Never could one forget the power. Never could one forget the grace. Never could one forget the miraculous circumstances.

God willing, we’re returning to Rome, this September, as part of a truly exciting pilgrimage to the holiest sites in Italy, and when I think of Rome, I think, of course, of St. Peter’s Basilica, and when I think of St. Peter’s at the Vatican I recall a trip I made there alone in the early 1990s.

I was there milling about with the throngs and they had barricades up at the basilica: Only those who had tickets for the canonization of a Polish saint could enter for the next Mass, as they were ready to conduct that canonization.

The square was absolutely and utterly full of folks from Poland, waving their red and white flags as well as emblems from their dioceses, churches, and organizations.

That day, the great Saint John Paul II was set to celebrate Mass, and I would have given about all I had to attend his liturgy but knew that soon, with no ticket, I’d have to head elsewhere.

That didn’t turn out to be the design of Providence. I’m still not certain how exactly it happened, but I found myself moving with the crowd, as if carried by a tsunami, and before I realized where I and everyone around me was, found myself, with them, past the guards and inside St. Peter’s!

The crowd had basically carried me in with them. There were too many, I guess, to check tickets.

And now, crammed with them toward the front, on the left side, I stood with barely enough room to breathe as soon the Mass began and there he was, the Supreme Pontiff, Polish native, and crucial person in the liberation of that nation from Russia and Communism, conducting the Sunday Mass in the world’s most august church.

So packed were we all that only with the greatest of strain and strategy was I able to budge my hands from my sides to pluck my Scriptural Rosary from my shirt pocket. That’s how tight the crowd was. It’s impossible to imagine such tightness unless one has experienced it. It took me literally five or so minutes to wrest my hands upward without disturbing those rubbing up next to me.

What I most remember, however, was the Consecration: John Paul II did not just bless the Host. He didn’t simply mutter a few rote prayers and quickly lift the Host up and down, followed by the chalice: No, when it was time, the Pope had raised a huge Host as high or higher than I had ever seen a priest do and held it up there for what seemed like minutes, facing it first to his left, letting everyone have much time to contemplate it, then to the front, with equal prolongation, then to the left — toward us.

I could virtually feel it, there up front, as he gave us all plenty of time to ponder and exalt it. One couldn’t take one’s eyes from it. It was luminous.

The blessings that flowed were immense.

The sanctity was not describable. It was as if he pointed it to every person there.

Reverence to God through the Holy Eucharist matters.

More than anything,  the Consecration and the elevation matters : for how it glows, when Consecration is done the proper way and there is real feeling and high prayer behind it and when the pew sitters (or more accurately, in this case, those crammed standing) lift their hearts as the Host is elevated, praying on a direct line to God.

–MHB

[resources: Spirit Daily pilgrimage to Italy]