By Michael M. Canaris
In the midst of sadness and suffering, human beings are accustomed to finding glimmers of hope and positivity in the overwhelming darkness of misery. It occurs with every tragedy. Whenever we see humanity or nature at its most destructive and terrifying, we always find testimony to the resiliency and goodness of our species.
For me, in a much more modest vein than recognizing the heroes and first responders of this or any collective anguish, I have delighted — if that is not too strong a word — in being able to connect to parishes around the world in a new way brought about by the crisis. This occurs both through the Camden Diocese’s website, where I have been able to virtually attend Masses with priest friends and in familiar haunts “back home” in a way not possible even a few months ago, and in Rome where until recently, internet access and technological capability in 1,500-year-old churches was not what I would call the local population’s defining strength.
But as with so much else in our world, the last two months have changed the ecclesial landscape in unforeseen ways.
I have virtually participated in Pope Francis’ early-morning (midnight for us here in Chicago) Masses in Santa Marta, which feel incredibly intimate to me, even after attending quite a few papal ceremonies in larger venues. I have also followed the Italian military ordinariate’s Masses with some regularity, where they connect with and minister to those on the front lines of the response in one of the world’s hardest-hit countries. I love the rhythm and familiar-yet-distinct patterns of attending Mass in Italian or Spanish. I am pleased to be able to do this with more frequency than ever before, and recognize that it often leads to theological insights that inform my research and teaching.
For example, when we become accustomed to hearing the familiar question of “who is our neighbor” introducing the Good Samaritan parable in English (cf. Luke 10), it can benefit us to hear the translation of “prossimo” in Italian — which teaches us that the neighbors are not off distant somewhere beyond the “good fences” of Robert Frost’s poem, but those in close “proximity” (situatedness next-to-us), whether due to choice, chance, circumstance or providence. This undoubtedly broadens, or helpfully scrambles and challenges, some of our comfortable assumptions and definitions.
I will close with a short “approximate” (same root word!) translation of a prayer penned by Calabrian Archbishop Santo Marcianó, of the Italian military forces, which he recites after his weekly Masses live online. It has brought me peace and joy in these challenging times — where places I love, and more importantly locales filled with people I love (Rome, Spain, New Jersey, New York), are suffering so tremendously:
“God the Father, you who create Life and not death, listen to the heartfelt and confident plea that together we address to you. Free our families, in Italy, and in the whole world, from the terrible pandemic that afflicts us and unites humanity in a single cry of pain. Protect all the military men and women who are at our service in hospitals, on the roads, in methods of transportation, in centers of operations, in peace missions, in the places where they study situations and make decisions.
“Christ Jesus, You who are Life, come down from the Cross on which you gave yourself for us, and support the crosses of our many brothers and sisters, scattered on the way to Calvary, and illuminate them with the hope of Easter.
“Holy Spirit, who infuses Life into whoever you touch, be, for each person, a caress of tenderness who does not leave abandoned those who die alone in their last moments and who consoles those who remain without loved ones; who illuminates the intellect of those who do research and who enlightens the counsel of those who govern; who gives strength to those who are sick and who floods with pity those who provide care and assistance; who expands the heart of those who give pastoral care with the science of love and who provides wisdom to rediscover things that are essential, in learning how to tend to our neighbor and turn our gaze to God.
“And you, Mary, the Mother of Life, together with Joseph and our patron saints, keep everyone protected under your mantle, until the danger has passed and we can sing, with you and like you, the Magnificat of gratitude, joy, and praise. God willing, may it be come to pass!”
Originally from Collingswood, Michael M. Canaris, Ph.D., teaches at Loyola University, Chicago.