Friday, March 13
All roads lead to Rome, including, apparently, highway 11E, which we were taking from Knoxville to Johnson City, Tennessee. Patrick Madrid was navigating, I was driving, and no one was paying attention to the accelerator, except for Trooper Billy Grooms, who pulled us over half an hour from our destination.
When I got out of the car I noticed the stiff, cold wind, which my suit coat did little to stop. I walked to the officer’s car.
“Where y’all headin’?”
“Johnson City.”
“What for?”
“To give a talk.”
“Where at?”
“St. Mary’s Catholic Church. Do you know it?”
“Uh-huh.” He looked displeased, finished scribbling the citation, and handed it to me.
“What y’all goin’ to speak on?”
“The clash between Catholicism and Fundamentalism.”
“Oh.” The corners of his mouth drooped further. He definitely wasn’t a Catholic, and I had the impression that if I talked back the least bit he’d have me up on popery charges.
I returned to the car, shivering. “Should have brought an overcoat,” I thought.
Saturday
We were in nearby Kingsport, giving a full-day seminar. During one of Patrick’s talks I stepped out of the church to retrieve something from the car and was met with a gentle snowfall. “Now I know I should have brought an overcoat,” I said, worrying I might fall ill. But I didn’t worry much. I felt confident that Providence would keep me well during our impending trip to the Vatican.
Sunday
Although tired from the long journey, I arrived home pleased I had escaped without injury to my health. I fought the Tennessee weather, and I had won. I lay down for a short nap. In half an hour my temperature was 103, and I had chills. Later I called Patrick, who was to accompany me to Rome the following Tuesday.
“Bad news. I’m down with some bug. We might have to skip Rome. I’ll see the doctor first thing tomorrow.”
Monday
I explained my symptoms to Dr. Haggerty. “It’s not a bacterial infection,” he said, “and it’s not respiratory, so it’s not the flu. You have a virus,” and we all know there’s nothing you can do for a virus.
“Give me something anyway. I can’t miss this trip.”
“Can’t you reschedule it?”
“Not a chance.”
“What’s the big deal? Are you going to have lunch with the Pope or something?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“You’re kidding!”
“A little. We’re meeting the Pope, but we’re not expecting a last-minute invitation to lunch. Can’t you give me something to get me by?”
Tuesday
Patrick and I met at the British Airways counter at LAX. “How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Okay. It must have been a 48-hour bug.”
The flight was uneventful, and so was the food. Being married to a Japanese national, I’ve become used to raw fish, whether as sashimi or sushi, both of which I like. Not being married to a British national, I wasn’t sure what the stewardess placed before us under the rubric of lunch. Whatever it was, it looked raw and uninviting.
“It reminds me of that line from The Odd Couple,” I said to Patrick. “Jack Lemmon picks up a sandwich and asks what the green filling is, and Walter Matthau replies, ‘It’s either very new cheese or very old meat.’ I think we’ve been served Lemon’s sandwich.”
Patrick agreed. We skipped most of the lunch. Dinner was no better, so we arrived at Fiumicino as involuntary fasters. (Tourists call it Leonardo da Vinci Airport, but to Italians it’s simply Fiumicino, after the district.)
Wednesday
As we wound our way through the lines at the airport we discovered one entirely superfluous civil service position: passport inspector. Documents in one hand, luggage in the other (we travel light), we were disappointed that the clerk didn’t even take the proffered passports. They could have been as blank inside as that campy book of twenty years ago, The Wit and Wisdom of Spiro Agnew, but the clerk never would have known.
Only after we exited the arrival area did we realize that we had no proof that we ever got into Italy. “What if Teruko and Nancy want to see the visa stamps and thumb through the passports when we get home? Imagine the consequences.”
We were greeted by two Legionaries of Christ. Brother Edward and Father Philip are young Americans who have been in Rome several years. Theirs is one of the fastest-growing religious orders in the world–still small, but its prospects are good. The Legionaries have been called the modern Jesuits because of their rigorous training program and their fidelity to the Pope.
We were driven to the Brigittine convent at the Piazza Farnese. There we met Sister Stanislaus, a no-nonsense Swede who showed us to our rooms. They overlooked Via di Monserrato. Across from our windows was a building which was old when General Cadorna’s troops passed by in 1870 on their way to transform Pio Nono into the Prisoner of the Vatican, yet the convent was far older. Seven centuries ago St. Brigid of Sweden lived and died here. Her room is preserved as a chapel, and in a glass case is the top of the writing table at which she took down her revelations.
By the time we unpacked it was dark. Needing to stretch our legs after the long flight, we took off for the Vatican, a brisk fifteen-minute walk. Rome wasn’t as chilly as Tennessee, but it was chilly enough that night, and I was no more warmly dressed than I had been the week before. (I do not always learn from mistakes.)
We ate at a restaurant a few steps from the convent, and back in my room I fell asleep quickly with the assurance that in the morning I would need the pharmacy Dr. Haggerty had prepared for me.
Thursday
I spent the day in bed. Someone more spiritually alert would have been thankful for the opportunity for a little mortification at the start of his visit to the Church’s headquarters. I just groused–and hungered.
The sisters provided meals downstairs, but I was in no condition to move. After missing dinner I realized that if I didn’t eat I’d never have to worry about moving again. I made my way into the Piazza Farnese. On our side was the church attached to the convent. To its right, across the piazza, was the Palazzo Farnese, finished by Michelangelo and said to be the most luxurious palazzo in Rome. Today it is the French embassy. At night you can see through the uncurtained windows on the upper floors; the coffered ceilings and the frescoed walls are magnificent, even from a distance.
Across the Piazza from the Palazzo, to the left of the church, was an eatery. I limped over and examined its sandwich display. In broken Italian I ordered a ham sandwich and a beef sandwich and took them back to my room. I opened the beef sandwich and discovered no beef, only cleverly disguised (and very spicy) eggplant. The sandwich went in the trash. I might have to die in Rome, but I certainly wasn’t going to eat an eggplant sandwich there.
In the morning Patrick had met with Archbishop Peter Canisius van Lierde (more on him below), and in the evening Msgr. John F. McCarthy came to the convent’s sitting room. I managed to make my way downstairs and spend half an hour with Patrick and him.
Msgr. McCarthy is an American, the founder of the Sedes Sapientiae Study Center, publisher of Living Tradition (from which we occasionally reprint articles), and head of the Oblates of Wisdom, a confraternity of priests, one of whom, Fr. Brian Harrison, is a regular contributor to This Rock. Another Oblate is Fr. Benjamin Luther, well known for his question-and-answer column in Catholic Twin Circle.
Friday
In the morning we conferred with Fr. Peter Elliott, an Australian who is an assistant to Cardinal Alfonso Lopez Trujillo, president of the Pontifical Council for the Family. Fr. Elliott is the author of What God Has Joined: The Sacramentality of Marriage, an excellent book, and he is a convert from Anglicanism. We spent a long time with him, talking especially about the Church in Australia.
“We hope to make a tour of Australia someday,” we said. “Can you suggest any contacts?” He suggested many, and in the course of our discussion he noted that Catholics make up 26% of the Australian population–compared with 22% of the U.S. population–and are succumbing in large numbers to the blandishments of missionaries from the Assemblies of God, Mormonism, and the Jehovah’s Witnesses.
Fr. Elliott told us we could expect three or four minutes with the Cardinal, who came in and was especially cordial, even though he was forced to speak in English. (The conversation was not in Spanish because my command of that language is nearly zero.) Being on a tight schedule, the Cardinal excused himself after seven minutes.
“His staying this long is a very good sign,” explained Fr. Elliott. We were in a rarified atmosphere in which every extra minute was charged with significance.
We stopped by the Vatican book store to pick up copies of the Annuario Pontificio, the master directory for the Church. It’s a who’s who, with titles, dicasteries, addresses, and phone numbers (except for the Pope’s personal number, of course). The clerks at the book store seemed to be rejects from Moscow’s G.U.M. department store. Never have we come across less helpful people. They seemed put out that anyone would disturb their slumber. Despite what one might expect, the Vatican book store is small, poorly stocked, and carries mainly Italian titles. Very little is in English, but English-speaking people wouldn’t want to stick around the store anyway, given the clerks’ attitude toward non-natives.
We walked down Via della Conciliazione, the boulevard which joins the Vatican to Castel Sant’Angelo and the Tiber, and went into the Paoline book store, expecting a better selection and better service. The selection was wider–the store covers several floors–but few of the books were doctrinally solid. We struggled to find anything worthwhile.
Like most stores, the Paoline closes promptly at 1:30 for the siesta. At 1:25 a clerk yelled out, “Only five minutes!” Each minute thereafter he yelled out again, and he combined his yell with a glower. We were fine tuning our selections but were booted out before we could make a final decision. Then we realized why the Italian economy never will be robust. Shopkeepers (including religious, as these were) are more interested in an extra five minutes’ rest than in making a sale.
That afternoon we met with Archbishop Paul Cordes, a German who is Vice President of the Pontifical Council for the Laity. His department oversees movements such as Communion and Liberation (which is big in parts of Europe, especially Italy). With him we had a leisurely talk, and he was interested in our work, but also slightly puzzled, since Catholic Answers may be called a lay ministry, but it’s not a lay movement in the sense of having members. He noted, rightly, that the Church in English-speaking countries faces problems often different from those found on the Continent.
Archbishop Cordes made an invaluable observation: “You need a ‘protector’ in the national hierarchy,” he said, “It’s good that you have such friends as Cardinals Mahony and Bevilacqua, but you also need friends at the top level of the National Conference of Catholic Bishops.” We are acting on his advice.
Saturday
Archbishop Justin Rigali is the Secretary (second in command) of the Sacred Congregation for Bishops, the Prefect of which is Cardinal Bernardin Gantin of Benin. This is the congregation which selects bishops; it has been called the most important congregation in the revivification of the Church.
Archbishop Rigali is from Los Angeles and has been working in Rome more than thirty years, with a few years’ stint in Madagascar. He agreed to meet us for dinner and said we’d find him standing at the base of the obelisk in Piazza San Pietro. (The obelisk is the Piazza’s only surface-level object existing from the first century. When Peter was crucified upside-down, the obelisk may have been the last thing he saw.)
As we approached the obelisk there was no mistaking the Archbishop: dignified, smiling, looking straight at us. Besides, he was the only cleric within fifty yards. He took us down Via di Porta Angelica, which is reached through the right arm of Bernini’s colonnade, and then down a side street, to a little restaurant where he was warmly greeted by the owner.
We had a leisurely (and delicious) meal and excellent conversation. Although a senior diplomat, Archbishop Rigali was not “diplomatic” in the bad sense–he didn’t hem and haw. He spoke plainly, as any man should, and explained his duties in detail and with candor. We queried him about the selection process for bishops and learned it is time-consuming, thorough, confidential, and sensible. His congregation is well apprised of local situations, and we concluded it would be difficult to hornswoggle his men into nominating an undesirable man.
On alternate Fridays Archbishop Rigali meets with the Pope in the latter’s apartments (in the rooms to the left of the window at which the Pope gives his Sunday blessing) and discusses the dossiers of episcopal candidates. On the other Fridays Cardinal Gantin makes this visit to the Apostolic Palace.
After several hours of talk, during which we had ample opportunity to explain the work of Catholic Answers (our host appeared to approve), we walked back to St. Peter’s. “No need to walk me to my apartment. You can leave me in the Piazza,” said the Archbishop. “I want to finish praying my rosary.” This impressed us–an extraordinarily busy man from whose packed schedule we stole much time, an administrator tired after a long day, yet a devout priest first.
Sunday
A day of rest, at least theoretically. After Mass Patrick and I put on our walking shoes (by this time I was feeling fine) and played tourist, visiting the Forum, the Colosseum, and three key basilicas. At the Colosseum I deftly dodged a Gypsy girl who was hiding her hand under a folded newspaper. She used the newspaper to disguise her pickpocketing. (We really didn’t worry about losing our wallets, since we were wearing money belts.)
From the Colosseum we took Via di San Giovanni in Laterno to–where else?–St. John Lateran, which is the Pope’s church, Rome’s cathedral. Later we headed north by northwest (no Cary Grant in sight) to St. Mary Major.
On the way to St. John Lateran, not far from the Colosseum, we stopped at a most intriguing church, the basilica dedicated to St. Clement of Rome, the fourth pope. He is buried under the high altar, as is one of our favorite Fathers, St. Ignatius of Antioch.
What makes this church intriguing are its three distinct levels. The street-level church (quite nondescript from the outside) dates from the twelfth century and is magnificent in a run-down sort of way. If you take the stairway to the first level down you come to the ruins of a fourth-century church, which was destroyed in a Norman invasion in 1084. One more level down and you come to an entirely different kind of church–a temple dedicated to Mithras. In the center is a Mithraic altar.
Monday
Archbishop van Lierde had arranged for us to take a tour of the scavi, the excavations beneath the high altar of St. Peter’s Basilica. From within the Basilica itself anyone can descend a flight of steps hidden behind the statue of St. Longinus; his statue is recessed into one of the four main pillars holding up the dome. The steps take you to the grottoes, where many popes are entombed, but there is a lower level still, the scavi.
To see the modern excavations of the “city of the dead,” you need to sign up for a tour. Although tens of thousands of people pass through the Basilica each day, there is room for only a hundred a day on the tours of the scavi. Our guide, a Briton, explained how archaeologists carefully unearthed the tombs which once were on the surface of Vatican Hill, just outside Caesar’s Circus. At the end of the tour we were directly under the High Altar, one level below the grottoes, and were taken to within a few feet of St. Peter’s bones, which were discovered here a few decades ago.
That afternoon we met with Fr. John Rock at the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith. Some weeks prior we had received a kind letter from Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger, the Prefect, who told us his schedule did not permit a meeting, but Fr. Rock, an American on the CDF staff, spoke with us for half an hour. The Congregation’s offices are in a plain and fairly small building behind the left arm of Bernini’s colonnade.
After saying good-bye to our host we descended the stairs to the courtyard. I turned to Patrick and said, “Just think of it. Staffers of This Rock have just talked with Fr. Rock after visiting the first Rock’s bones, and tomorrow morning we’ll meet the current Rock.” Patrick was properly amused.
Our next appointment was with Cardinal Pio Laghi, the former pro-nuncio to the United States. Now he is the Prefect of the Congregation for Catholic Education. He oversees seminaries and institutes of study. Cardinal Laghi, who is quite familiar, of course, with the condition of the Church in America, gave us about fifteen minutes and was especially kind.
Afterward, as on previous days, we entered St. Peter’s Basilica. On each visit we noticed something new. This time we looked high up to the left, not far from the entrance, and saw what to some would be a frightful image: a statue of a leaping, golden unicorn, taller than a man. If anyone insists to you that the unicorn is not a Christian symbol, tell him to examine St. Peter’s ornamentation.
Having, in the morning, gone as far underground as possible, in the afternoon Patrick and I climbed to the top of the great dome and from the windswept platform looked over the Eternal City. The sight which seemed to be the most eternal was also the most ugly, the monument to Victor Emmanuel II, the first king of united Italy.
Most buildings in Rome are covered with grime–the Vatican buildings are no exception–and the only structure which seems to have maintained its original whiteness is this monument, which some have likened to a gigantic typewriter, others to a wedding cake. Whatever the description, the thing is an embarrassment and could use a thick layer of gunk.
As we descended from the dome we stopped at the souvenir store located on the roof of St. Peter’s. Behind the counter was a Japanese nun. She and I had a pleasant talk, and after leaving the store I walked to the front of the Basilica (still on the roof), where, under the colossal statue of St. Matthew, I encountered a Japanese family. “Sugoi desu ne?” I asked. “Swell, isn’t it?” They were surprised to be addressed in their own language. I reflected later that I had more opportunity on this trip to speak Japanese than Italian–aside from the nun and the rooftop family, I came across honeymooning couples from Japan and busloads of Japanese tourists.
Late that afternoon we explored nearer to our base of operations. A few doors from the convent, in the Piazza Farnese, we came upon Lelli Garey, a religious goods shop, and entered hoping to find items we could have the Pope bless the next morning. We found delightful proprietors. Alec and Fausta Garey (he is British, she Italian) know many Americans, including, for instance, the chancellor of the San Diego Diocese, who visits them each time he is in Rome.
It was Alec Garey who designed the impressive commemorative medal for Cardinal Mahony’s investiture. Garey’s skill is very high, so high that I was induced to purchase a handsome pectoral cross he had fashioned from brass and had adorned with four carnelians. The cross faces me now from the bulletin board behind the computer on which this story is being written.
Tuesday
The Pope celebrates his private Mass at 7:00 each morning. We were told to arrive at the Bronze Doors at 6:30. The Swiss Guards checked our names off a list, and we walked through the portal and into a side room. These great doors, about twenty feet tall and twelve feet wide, are really made of wood covered, on the outside, with bronze (Bernini’s work).
Like Gaul, the doors are divided into three parts, doors within doors. The largest doors fill the entire opening and are arched at the top. They are seldom opened. Within the main doors are smaller, but still large doors which swing inward. These are the ones you see opened in tourists’ photographs. Four Swiss Guards can stand abreast within the opening of these second doors.
But there is more. The door on the right (and perhaps the one on the left–I forgot to look) contains a still smaller door, just right for one man. Take your choice: You can have room for just a single Guard to pass through, or for Guards four abreast, or for a pair of giraffes.
A few minutes after we were deposited in the side room two families arrived, both American and both Protestant. One was from Chicago, the other from Dallas. One family owned a television station, the other owned the Dallas Morning News and several radio stations. As we were waiting we watched dozens of women religious walk through the Bronze Doors. They were parked down the main hallway, at the base of a staircase. In a few minutes we followed them up two stories to one of the papal chapels.
As we walked upward I had a sudden inspiration and asked the American visitors if anyone had briefed them on the protocol for Communion. They said no, so I explained why non-Catholics are not permitted to take Communion (by doing so they engage in a lie, affirming through their act a submission to beliefs they do not hold). The Americans seemed genuinely grateful for the admonition and ended up not taking Communion.
They also asked how properly to address the Pope. “Call him ‘Your Holiness,'” I said.
“Don’t I call him ‘His Holiness?'” asked one of the children.
“Only if you’re talking about him to a third person. If you’re talking to him directly, say ‘Your Holiness.’ Think what you do concerning a judge. Outside the courtroom it’s ‘His Honor,’ but face-to-face it’s ‘Your Honor.'” The boy nodded.
The chapel itself, one of at least three in the Apostolic Palace (not counting the Sistine Chapel), was a disappointment. It had been refurbished in Modern Drab and had all the pizzazz of the average American church. What had not been refurbished was the air conditioning system. The room was stuffy and stayed that way.
Off to our right, as we sat at the back of the chapel, we could see a properly baroque room, apparently empty, and beyond that another room, which was used as the sacristy. The procession began, and Patrick and I turned our heads and watched John Paul II enter slowly.
His face was deeply lined, and all the sorrow of the world was in his eyes. During the Mass he clutched his staff, resting his forehead against it, and seemed to be in a private agony. When leaving he looked me straight in the eyes. I felt an urge to apologize to him for all the infidelities the “faithful” have made him put up with.
He walked back to the “sacristy” to remove his vestments, and the American visitors were taken into the room to the right. The nuns stayed in the chapel, where the Pope would greet them later.
In a few minutes John Paul reappeared, dressed now in his white cassock. He looked more chipper and smiled, going down the line, shaking hands, giving each guest a rosary, saying a few words, putting up with the two professional photographers who vied with each other for the best shots. Lastly he came to us.
The very first thing out of his mouth was, “Ah! Fundamentalism!” He was looking at the copy of Catholicism and Fundamentalism I was holding out, and he thanked me for it. Patrick gave him two copies of This Rock. We spoke about Catholic Answers and the problems it is addressing. He said he was pleased lay people are involved in spreading the faith, and he encouraged us in our work.
The meeting was short–as it should have been: his smile did not hide his exhaustion–and then he was gone. We all exited the room, the others turning left to take the stairs back to the Bronze Doors, Patrick and I turning right. We had a second appointment with Archbishop van Lierde, the former Vicar General of His Holiness. One of the Swiss Guards escorted us down another flight (or was it two? the architecture confuses by its very massiveness) and down two long corridors to Archbishop van Lierde’s door.
We rang the bell, and the Archbishop invited us into his study, where we had a friendly chat. Patrick had seen him Thursday, when I was ill, so they already were old friends. The Archbishop left for a few moments when the phone rang, and I looked about the room, which was packed with memorabilia: here a photograph of him with John XXIII, there a framed document. In one corner was on old television set. I wouldn’t have been surprised if it had vacuum tubes instead of circuit boards.
No matter what its critics may say, the Vatican is not awash in money, and it’s certainly behind the times technologically. All the telephones we saw were rotary, for example. I fancied that if the Vatican had a central computer (on which, to please the paranoid, were files on “the usual suspects”), the machine could not be more advanced than a Commodore 64.
We left Archbishop van Lierde’s apartment and walked a few paces into the Sala Regia, perhaps the grandest waiting room in the Vatican. To the left was a door leading to the Pauline chapel. With the Swiss Guard’s permission we stepped inside; it was a beautiful and “unupdated” place.
Next around the wall of the Sala Regia was the door to the real sacristy, the one serving St. Peter’s; we were unable to enter it. Then, further down the wall, was the door to the Sistine Chapel, which the Swiss Guard could not open because tourists were inside, making their rounds.
After speaking with the young Guard for a few minutes we took another exit from the Sala Regia and found ourselves on the Scala Regia, the great staircase and hall leading, far in the distance, to the Bronze Doors. Built by Gian Lorenzo Bernini between 1663 and 1665, the Scala Regia is a masterpiece of deception. From the Bronze Doors a flat hallway leads far into the Apostolic Palace. Then come steps, along the sides of which pillars have been placed, not for structural support, but to give the illusion (when looking from the Bronze Doors) of steps which recede into the distance.
Walking down the Scala Regia, I had two thoughts. I thought of the magnificence of the papacy and the love which great artists and architects lavished on the See of Peter, and I thought of a scene from Yankee Doodle Dandy. It occurs at the end of the movie. James Cagney, playing George M. Cohan, has just visited Franklin D. Roosevelt in the White House and is descending a staircase. Impishly, he tap-dances down the last fifty steps. (A bravura performance by Cagney, I think.) Having none of that actor’s skills, I walked normally down the Scala Regia, but I walked lightly.
In the afternoon we met with Cardinal Jose Sanchez, Prefect of the Congregation for the Clergy. He also is in charge of catechectics. Before seeing him we spoke with his aide, Fr. Hilary Franco, an American from Philadelphia and a delightful man. He already knew about Catholic Answers, and we had an especially fruitful discussion. He guessed we’d have about five minutes with the Cardinal, but we had a full hour.
I had met Cardinal Sanchez twice in the last year, first at a meeting in Chicago of the Institute on Religious Life, later at a conference in Denver. A Filipino, he was especially interested in our dealings with Iglesia ni Cristo, the fastest-growing sect (and a very anti-Catholic one) in the Philippines. I recounted to him the debate I had with an Iglesia ni Cristo minister before 3,500 people, most of them his partisans bussed in from throughout Southern California. The Cardinal urged us to tour the Philippines, where many Catholic families are being torn apart when people join this new sect.
That night Brother Edward and Father Philip came by the convent. We walked between the two gurgling fountains in the Piazza Farnese, down a short street, and then into the Piazza Campo dei Fiori, a large square which, in the mornings, is the site of Rome’s largest fresh produce market. In the evenings the square is given over to restaurant-goers. It is dominated by a statue of Giordarno Bruno, who was burned on the site in 1600. The statue was erected by the Roman government as a rebuke to the Church. “I can’t decide which was the larger mistake,” I whispered to my three companions, “burning Bruno or erecting a statue in honor of a heretic.”
We ate in the basement of a restaurant on the far side of the Piazza. “Basement” is the wrong word: It was a cavelike room which existed twenty centuries ago. You could smell the ghosts, one of which belonged to Julius Caesar, who was assassinated a few steps from the restaurant (not, as fractured history says, at the Senate).
Wednesday
On our last day in Rome. I overslept and needed a wake-up call from Sister Stanislaus. Brother Edward and Father Philip were waiting downstairs with Patrick. I apologized and pleaded that I seldom needed an alarm clock and couldn’t explain what happened. I guess the week finally caught up with me. Providence had given me enough stamina to get me to the meetings, but no more. I was exhausted and would sleep most of the way home.
Before taking us back to Fiumicino, the Legionaries took us to their seminary, a new complex constructed in a dignified modern style: spacious, airy, already nearly full of eager priests-to-be. We arrived late for the Mass, which was celebrated in Spanish and was undoubtedly the most impressive Mass we attended during our visit to Rome. Several hundred male voices sang the responses–a fine, rich sound: aural incense.
Leaving the seminary we drove to a back street because the Legionaires wanted to show us an optical illusion. We turned onto the street, and the dome of St. Peter’s was behind us, framed by trees. As we drove away from it the dome grew larger, not smaller, until it filled the frame. From the far end of the street the structure looked gargantuan. It had undergone an unanticipated growth, much like the one the Church will have in the next few decades, God willing.