Shedding a Tear

Cynical, old and gnarled I may be but I’m not so cynical, old and gnarled that I can’t shed a tear or two for the passing of the Pope. What is more I am proud to have shed a tear for the him, for suddenly, in the midst of our national preoccupation with football (and brawling Newcastle players) and pre-election fever (and brawling party politicians), comes an event that not only touches the heart but has a real depth of significance for literally millions of people.

Somehow anyone’s death comes as a surprise, even if one has spent weeks or months preparing for it. We all knew the Pope’s death was imminent, the obituary writers had plenty of warning, the press were able to post journalists in readiness, and yet the actual event still causes a sudden jolt. As long as a person lives we think of that person as a living entity – breathing, suffering maybe, but with active brain cells and the potential to communicate with us. But when a person dies there is an abrupt closure on their actions (in this world at any rate), and it is that finality that seems to draw a different emotion.

I am so pleased that last year (with the wife and elder brother) I got to visit Rome at last. Even if rugby was the prime reason for the visit I will always remember the weekend for St Peter’s Square - far ahead of England’s try scoring and the match. Being a humble tourist in the Vatican City gave one an awesome perspective of the sheer magnitude of the Catholic Church, and it is appropriate that John Paul II is now being lauded and celebrated for the undoubted achievements of his reign. Appropriate also to note that the Italians mark death with hand-clapping – I thought it was only the French who did that.