by Pearl Solas
Sam Wainwright had arrived early, and he sat with a group of other survivors who had similarly supported the canonization of Father Frank. Only minutes before the Pope’s scheduled appearance, Veronica Matthews entered the room and, making herself small and unobtrusive, took a seat near the front, but on the aisle as if to give herself a ready escape route, should she need one.
At the precise minute appointed for the event, two sets of doors near the front of the room opened, and a procession of bishops, archbishops, and cardinals filed in, each robed in highly ornate vestments that varied to reflect the geographic location over which each prelate held spiritual authority. As the richly robed men processed with slow dignity and stopped in front of the chairs that had, apparently, been assigned to them, members of the press pool exchanged puzzled glances. They had believed they were covering a semi-private papal audience for select proponents and opponents of the effort to canonize Father Frank, but the high-level and wide-reaching representation of members of Church leadership suggested something else was afoot. They were surprised to note the presence of Cardinals Verguenza and Aibu, both of whom had famously dismissed complaints about bishops and priests within their respective spheres of authority as little more than extortion. Also present was Cardinal Callum, a lifelong friend and confidante of the Holy Father who, like the Pope, usually dressed in the modest raiment typical of the Jesuit Order from which both men hailed, and who looked supremely uncomfortable in the baroque robes in which he appeared on this day.
The heavy wooden doors closed behind them, and the room stood in expectant silence. The audience was overwhelmed by the cacophony of color and textures in the congregation of elite Roman Catholic clergy at the front of the room. Sam feverishly worked to identify and catalogue specific faces and, as he did so, his astonishment grew.
Once again, the ornate doors opened, and they framed the Holy Father in the most formal trappings of the highest Church office. His eyes were closed, and his prayerful posture enabled those present to observe the full glory of his vestments and the Papal Tiara that sat heavily upon his brow.
Eyebrows raised in surprise, Sam struggled to make sense of the significance of what he observed. To his knowledge, neither this Pope nor any of his recent predecessors had worn the Papal Tiara, consistent with his preference for eschewing the material trappings of his office in favor of asceticism. Virtually every photograph of him, even at the most significant events, depicted a holy-looking man dressed simply in a white alb and chasuble, with only his plain white zucchetto to set him apart as Rome’s highest Pontiff.
It was particularly stunning that this ascetic Pope had chosen to wear the tiara because it had long been out of favor with even the more epicurean of his recent predecessors. In fact, Pope Dillon had once publicly criticized the historic tradition of the Papal Tiara, citing with approval Pope Paul VI, who had ceremonially laid down the tiara, and the human glory and power it represented, on the altar at the Second Vatican Council in 1964, then symbolically sold one of the ornate headpieces and used the proceeds for charitable causes.
The Pope began a slow, stately stride towards a raised dais in the front. After installing himself on the dais, he remained silent for several moments as he examined the faces of those who had come to be near to him and to what he represented. This period of silence deepened the already unsettled atmosphere, and highlighted the stark contrast between the groups of people in the cavernous room. There was the Church hierarchy on a staging area physically higher than the audience it faced, its representatives regal in their exquisitely made vestments of exorbitantly expensive materials in deep, rich hues. The formality of their robes encouraged the wearers to display their most exemplary posture, and many wore expressions of a stern, haughty dignity.
In contrast, those standing in the recessed portion of the room, whether supporting or opposed to the canonization of Father Frank, were plainly subject to the authority of the gathered clerics, whom they regarded with awe. Although most of the lay attendees had made an effort at respectability by donning formal clothing, even the most well-turned-out congregants could not hope to match the peacockery of the clergy. Beyond the garments, the divide was also emphasized by the room’s topography, which forced the laity to look up at the gathered ministers of God. It was no wonder that many of the upturned faces displayed reverential expressions.
Reverence was not the only nor the most common expression on display, however. A degree of wariness inhabited the faces of many of those present. The wrinkled brows and cocked heads conveyed puzzlement over the significance of such a gathering when they had expected “only” the presence of the Holy Father and the small team with which he usually traveled. Of course, the presence of the Pope alone would have been a once in a lifetime event for most of those in attendance, but the added appearance of so many other leaders of the global Church raised it to a new plane of importance. They were unsure how to interpret the imposing scene unfolding before them. At first glance, it almost seemed like a calculated show of force against those who had challenged and criticized the Church.
The Pope allowed the silence and tension to build until it was palpably oppressive. After making meaningful eye contact with what seemed like each and every member of the audience, he then closed his eyes as if in a silent bid for strength and divine aid, and in English tinged with the Strabane County accent of his youth, he filled all the corners of the room. Even without a microphone, his voice spread easily over the assembled crowd. His carriage conveyed conversational ease, with none of the physical strain that ordinarily accompanies an effort to project one’s voice in a large, populated space. The room was so quietly riveted that even those at the greatest physical remove were able to hear clearly.
“In the mystery of Our Lord’s perfect timing and ability to transform even our most sinful choices and destructive decisions into tools to further the peace and love of his kingdom, one of the reasons we gather today is to formally acknowledge that his ability to forgive and to redeem is greater than our own human capacity to forgive. In each era, he has shown his love by transforming examples of that age’s most reviled kinds of villains into holy vessels of his mercy. We acknowledge that he continues to work in this way and to directly participate in our lives.
“There can be no doubt that Our Lord calls on us daily to deny ourselves, to take up our crosses, and to follow him. His Word is full of examples of wretched, despicable lives that he transformed when they accepted the opportunity he offered. Our canon is an ode to the transformative power of Christ’s love and redemption. He came to call not the righteous, but sinners to repentance. And yet we continue to react with skepticism when he does what he says he’ll do, and we’re filled with niggling doubts that some sins may be greater than his powers of redemption.
“Our Lord defeated death. There are no sins greater than his power of redemption.” The Pontiff paused to allow his words to descend on the crowd with their weight. “No sins,” he repeated.
“Father Frank Muncy struggled with the most hateful and insidious of demons. Upon realizing that his sinful nature was greater than his ability to control it, he asked Our Lord to help him bear the burden, and in gratitude for this answered prayer, he devoted his life to the service of Christ and his fellow sufferers. He was not forced to expose his deepest sins, but he responded to the demand of the conscience that Christ Jesus instilled within him.
“If it were up to me, I would have chosen a less complicated object of veneration, but Our Lord chooses his own saints, and he delights in turning our comfortable sense of decorum on its head. Father Frank Muncy offered his shame and fear to Christ Jesus, who, by the alchemy of forgiveness and redemption, alleviated Father Frank’s terror of earthly consequences and enabled his obedience to Our Lord’s calling for his life. My own calling in this situation, while uncomfortable and certain to draw worldly disapproval, does not require nearly as much courage as Father Frank displayed. This morning I directed the Prefect of the Congregation fo
r the Causes of Saints to promulgate a decree including Francis Stephen Muncy in the canon of saints.” As soon as he said the words, the Swiss Guards lifted the cloth covering an easel on the platform to reveal Father Frank’s seminary portrait.
Rather than pausing to allow his pronouncement to sink in, the Pope’s voice carried over the shocked murmurings of the gathered crowd, and the assembly’s ingrained reverence for his position quickly silenced them again. “Although it is not one of the miracles that formed the predicate for his canonization, we have reason to hope that Father Frank’s intercession will lead to a new era of justice and reconciliation within the Church we love. We know, at least, that he brought all of us into this room today.”
At this point, the Pontiff did pause, and a door slammed at the back of the room, an audible expression of one congregant’s disappointment in the Pope’s decision. Veronica, seated near the front of the assembly, had lost all color. She stared, mesmerized, at Father Frank’s portrait. Every image she had seen of Father Frank depicted him toward the end of his life, in middle age. The young man in the portrait looked like a different person, and Veronica recognized the smoking companion who had offered her compassion and hope when she had needed it most.
The Bishop of Rome’s posture was upright as ever, but his haggard expression conveyed his sensitivity to every ounce of the physical and symbolic weight of his vestments.
“Brothers and sisters, Our Lord has seen your suffering,” he began, “and he longs for reconciliation between the members of his body that comprise his holy Church. He longs to reunite us: you, the faithful, with us, the clergy, who have undertaken the sacrament of Holy Orders to share his light and grace in the world.”
With these words, the Pope paused as if checking in with a decision he had previously made and then, apparently finding it as sound as he had found it before, he gave an almost imperceptible confirmatory nod as he moved toward the shallow stairs that separated the stage on which he stood from the seats that held the wounded faithful. Observing the potential danger, several members of the highly costumed Swiss Guard started as if to intercept their charge. Waving off his guardians with an economical display of his palms, the Holy Father gathered his heavy robes in his hands to avoid tripping over them as he descended the stairs, and then he walked down the center aisle until he stood in the midst of the lay assembly.
An eerie silence descended as the Pope once again unhurriedly searched the faces of those who had gathered to meet with him. Each person present had a brief but intense experience of recognition and acknowledgement. To facilitate his survey, the Pope slowly rotated in a circle until at last, after several silent minutes, he had made a full revolution.
Without the raised platform, the Pope’s diminutive size was more apparent, and he approached in height the men surrounding him only as a result of the tall Papal Tiara that rested heavily on his brow. Any disadvantage of physical stature, however, did not linger in the observer’s mind, which was occupied instead with the Pontiff’s undeniable and ineffable charisma that combined humility with a quiet confidence. The Pope walked back up the aisle toward the platform but, upon reaching the first row of the audience, he turned around once again and faced the lay assembly, dropping to his knees. Again, the Swiss Guard started forward in alarm, and again the Holy Father waved them off.
The lay people, clergy, and press representatives universally displayed brows furrowed in confusion, which then converted almost simultaneously to round-eyed, slack-jawed surprise at the Pope’s next action. Still on his knees, he reached up and removed the Papal Tiara, then set it on the floor beside him. Then the Holy Father closed his eyes, raised his hands with palms out until they were parallel with his head, and bent forward at the waist until his forehead met the floor. The stiff brocade of the most elaborate official robes of the most powerful institution in the world seemed to resist the movements that were unnatural to the position, but the Holy Father was not deterred from prostrating himself before the gathered sufferers. While the leader of the Holy Roman Church remained bowed, those present looked around in shock.
When the Pope finally lifted his head, rather than settling into a more comfortable kneeling position in which he rested on his lower legs, he kneeled in a more formal position that required him to continuously flex his quadriceps, hamstrings, and gluteal muscles. Disregarding his physical unease, the Pope again spoke in the deceptively quiet tone that somehow carried clearly to every ear in the room.
“Fellow believers,” he began in a voice of unflappable purpose, “I kneel here at your feet to say long overdue words: As both a man, and as the head of our Church, I have sinned against you.” Gesturing to the religious royalty seated behind him, he continued. “The institution of our Holy Church, represented by the leaders you see here, has sinned against you. We are truly sorry and we humbly repent.”
With these words, the Pope again hinged forward and pressed his forehead to the ground. Uncertain of what was expected of them, the elite clergymen on the raised platform cast about themselves as if searching for a clue. With an expression of peace, Cardinal Callum followed the lead of his superior and friend, and sunk to his knees, pressing his forehead to the floor. One by one, nearly all of the other clergymen on the raised platform followed suit, with the exception of a few rigidly erect holdouts, who looked at the spectacle with expressions of horror.
As the import of what they were witnessing hit home for each of those gathered, the Church’s walking wounded expressed their profound reactions in unique ways. Some simply remained wide-eyed and standing, as if frozen. Others burst into ungovernable weeping. Still others sat heavily on their nearby chairs, with silent tears running down their faces.
Eventually, the room quieted again and the Pope raised his head from the floor and motioned for both the audience and the clergy to be seated.
“We have existed too long in a state of division,” he said. “We ministers of God have not acted as ministers of God, and we have not heeded the voice that guides us to act according to Our Lord’s holy plans. When our failures were exposed, we retreated even further into the trappings of worldly power. Into lies. Into secrecy. Into evasions. While it is true that to err is human and to forgive is divine, we requested and expected your forgiveness without acknowledging or confessing even the rough outlines of our guilt, and without repenting in the manner we require of those who turn to us for spiritual leadership. We never communicated our sorrow for failing to love you and our God as we should. We lacked even imperfect contrition, and our responses continuously revealed that we sought only to avoid the worldly consequences of our sinful actions.
“We wielded our spiritual power with an arrogance that made our claimed authority meaningless. We relied on the worldly influence and wealth our institution has accumulated instead of on the source of our true authority: the Christ who disdained pretension in favor of humility and institutional might in favor of radical love.
“We forgot that we are mere men, and we encouraged you to forget, too. We forgot that our leadership is dependent on a commitment to continuously seek alignment with the author and perfector of our faith. When we rely on our own judgment, and on power emanating from sources other than the One we serve, we are as flawed and broken as the rest of the world.
“Beautifully, Our Lord does not demand or expect perfection—even from us—but he does insist that we strive to adhere to the principles he taught, especially during instances of inevitable failure. And we have failed. Too many of us failed as individual men, by abusing our power in order to take physical gratification from those over whom we exercised extraordinary influence. Even when we did not personally commit physical assault, we failed. We can no longer call our failure negligence or ignorance. It was much more blameworthy. We failed . . . we sinned . . . by enabling and by keeping the secrets of our fellow clerics at the expense of the health of the communities we were called to serve. As has become clear in recent years despite our efforts to conceal our sins, bot
h types of failure extended so high up in our tree of authority that they are institutional sins.
“Even when our secrets were being dragged into the light, we dug in our heels and retreated into defensiveness and legalism. Rather than accept Our Lord’s scriptural direction to confess and renounce our sins, we denied our blame, and our denial increased your pain.”
“In reflecting on this black stain on our integrity, both as men and as component members of an institution, I considered why we have failed to follow Our Lord’s teachings in the midst of this crisis. The immediately apparent answer is that we avoided light and truth for the most human of reasons—to avoid just consequences.
“Rather than acting as the representatives of Our Lord on Earth, and teaching by example his priceless message of repentance, confession, absolution, and reconciliation, we, as an institution comprised of human, and therefore fallible, men, acted in accordance with our human natures. Terrified that the power and wealth of our storied Church would crumble on our watch, we doubled down.”
Here the Pope winced slightly as if his kneeling posture had finally taken its toll on his aging knees. Rather than altering his position of supplication, however, the Holy Father straightened his back and continued.
“Saint Francis Muncy exemplified the triumph of divinely attuned conscience over fear of consequence. We, as the men who purport to lead this institution that devotes itself to community with the divine and with the entire Body of Christ, and who must, by virtue of our callings, aspire to embody the teachings Our Lord so lovingly bestowed, can do no less.
“In this spirit, on behalf of myself and the Church, I unreservedly apologize to you and to all who have been raped, assaulted, threatened, manipulated, ignored, and disbelieved. We failed to protect you when we could and should have done so. We wronged you in these and in countless other ways. We are truly sorry and we humbly repent. I am truly sorry and I humbly repent.”