ROME — Most of us Americans were away from Rome for the Eastertime break when the Holy Father passed away on Monday morning. My return flight on Thursday night was delayed, but when we touched down, I jumped in a taxi and hoofed myself over to St. Peter’s Basilica to check out the scene for his wake. It was well after midnight.

On the way, the restaurants in the piazzas were still teeming and roving clumps of smoking Roman teenagers were just mobilizing, as the next day was the observance of Italian Liberation Day, a major civic holiday. A local lady without the full use of her faculties was walking her mangy dog and loudly compelling the pathetic creature to kneel down with her and pray for the pope right there on the pavestone sidewalk over a mile away from the start of the line.  

I was among the last to make it through the metal detectors before they cut off the entrance for the night. The security and volunteers were doing a great job spacing everyone out, so the wait was only about 45 minutes in the cool evening air, plenty of time to pray the Sorrowful Mysteries.

Earlier in the day, some people had waited for eight hours or more. Over a quarter million came in all, roughly the same number that would attend his funeral outside on Saturday.

The high marble of the cavernous Vatican Basilica always has a special way to hush massive assemblies; it was especially effective under these circumstances. The crowds were mixed in both nationality and piety, as per usual. We were funneled forward down the body of the building quite efficiently. Each person got just a brief pass by the front of the coffin, attended by Swiss Guards in full regalia, but we priests with a Roman celebret ID card were allowed in through the barricade to stay in prayer very close along either side of the confession under the papal altar.  

Seeing his mortal remains there right next to the tomb of St. Peter really impressed upon me what an historic moment this was to witness, and I thanked the Lord for the extra special grace. All around the dome above swirled the Latin mosaic: “TV ES PETRVS … Thou art Peter, and upon this rock I shall build my Church, and I shall give thee the keys of the Kingdom of Heaven” (Matthew 16:18-19).

I appreciated more than ever the onerous office to serve as the Vicar of Christ, to wield the ultimate ecclesial responsibility for getting souls to their salvation. It was impossible not to turn to thoughts of the impending Conclave. I commended it and its results to the Lord in the tabernacle before the altar of St. Joseph, the patron of the Universal Church, where a large number of people were silently praying.

Since our residence is adjacent to the government Quirinale Palace complex, we have heard the helicopters constantly carting dignitaries in and out. The tourism season has never much cooled with the weather, owing to the Jubilee Year pilgrims and various groups, but it has really ramped up for the Easter season and the cancelled canonization Mass of Carlo Acutis in a special way. The streets are mobbed. The vendors and entertainers are out beyond full force. As you wander through the sacred stones and sites soaked with the martyrs’ blood, you can never veer off into rapturous spiritual reverie here for too long; the city sees to that.

Offering Holy Mass here is already unique, as we always omit the line about the local bishop. Now we skip mentioning the pope at that point, too. One of the antiphons the next morning, very fittingly during the Octave of Easter, began: “This day shall be a day of remembrance for you … ” (Exodus 12:14).

My very late walk back offered another quick snapshot of the city. The Pantheon and Piazza Navona were vacated, as the nightlife had moved on to less seemly quarters.  Some visitors asked me for directions to a tobacco store, a gentleman near a portico couldn’t get to a restroom in time, some professional evening escorts meandered by, and the recycling bags were set out along the alleys. Someone was washing his hair in one of the famous aqueduct-fed fountains. The homeless (no doubt exhausted from the particularly busy day of begging) had curled up in their Church-issued tents beside the colonnade and in parish doorways; I blessed them, as always, with the same Sign of the Cross gesture I had just used over the body of the pope. No doubt he of all people would appreciate that continuity. 

The Eternal City really lives up to its nickname in these moments. Its bishop has died, but all its cobbled components carry on in life, by God’s good grace. 

Father Tyron Tomson is a diocesan priest studying in Rome.