<em>Melanie McDonagh gives a personal view of the elevation of Timothy Radcliffe OP</em>
ROME – It is, of course, a great honour to be invited to attend the creation of cardinals at the Vatican but it takes willpower to get there. I was at Timothy Radcliffe’s elevation yesterday [Saturday] and I thought with my own special number to obtain my ticket, it would be a breeze. It so wasn’t.
In the first place the directions said that I should go to a bronze door at the end of the Bernini colonnade, which is quite the address, but at the end of the colonnade there is no bronze door to be seen. I went up to the nearest police to ask for the Prefect’s Office and they despatched me with a wave of the arm back in the direction I came from to what they assured me was a white building. It was not to be found. I returned to them to find someone who seemed in the same position asking the same question; he too was waved towards the exit. We scouted about hopefully looking for a bronze door; then my companion had the genius idea of asking a nun. She pointed in the direction behind the police and said “that way”. Friends, if you are ever in doubt at the Vatican, just follow a nun. You can’t go wrong.
When we found the bronze door we ascended the grand steps to the Prefecture where there was a trio of Swiss Guards waiting: one was on duty with a halberd; the very tall, very handsome and supercilious one was in charge. There is something about that uniform that gives a man stature. When it was my turn I showed my email and gave my name; picture my humiliation when he couldn’t find me. But then I caught sight of myself over the page, so I left in triumph with my ticket for the consistory.
However, the ticket turned out on the day not quite to open all doors. I turned up with 20 minutes to spare and naturally assumed, being a journalist, that I could with this ticket get to jump the long queue into St Peter’s Square; nope, the police were having none of it and I was sent to the back of the queue like that gospel story about the wedding feast; naturally I skipped as far up as I could. Then, having got in there was another queue, this time to get through security. By this time, I was getting panicky; the chances of getting into the Basilica by 4pm seemed slim. And then there was a third queue, the longest of all, waiting to get in. All of us, it seemed, had the magic ticket.
Fortunately, I saw some Dominican habits and assumed that these were friars waiting to see one of their own, Timothy, get his elevation. I joined them and found friendly faces: Fr Dermot Morrin, the prior of Blackfriars, Edinburgh, with a friend and Fr Matthew Jarvis. Fr Matthew, being half French, had added to the Dominican habit a fetching black polo-neck and beret; it turned out to be a sensible move, for it was getting chilly. But by the time we got to the top of the queue there seemed no possibility of getting into the Basilica. And so we sat in the chairs laid out in St Peter’s and looked at the screen instead, telling ourselves, in my case with some bitterness, that it was a far better view than we’d have got in a basilica anyway.
We were right. The camera focused on the action and on the Holy Father. From a merely aesthetic point of view, the blocks of scarlet, then purple, were fabulous, and set off the Pope in white. From above you could see down into the crypt behind him and the tomb of St Peter, which gives the whole thing a curious resonance.
The ceremony was quite simple; the new Princes of the Church kneel before the Pope and he puts their new red biretta, and their cardinal’s ring. It seemed simple.
The Gospel was Mark 10, where James and John ask Christ to be on his right and left when he is in his glory; he asks them if they are prepared to drink the cup that he drinks and be baptised with the water he is baptised with. And to the apostles he reminds them that he came to serve and to give his life as a ransom for many. So, at the heart of this ceremony to create those princes is the very disagreeable reminder of martyrdom; the scarlet stands for blood. Indeed the other Dominican being elevated was Jean-Paul Vesco, the Archbishop of Algeria, where martyrs aren’t rare.
The Pope’s sermon naturally included a reference to that reading; the gist was that the new cardinals should put Christ at the centre of all things. Next to me, thank goodness, was Fr Matthew, who understood Italian and translated as we went.
The names of the candidates were pronounced by Archbishop Angelo Acerbi, a game old gentleman, who kept a firm hold of his stick. I had thought he must be an elderly cardinal; no, he too was being elevated, at the grand age of 99. How long had he been waiting for this moment? He made his way to the Pope, presumably making Francis feel young by comparison, and he was given his biretta standing; there was a kind of humorous camaraderie between them.
And then began the fun part: waiting to see whether any of the candidates would actually lose his new hat. Presumably all the new cardinals’ heads had been measured so how was it that so many of them looked as if they didn’t fit? The candidates knelt to receive their hats and get a blessing from the Pope; he put on the biretta and hat, except in some cases, the biretta fell down over the forehead and it was all the new cardinal could do to keep the hat balanced on top; no one wanted to be the first to let it fall. But in some cases it was touch and go and the chamberlain had to intervene to ram them down. I am sorry to say that those of us outside laughed out loud at this. Those old cardinals’ hats that Wolsey wore had at least one advantage: they stayed on.
When it came to Timothy’s turn, he knelt and rose beautifully. He had decided, with Jean Paul Vasco, the other Dominican, to eschew the flummery and simply wore his white habit without a black cape, but the thing was, they stood out far more not wearing scarlet and lace than they would have done with it; it’s the irony of humility.
And then they were done; we watched all the new cardinals mingle with the old men in scarlet; it seemed a good humoured group.
Finally we joined in the Pater Noster sung in the square and the Salve. The music up to that point was from the Sistine Choir; not being mean, but any English cathedral choir would have done better.
Then it was time for another queue, to get out of the square- and to get onto the Aula della Benedictione, the great hall from which the pope goes to give his blessing to the city and the world. This event, which I had rather hoped might feature drink but didn’t, was by no means exclusive. We jostled amiably with each other in an interminable line. All the supporters of all the candidates were there; it was a chance to meet your cardinal.
The second last queue was again at the steps of the Bronze Door to the prefecture, with the Swiss Guards holding back the throng. When a group was released they went bounding up the stairs like greyhounds out of a trap. We proceeded sedately gawping at the magnificent frescos on either side until we finally got to the magnificent Aula which was thronged with people waiting to be presented to their man. And we queued for Timothy.
He looked absolutely exhausted, poor man. All the fuss, all the organisation, all the pomp, takes its toll. And then everyone wants a bit of you, and a photo. But he was kind and welcoming when you did get to him. “Do you have a lovely church?” I wanted to know (each cardinal is allocated one in Rome). “In the shopping area!” he beamed. “Nothing could be better”, I said. There are souls to be saved in retail, too.
