A Reflection for Tuesday of the Third Week of Easter
Find today’s readings here.
Jesus said to the crowds,
"I am the bread of life;
whoever comes to me will never hunger,
and whoever believes in me will never thirst.
But I told you that although you have seen me,
you do not believe.
Everything that the Father gives me will come to me,
and I will not reject anyone who comes to me,
because I came down from heaven not to do my own will
but the will of the one who sent me.
And this is the will of the one who sent me,
that I should not lose anything of what he gave me,
but that I should raise it on the last day.”
I never knew how much I wanted to go to Rome until I got there.
Last week, the day after Pope Francis died, I was told that I was going to be part of a team of America staffers assigned to go to Rome to cover the upcoming papal conclave. That conclave is set to begin tomorrow, May 7, and I’m sure that by the time some of you actually get to read this Scripture reflection, the Roman Catholic Church may well already have a new supreme pontiff. For the moment, though, and as of the writing of this reflection, there is yet to be a new pope and we are still living in the sad aftermath of Pope Francis’ death.
To be told that I was going to Rome so soon after learning of his death meant that I had no real time to mourn his death, since I was laser-focused on making sure that I was ready for an intense two weeks of work, and we’d be hitting the ground running a mere two days after Francis’ funeral. It was go go go – the day I touched down in Rome was exactly seven days after Francis died. There is no way to mourn a twelve-year-long papacy after just a week. It certainly wasn’t long enough to mourn the pope who had defined my spiritual life for so long; it was Pope Francis I credited for keeping me Catholic and for why I was so engaged with my faith, including why I work for America.
As I struggled to get past the horde of travelers that pass through JFK every day, I passed by the airport’s Catholic chapel. I saw through the glass that they still had a photo of Pope Francis up. I suddenly realized that, when I came back through JFK on my way home from covering the conclave, there would be a new face up there and it wouldn’t be Francis. My stomach lurched. I finally began to process that he was dead.
On the plane ride over, I began to think about how important he was to me and my Catholic identity. His emphasis on care for the environment, his statements saying not to judge L.G.B.T. people, his mirthful and joyful personality—all of it was instrumental to my Catholic identity. And so I mourned him for the nine hours it took us to reach the Eternal City.
It was here, though, that I finally accepted that he was no longer with us. After a harried first day, I walked through St. Peter’s Square at night—it was my first time seeing the Basilica. I looked at this place, with all of its history and grandeur, and I was reminded that this institution, this old and beautiful and complicated institution, had managed to last 2,000 years. Two thousand years of persecution, of glory, of terrible crusades, of flawed leaders, of learning and doing better, of survival. It seemed unlikely that this Roman Catholic Church would stand the test of time without the exquisite blessing of the Holy Spirit—yet here it was. And the Holy Spirit would come again to help choose a new pontiff, the 266th successor of Peter.
I was reminded of today’s Gospel reading. Jesus lays out his mission: He was sent here by the Father to give us the good news, “that everyone who sees the Son and believes in him may have eternal life.” This intent was laid out two millennia ago and it is one that we still live by—and I remembered that this was our mission, too, to help people believe in Christ so that he might usher us into eternal life.
The next day, I awoke to birdsong and, for a precious morning before resuming work, wandered around the Eternal City. Along the way, I passed by priests and nuns and a bishop or two, all basking in the pleasant sunlight and good weather of Italy. In this place, at this time, Rome thrummed with the living witness of Christ’s faithful. Pope Francis may have died but the church to which he dedicated his body and soul is still very much alive.
