The Pope has come and gone and I think the dust has finally settled. And I am not talking about the volcanic ash which erupted midweek some time ago, giving a whole new meaning to Ash Wednesday. I actually half expected the Pontiff's short 26 hour trip to be cancelled, buried under a big cloud of dust to match all the other debris that pervaded and preceded his visit.
It was a visit that seemed destined to fail what with the homosexual child predators, the shocking child sexual abuse scandals which saw the Pope in some way involved, even if by mysterious omission. And, if that wasn't enough, there was the Icelandic ash which gave vent on the Wednesday just before his arrival.
Some people tend to look upon earthquakes, tsunamis and other national disasters as an expression of God's wrath, which is why they are termed Acts of God (nowadays the politically correct term would be Acts of Nature). Well, this seemed almost retributory, a cruel joke God decided to play on all of us for the awful scandals, the moral decadence and depravity perhaps, for daring to implicate the Pope, or go as far as to even bad mouth him.
And while the world oohed and aahed and wondered how the Church would get out of its most recent fall from grace and pondered the question of how it could possibly restore faith in its ever diminishing flock, the Church in Malta extended formal invitations to Malta's dignitaries and VIPs in anticipation of the papal Mass that was to be held at the granaries in Floriana. And that led to our little private volcanic eruption because all of a sudden the island (or a lot of it) was incensed and literally smoked.
No, it wasn't because the Church opted for the controversial Regrets Only as opposed to the more appropriate RSVP style invites. Nor because the Church had made a request for cash gifts. It was because the invitation may as well have included one of those bumper stickers my mother had on her metallic silver Mazda in the 1990s. Only this time the bumper sticker would have said - Jesus Loves you, But Leave Your Partner At Home.
In case any of you missed it, when it came to Members of Parliament, members of the Judiciary and other dignitaries, separated, annulled or widowed, the invite was limited exclusively to the dignitary in question, deliberately omitting to extend the invitation to his or her partner or guest. Now I am under no illusions as to the Church's unwavering stand on the indissolubility marriage and it would be sheer folly to even conceive the Church being expected to look up the names of the people these people have gone on to make extramarital lives with, expressly put them on the invitation and give them its blessing and stamp of approval. It would be the equivalent of asking people to an AA meeting and telling them to bring a bottle (as opposed to their partner).
But then, the Church does a lot of things that surprise me. It picks and chooses when to take the moral high ground and blows hot and cold about many of its principles. And although when it comes to protocol it has every right to call the shots in the best way it deems fit, it would be far more credible and that much more convincing if it were consistent all of the time. More of that some other time though.
Back to the more important stuff. The doubts that were cast on this Pope's visit, in addition to all of the above, were quite simply a personal matter. Not really liking this Pope was not only a national pastime - it had worldwide appeal. I'm not sure whether it had something to do with his predecessor and the big shoes that he left behind, but whenever this Pope's name came up (and that posed yet another issue, because Ratzinger is not a name which makes you feel instantly happy, warm and safe, much like the name Rottweiler doesn't) you knew it would be met with a turning up of the nose sort of feeling.
When the Pontiff arrived in Malta I was at home on my sofa practically sellotaped to the TV, in much the same way I am glued to it at election weekend, watching the Pope's movements intently, which were being brought to us on all the local television stations, in that very weighty almost hypnotic voice we have long grown accustomed to, where each word seems so carefully chosen, interspaced with the right number of pauses for maximum effect. It kills me and cracks me up.
I'm not sure whether it was the red shoes that did it, but somewhere between last Saturday April 17 at 5 p.m. and today (I write this column on Thursday), I found myself liking Papa Ratzi, smiling at the TV and googling him all at the same time.
He may have had big shoes to fill, but they were brown and boring and this Pope, in true Pope tradition, wears red shoes - the softest leather bespoke Italian moccasins, which peeped out of his white heavy robes. And of course Prada aren't denying that the shoes are theirs - why would they? - but I suspect he has his own personal cobbler.
When he finally got the rest he so desperately needed, there was a kindness in his eyes which I had never really noticed before, perhaps because I wasn't really looking. And then of course there was that moment where he decided to meet the victims of abuse.
That meeting which found its way all over the world and keeps being brought into our living rooms, most definitely captured all of our hearts privately. Hearing Lawrence Grech talking about his five minute meeting with the Pope was truly special. And once again, I think the Church has managed to come up for air, un-slump itself from its doldrums, to overcome adversity, which is really what it does best.
michelaspiteri@gmail.com