

  Bellotti bent slightly as though to kiss the ring and then straightened up. “Your Holiness, a graceful reception. It is little wonder that you shortened the Mass.”

  The pope chuckled and went about greeting the few gathered members of the diplomatic corps who were present.

  Paula put both arms through Ryan’s. “My knees are going all wobbly, Ryan. I can’t believe this night is happening to a Polish-American girl from Milwaukee.”

  “Hey, you think you are shocked, what about me? My father, the fishing captain, is Pope Peter II. Impossible—but there it is.”

  “They’ll never believe me back at Loyola.”

  “Well, don’t tell them. How about another small glass of champagne?”

  She nodded, still leaning on him, and together they went to the beverage table. “I’m literally weak, Ryan. I can hardly stand up.”

  “A glass of the French champagne, and it will all be a lark for us to enjoy together.” Maureen and Colleen were in animated conversation as they relished being the centerpieces of the party, one the daughter of the U.S. ambassador, the other the daughter of the pope.

  “But look, I do have to get up in time for Dad’s morning Mass. He’s been working on the homily all week with those squares Bellotti and Robitelli,” Colleen said.

  “Where else are there two embassies and residences, all guarded by local cops, for most of the nations on earth? One for Italy, one for the Holy See?”

  Ryan and Paula left the short reception, and Ryan took Paula home by taxi, promising to call her after the Christmas morning Mass.

  In the backseat, careening through Rome at almost two-thirty in the morning, Ryan drew Paula to him, kissed her on the lips, and thrilled at the warmth of her return. As they came near the hostel he said huskily, “I wish there was some place where we could be alone. How about your room?”

  Paula laughed helplessly. “There is a nun lurking in the women’s section all night and there’s always a guard on duty.”

  “Look, somehow we’ve got to figure out a way to be alone together.”

  “It will happen when it should, Ryan,” Paula whispered.

  “Yes, it will,” he breathed and they kissed until the taxi stopped and Ryan escorted her to her front door. She opened it and slipped inside.

  “Call me tomorrow?”

  “I will,” he promised.

  33

  CHRISTMAS MORNING MASS

  Pope Peter II was halfway through the Christmas morning Mass that had begun at ten. As his first obligatory Christmas homily approached, he could feel his stomach tightening. He walked over to the narrow podium and looked at the huge throng crowding St. Peter’s Basilica. This was a solo delivery, although about forty cardinals, a hundred bishops, and several hundred priests escorted him.

  The gathering sensed a certain uneasiness about the pope and tried to mitigate it, remaining quiet, expectant, and attentive. He placed his notes on the gold ledge of the podium and clasped the sides of the frame to steady his nerves. He strove again to remember the public-speaking tips that he had learned years ago in the seminary.

  Then it came upon him. He felt the spasm creeping up through his chest, throat, and the back of his nose. His right hand scrambled vainly for the slit in his robe to reach his pocket handkerchief. Too late. The mighty sneeze hit the papers with a blast. His podium was strewn with flying pages. Acolytes, priests, and one or two cardinals joined in a scramble to gather up the fallen leaves. Embarrassed, muffled “oohs” and “ahs” echoed in the nave whilst the pope stood with head bowed, slightly shaking in mild dismay. Within thirty seconds—it felt like thirty minutes—his head of protocol, Monsignor Toug from Hanoi, handed the mixed sheaf back to the pope with an involuntary shrug.

  Staring at his notes, the pope finally found breath enough to look out upon his bewildered audience. “So,” he murmured, smiling into the microphone, “we have ‘blown’ our Christmas sermon. I wonder if that other fisherman, Peter, did this.”

  Some laughter rang out, not a little hysterically, amid the pews. It was the release that both sides needed. Waiting for the noise to settle, he pondered what to do or say next. Nothing came. Then he looked out toward the front row where his family was sitting. His eyes met his younger daughter’s. She winked and gave him a thumbs-up. Beside her a bright-eyed Ryan smiled up at him. Colleen and Roger were also attempting encouraging glances up from below.

  Bill cleared his dry throat and felt he was back at the helm of his boat somewhere off the Cape.

  “Dear friends, we are gathered here to rejoice at the birth of a child, a very special one … Our Savior, Jesus Christ.”

  Several cardinals straightened up. God is speaking to his people, they thought. Wrong! Maybe not wrong?

  Bill pressed on. “I remember so well the day my wife, Mary, had our first child. So tiny, fragile, beautiful. Babies are a gift from God.”

  Cardinal Robitelli covered his face with his hands, fearing worse to come.

  “I was thinking about this just yesterday, rehearsing my sermon. I took our Bible from its shelf and read every account of Our Savior’s birth. And do you know what pierced through to my consciousness? It was the sentence after Mary agreed to become the mother of Jesus. Do you know it?” He smiled.

  Few among the cardinals responded. Cardinal Bellotti leaned toward the ear of Cardinal Robitelli. “He’s playing school games! What must we do?”

  “Let him hang himself,” Cardinal Robitelli countered behind a raised hand.

  Peter II continued, “The sentence that caught my eye was, ‘And the angel left her.’ Can you imagine what that sentence means, my dear friends? I tried to imagine how I would have felt … or no, how my Mary would have felt if she were suddenl
y pregnant and knew she had to come to me and tell me … before we were yet married! A terrible thing. No help or support from anyone. You’re absolutely on your own now. And Mary back then? Fifteen or sixteen years old. Just engaged to Joseph. What a terrible burden God thrust upon that poor girl.”

  He looked down and caught the sympathetic glow shining in Meghan’s face and eyes. “My own Mary had that kind of purity and goodness. She could have told you what it felt like better than I.”

  Bellotti winced again and whispered, “Next he’ll be recommending his wife for canonization, and showing home movies. I can’t believe this!”

  Cardinal Robitelli, white with shame and anger, stared straight ahead.

  The pope, now in full command, continued. “I think we should all pause to reflect on this special moment and on the sorrow that the Blessed Virgin endured then. Having to face Joseph, who we know was cut to the heart when first he heard the news.” He paused and sighed. “God made those two people pay a very heavy price for the gift of His son in their lives. Perhaps we should think about that price this Christmas morning. If we want the Christ child to return again we’ll no doubt have to pay a price. Love does not come cheaply. You mothers know far better than we men the pain of childbirth, and the crosses to bear, day after day, that go with raising children.”

  Again the pope paused as he contemplated for a moment what no other priest could have experienced, some of his and Mary’s trials bringing up their children. “I suggest this ‘spiritual birth’ of Christ in our lives is the same thing. To raise Him to manhood, within us, has been and will be a long, hard struggle. Oftentimes we won’t begin to understand why He seems to be treating us so badly! Let us have the patience in our young people so we’ll begin to understand how to have Christ play a most important role in their lives.”