A Pope's Farewell

By NANCY GIBBS

Patience is hardly the signal virtue of our age. But somehow the ceremony to mark the passing of Pope John Paul II would not have felt right without the wait; standing still for so long was part of the journey. You could listen closely to the swelling crowd and hear songs and stories and prayers and memories shared in every language--everything, except complaint. Maybe it takes such a death for patience to be born.

Some pilgrims came with little more than the clothes on their backs, because this was not a logical undertaking, it was a leap of faith. The population of Rome doubled in a matter of days, including an estimated 2 million Poles who descended on the Eternal City to honor their native son. There was no room at any inn, so people camped in the streets and squares, while the city tested its gift for hospitality. Romans were urged to open their doors, take people in; the government set up thousands of cots in soccer stadiums, the convention center and makeshift tent cities, handed out bottles of water and blankets and pillows that had been stockpiled in anticipation of the eruption of Mount Vesuvius.

If they brought nothing else, even pilgrims now don't leave home without a phone, which made for a thoroughly modern mourning. The Italian Civil Protection Agency sent out text messages advising people when the line would be closed, though warnings of a 15-hour wait did not seem to discourage people. Some brought a book and read the whole thing. When night fell, the basilica glimmered, and still they came, intent on seeing him one last time. No longer the frail, folded figure in the window, he was a prince in red slippers, tall and straight and strong again. His face showed signs of peace and pain; the peace that has come to him, the pain he leaves behind. As many as 18,000 people passed by every hour, moving almost too fast to pray. The cell phones served as cameras, capturing a relic to carry home.

Appreciation for his gifts and the suffering of the last years only deepened with the release of John Paul II's will and testament of faith, written in stages over his 26-year papacy. He asked that his personal notes be burned and that he be buried in the bare earth, not a tomb. There was nothing to bequeath, for there was little he owned. But there was much to explain and confess, including his doubts over whether it was God's will that he continue as Pope as his speech slurred and his bones bent; he hoped, in the last hard years, that God would "help me to recognize how long I must continue this service."

By Friday, when the princes and presidents, kings and queens, metropolitans and patriarchs, had all descended to honor their brother, the world seemed to stop to say Mass. In the shadow of his passing, much history was laid to rest; the church's strengths and weaknesses were also laid out for all to see. Here was Prince Charles, in line to lead an Anglican Church that split with Rome over a king's divorce five centuries ago, postponing his wedding a day to attend this ceremony instead. There was Boston's Bernard Cardinal Law, now in Rome after resigning over his handling of the sex-abuse scandals, preparing to preside over one of this week's funeral Masses. There were representatives of the Arab League, the King of Jordan, the Palestinian Prime Minister, the President of Syria, come from lands where the memory of the Crusades still lives. Here was the President of the U.S., seated near the President of Iran, and all the heads of the world, friends and enemies laced together in liturgy, sharing, at least for this moment, a sign of peace.

Theodore Cardinal McCarrick of Washington declared it the "largest funeral in the history of the world," as outside the multitudes watched, on immense TV screens, the movement of the plain cypress coffin, a fitting last gesture by a Pope who understood so well how much images matter. Priests poured into the crowds to administer Communion, and over their heads, the flags sailed and swooped. Banners proclaimed SANTO SUBITO, Sainthood Now, and already reports were spreading of miraculous healings by the Pope last week. "The Cardinals have seen this outpouring, and it adds to the weight of their responsibility. It says that we need to find someone inspiring," said a Vatican official. "The people want someone who will be great."

For all the splendor and sorrow of the week, there was a final bequest spreading through the square as the service came to a close and the crowd, reluctant to leave, chanted one last time, "Giovanni Paolo! Giovanni Paolo!" Five staccato syllables and rhythmic claps, a football cheer for God's great athlete. And then it was over, and people mingled and smiled, and by late afternoon the young pilgrims had turned the Via della Conciliazione that leads away from St. Peter's into a lively promenade. They broke out coolers of soft drinks. They packed the cafes, strolled down to the Tiber River as the spring light faded. Grief had turned festive with the echo of what the Pope on his deathbed is said to have told his personal secretary: "I am happy," he said. "You be happy too."