MONDAY DIARY: WHY DON'T MORE GUYS WANT TO DO THIS?

I don’t speak a lick of Italian. Like when you have a cold and you realize how much you enjoy breathing, when you cannot communicate with anyone you realize how much you enjoy being able to talk to others when it is necessary.

Take last week. I was in Italy with the parish choir. On our last night (Sunday) we went to Mass at the Vatican, the choir singing and I concelebrating the 5:30PM Mass with Cardinal Comastri. Our tour guide leading the choir to where they would be to sing dropped me off at the sacristy of the basilica of St. Peter. The sacristy, sometimes as small as a generous bathroom in some parishes, could probably fit the entirety of St. Sebastian in it.

Including the bell tower.

I was in there alone. Well, that is not exactly true. It just felt like I was in there alone. There was actually an older gentleman (I guessed him to be a sacristan of sorts) who spoke no English, and two young altar boys in cassock and surplus, one of which was able to speak and understand enough English to inform me that he didn’t speak English. The most communication we had was when one of the altar boys, being boys, started to do something that they shouldn’t, the sacristan would say something to him and then look at me and roll his eyes. I knew exactly what he meant.

The cardinal was praying the sung vespers out in the basilica and they started laying out his Mass vestments. One of the servers signaled me over to a cabinet and took my alb from me, unfolded it, and started helping me vest. Two other priests walked in at that point. One spoke only Italian and the other understood enough English for me to say, “Please tell me I won’t have to say anything.” “Justa you follow me. Do what I do. You be-a fine.”

Vespers, I gather, went long and they bundled up all of the cardinal’s things and escorted us to another sacristy closer to the altar at which we would be celebrating. The choir was taking their place in the choir box and the cardinal processed by, smiling and nodding, and slipped into the sacristy. The priest who spoke a bit of English pointed at the choir box and asked, “Your choir?” After affirming his assumption he smiled and said, “Fine, fine!”

I desperately wanted someone to come up to me and say, “Here’s how we are going to do it. I wanted to know how we entered. Where do I go? Where do I sit? Will anything be expected of me? Will I distribute communion? Where? Can I please not say anything! I don’t know Italian.” Well, that didn’t happen. The cardinal came out and next thing I know he is pointing to the procession which is leaving without me. I jumped into place. There were the two altar boys, the two other priests, myself, and the cardinal playing cleanup. The procession made its way past the choir box and I was able to hear the beautiful singing, and we made our way to the altar right behind the altar which you always see the pope celebrating from.

I copied the priests in front of me, genuflecting (I didn’t see a tabernacle) and then reverencing the altar. The priest I was following went to sit in the seating area at the side of the sanctuary and so I followed him. He wouldn’t let me in which I found strange so I tried to go around him. “No,” he said, “you go!” and he pointed up by the cardinal. “Whoa!” I thought. Slowly I made the walk up to the dais waiting for someone to say (in Italian) “not there!” But nobody did. And there I sat, next to the cardinal, underneath that famous window of the Holy Spirit, just beneath the chair of Peter, at the very end of that glorious St. Peter basilica, on a stump of a chair. It was another one of those “How on earth did I end up HERE” moments. Once again I wonder – why don’t more guys want to do this?

The readings were of course in Italian and after one of the other priests read the Gospel I was able to relax a bit knowing that there was nothing for me to do except sit there and pretend that I understood the homily. The offertory was a moment to pray and listen to the choir fill that glorious space up with their singing. Then it was time for the Liturgy of the Eucharist and we came down to stand next to the cardinal, I to his right.

I will admit to being a little distracted in hoping he wouldn’t turn to me and say in Italian, “You take this part.” The little altar boys appeared again and passed out concelebrant books. Drat. My savior, the priest who could speak a little English whispered, “Can you speaka ANY Italian?” “No!” was the response with suppressed desperation. “Then a trade-a me places.” We did. And sure enough the cardinal turned to his right for part of the Eucharistic prayer and my guardian priest snapped it up. As I read along in Italian I would think, “Ooooh. I would have slaughtered that word. Oh! And that one. And there’s another.” As best I could I approximated what was being said in my thoughts in English or Latin.

At communion I was handed a ciborium and left to my own devices. It suddenly occurred to me that I had no idea how to say, “Body of Christ” in Italian so they got it in Latin. Nobody seemed to mind.

Then there was the problem as to what to do when I was done. Everyone else was still distributing and I stood in the middle of the sanctuary trying my darndest to look like I was SUPPOSED to be standing there. Finally a gentleman far off behind a curtain started going, “Psssst! Pssst!” I handed off the ciborium and went back to my stump.

From this point on I was confident that there was nothing else for me to do so I was able to relax. Of course Mass was all but over. We stood for the final blessing and started the procession out down the aisle, past all of the tourists, visitors, and pilgrims further back down aisle and into the sacristy. It is here that I learned that after you tell a cardinal that you do not understand Italian and he keeps speaking to you in Italian, you smile, nod, and say thank you.

Gads that was fun and inspriring. I wish I could do it again now that I know what to expect.