It’s not often you can see a real saint, either before or after canonization. I saw mine some thirty-five years ago, on Sunday, September 14, 1987. A few years later, the site where I saw him would become “Sea World.” At the time, it was only a very large, open space in the Westover Hills section of San Antonio. I, along with all of the other clergy in the State of Texas, had been invited to take part in the Papal Mass to be celebrated by Pope John Paul II during his visit to the United States. As a Permanent Deacon, I was to help distribute communion to the 350,000 people expected to attend the liturgy. Karen was not one of them. She, Sister Alice and our pastor, Fr. Ed, were scheduled to attend a meeting in Washington, D.C. of catechists involved in the Rite of Christian Initiation of Adults. One of her recollections of that event was a line from a song performed by the Saint Louis Jesuits: “Is there intermission at the Beatific Vision, or do we have to sit around and watch all day?” Somehow, that verse may be related to what I saw in the Alamo City on the same day.
Of course, the vision I beheld was not the “Beatific One,” not even a “blessed” one. John Paul II was not declared a saint until 2014, along with Pope John XXIII. Nevertheless, he was well-received by Catholics and others throughout the world during his lifetime. I saw him, at a distance, at that Mass he celebrated during his two days in Texas. However, that event almost did not take place. Three days earlier, on a Thursday, a storm with winds exceeding 75 mph, tore through the site, destroying the ten-story backdrop for the Mass. Somehow, a smaller, but still very attractive, alternative was completed before the opening procession on Sunday.
I do not recall anything about what John Paul II said during his homily. But several vivid memories about Communion are still retained. Each Deacon was vested with his own alb and white stole, mine with the insignia of Christ the Good Shepherd. We each wore a cream-colored, pentagonal medallion depicting hands enfolding a chalice and host. We carried a blue, pottery ciborium with the same design. We were allowed to keep them as mementoes of the event; mine resides on a table in our living room. Each ciborium was filled with a hundred or so unconsecrated hosts. We sat in a reserved section near the altar. During the consecration, we uncovered the bowls, as the Pope recited the usual invocation. A few minutes later, each deacon distributed Communion to the three-hundred-thousand present at the celebration. For me, this became my ultimate memory of the event, and not necessarily a pleasant one.
Each deacon had been assigned a numbered location for the distribution of the hosts. I’m not sure any of us made it to his predetermined site. As I moved toward the place to which I had been assigned, hundreds of people stretched out their hands to receive the host. There were no lines; there was no order to the distribution. On the positive side, it did seem like we were the disciples there in the wilderness, feeding the 5,000 from the seven loaves of bread blessed by Jesus, himself. The problem came with the “leftovers.”
On the hillside where the thousands had gathered two millennia ago, the remaining bread and fish filled twelve wicker baskets. Fortunately, at the time, there were no fish for us to be concerned about in San Antonio. But there were the consecrated hosts. Having completed distributing Communion to those who had come toward me, I still had at least a half-filled ciborium. Apparently, other deacons experienced the same condition.
Before the service we had been instructed about what to do with the consecrated hosts exceeding the number which could be consumed. We approached the receiving area, which held more than twelve huge wash tubs as receptacles and emptied our bowls into them. There were considerably more than twelve wicker baskets filled with them. It was my understanding that after the service, earth would be placed over the area and the consecrated hosts would be buried for eternity, or until such time as excavation occurred for the erection of Sea World on the same site. The image of those buried hosts has stayed with me for more than three decades.
I wish I had more memories about John Paul II’s visit to San Antonio, but I do not. My favorite pope is the one who was canonized with him: John XXIII. I continue to have fond memories of visiting his tomb in the crypts beneath St Peter’s Basilica. On top of his plain sarcophagus, a single red rose had been placed.
Interestingly, one of our earlier visits to Rome is also associated with John Paul II. He died on April 2, 2005, the time when we had scheduled a visit to Europe. Our flight to Rome was delayed by our missing a connection in the airport in Paris on our way from Houston. It appeared that every bishop in the world had also chosen flights from Paris to Rome to be there for the conclave to choose John Paul’s successor. Luckily, we met a young woman in the De Gaulle International Terminal who helped us make a telephone call to the Grand Circle tour company office in Rome and aided us in obtaining tickets to continue our travel. A few days later, we were in our hotel in Sorento, when the tv-newscast indicated that Josef Ratzinger, a non-Italian, had been elected pope. Both we and the local media thought this to be an extraordinary event.
I am pleased I had the opportunity to see Saint John Paul II at a distance. It’s doubtful I have been, or will be, in the presence of a declared saint. On the other hand, it is said we are all called to be saints. There is a likelihood I have already been in the presence of many undeclared saints. At least, I’d like to believe that’s the case. It would be wonderful to see saints who are still around me, everywhere I go.