One in Every Ten

Zaccheus was trying to see who Jesus was, and was unable because of the crowd, for he was small in stature.

So he ran on ahead and climbed up into a sycamore tree in order to see Him, for He was about to pass through that way.

When Jesus came to the place, He looked up and said to him, "Zaccheus, hurry and come down, for today I must stay at your house."

And he hurried and came down and received Him gladly.

Luke 19:3-6

One of my greatest joys is this statistic: 1 in every 10. I have seen the Pope once in every 10 years, a total of three times. Not bad for someone who doesn’t live next door to the Vatican.

I was four years old when Pope John Paul II visited my city, the first and last time the Holy Father would do so. At that time, I had no idea what he meant to me, and what he meant to a country of more than 50 million Catholics. He was a young Pope then, only in his early 60s. The Popemobile was nothing more than a parade float that was decorated with flowers – the assassination attempt at the Vatican would happen the following May – and no bulletproof glass separated him and the people who called out for him, asking for his blessing.

He passed by my street.

And he stopped right in front of my house.

My heart still swells at the thought.

The Pope stopped in front of my house.

I saw him again when I was eighteen. I had walked miles to see him, although many others had traveled hundreds, even thousands of miles to do exactly the same. He talked to the young people, and millions (yes millions) were there to listen. He was no longer young, and there were rumors of illness. But that night, in the midst of the joy and the singing, he defiantly twirled his walking stick, jokingly telling the journalists that he would jab them with it if they came too close. That night, I happened to be at the right place at the right time. He was no more than three yards away when he passed by. I have never seen so much compassion in someone’s eyes.

After that, I was never the same again.

My heart still swells at the thought.

The man is gone now, and people now call him “the Great.”

Yesterday, I was eighteen again, except I made my pilgrimage by subway, instead of on foot. I waited for three hours without sitting but the wait was full of singing and music and joy. People say that Catholics are a dour lot, all hellfire and brimstone, and yet Fifth Avenue was filled with a happy anticipation.

A roar started coming up the avenue, and the colors of the Vatican flew over everyone’s heads. Finally, the man we had been waiting for had arrived. Benedict XVI waved a gentle wave to the crowd, as shouts of “Viva il Papa!” echoed over and over. Never would the Pope be a distant presence in Rome, but a real person doing real things in the hope of healing the hurts of the Church. People have christened him “the German Shepherd,” zealously guarding the Church that he loves.

Tonight, Shepherd One takes off from New York City.

My heart still swells at the thought.