Rome, City of Stone
by Christina Moreira Vázquez
The first thing that overwhelms and astonishes someone who has never set
foot in the Vatican – I already knew Rome but I had always refused to visit the
manly Vatican State - is its stony, gray material and its elliptical design
that provides a sense of grandeur for what, in the end, is nothing but a small
plaza with supports, as they would say in my country.
My partner Janice Sevre-Duszynska and I arrived on an overwhelmingly hot Saturday, with
lodgings and a mutual search through the streets of Trastevere to stop where we
were dining. It is so important to see each other face to face in order to love
and appreciate each other. I had
met her briefly in Pennsylvania at the ordination of the bishops.
Before I met her I had time to savor a Eucharist celebrated in Santa
Maria in Trastevere, according to the rite of Saint John Chrysostom, a liturgy
that I had studied at the faculty but had not ever heard sung. It sounded like
a beautiful God who works his way in deeply, yet one who is at the same time distant
and tremendous; one cooked up by a few men who understood those elaborate rites
and who served up the result of their liturgical labors. I was only able to
contribute my ears, an attentive heart and my sense of Mediterranean irony
about how far my dear and beloved community was, the one where we can smell
each other, see each other's eyes and share parts of our lives and even sometimes
give each other the flu and the joy of a good snack ... although it is true
that we do not sing so well.
During those Roman days, the feeling of time travel was always present,
with questions about whether it was the classical, high medieval, late medieval
period... maybe, but not much more. It was entering the Trastevere and feeling
transported far away. At the same time, with open eyes, I would occasionally
mumble: "Here and now I'm a priest and that will never change." Whenever
I met with my partner Janice every morning in the garden of the inn for
breakfast, the certainty was complete because one person may have hallucinations
but not two of them. Perhaps that is why the Lord commanded his disciples to go
in groups of two...
One day she came with a large envelope in her hand, it was a Tuesday,
the eve of the jubilee of the priests, and said "Today we are going to the
Vatican." In that pilgrimage we were both witnesses to the presence and
light of the other, materialized, sweaty, not as well-groomed as we would have
liked, or hungry, or jumping for joy. On that day we felt carried on the
shoulders of a thousand generations of women of God who snuggled us; we were
remembering their names as we walked through the courtyard of the building of
the Curia. We did not miss the joke about the establishment of the firefighters,
on the patio we were crossing: "If a single spark of the fire of the
Spirit lights up, they will put it out, just in case," I joked.
From eleven o'clock until 6:30 pm we were walking and looking, standing
in line under a sun of justice, being checked, registered and guided, at times
misguided as in a twisted treasure hunt... until, at last, to the office where
we were received, with love and respect, -again I repeat to myself, "here
and now, in the heart of what was and is the center of the Christian world, we
are clergywomen and we occupy these seats in peace." I will always remember that trio who understood
each other in Spanish and English. I have in mind Janice’s testimony, her plea
for our cause that is not ours but that of the motherly Ruah, her evoking of
many friends’ names and faces before the Monsignor, always attentive and
responsive, Janice reeled them off like a litany, I was struck by your face, Janice,
my companion, full of love and hope, I will never forget it. The great Lady
Magdalene was also coming up. A few days later her celebration would be
officially proclaimed as a feast day and no longer as a memory, one more saint
in pantheon. We will never know if our visit had any influence on this, what
matters is our joy that it happened.
While Janice was providing her details in the role designed to
facilitate the task of Francis if he decided to call us, and I expected my turn
to provide mine, I spoke with our host. In our common mother tongue I told him
how I felt about receiving such a big punishment only for wanting to serve the
Lord and his people; among other things, I said "that cannot be punished
just because we are women."
The next day, at the Jubilee Mass of the priests in St. Peter's Square, during
communion I remembered and gave thanks. They knew we were there; Janice and I
had our albs on, purple scarves that were gifts of the WOW women to alleviate
the confiscation of our stoles by police just before entering. They knew who we
were and they gave us communion. This data will be recorded in history and will
not also be deleted. I said to the television that from that moment I considered
my latent excommunication to be eliminated, and that of all my companions. I
felt a complete reconciliation, also in the spiritual dimension.
I also felt the length and difficulty of the path that lies ahead of us.
When my daughter asks me from Spain if all goes well I say "they just took
away our stoles" and she says "Mom, it is not as if they were
guns!" This is how it is; the men of stone understand stoles as
instruments of power, that is why they cannot allow us to use them, and they are
angry because in our ordinations we can be seen with the stole over the
chasuble. Someone recently told me "that's not right." True, it is
not liturgical but is it liturgical to usurp the power and place of the Lord
when He is the one who celebrates and calls us? Is it lawful? These and more
questions give an idea of everything we need to dust, clean, polish, renew
and perhaps discard. What does not work to serve, simply does not work.
At Mass, while I concelebrated strictly following the brochure and
joining in prayer with the people present, from the last chair near ours, to
the top of all the scaffolding, and also with those people who were absent, both
alive and dead, I felt in communion despite it all. I am aware, sisters, that
we have come a long way and we are light years ahead of all the institutional
trappings anchored in the stone of its massive gray and sad columns; but I feel
able even of loving that church, as one loves a grandmother of years and
memories, who loses her marbles and gives you the dessert fork to eat the soup.
You smile and you get up to find the spoon. These people are neither worse nor
better than we are.
I did not attend the Mass as an activist without further ado, my
intention was to act from the heart and from my faith, so I did and, I confess,
I felt homesick and wanted to be received as a daughter and sister because there
we would fill everything with flowers, we would remove the barriers and the guards,
we would figure out how to plant trees so that people could be in the shade and
even lie on the grass for snacks and to talk. We would find a way for people to
participate and make their voices heard in the celebrations. We would organize right
there, where our martyrs gave their lives, some talks and discussion groups,
social gatherings and circles always open on issues of life and faith, social
and political, with coffee and rolls and water available and also daycare and catechesis
for the children. You would hear upbeat music and NOBODY, EVER AGAIN, would be
excluded. And you know what? If not there it will happen elsewhere; it is happening
and they are missing it all.
The Kindom has already approached us and it has come to stay.
Thank you sisters for your support, for your prayers and your
confidence, for having facilitated in so many ways these moments and this story;
we have all been in Rome, I attest to that. Thank you also to the sisters and
brothers in heaven whom we have called upon and who have responded.
Thank you, Janice, my teacher, may your light continue to shine, I have
not finished learning all you have to teach but give me time. It was a fully
shared sisterhood. A treasure.
Thank you Divine Mother, because at no time did your care and
encouragement fail us. Thank you because you love us and that alone is true.
Christina Moreira
Vázquez, ARCWP woman priest
A Coruña, Galicia, July
14, 2016
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