In 2005, I was moved to tears by a man I had only known from afar. We've never met, and yet, my entire life, the very core of my faith was guided and influence by him: Pope John Paul II. Here is an account of that event: -
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News of Pope John Paul II's passing away reached me through a text message from my sister, who was monitoring the events at the Vatican as they unfolded. Miles away, in Edinburgh, I imagined the air of prayerful anticipation in Manila as news of the Pope's steady deterioration hit Philippine television. In Scotland, a bright Saturday morning was certainly on its way and in between painting the kitchen and reading my sister's SMS, I wondered how many people here were actually aware of these developments -- and even if they were, would they feel the sadness posed by the Pope's passing away?
Unprepared as i was to digest the news, I felt the urge to switch the telly on to the BBC coverage. Sure enough, there was a panel already asking 'experts' their thoughts on the Pope. I transferred to CNN.. and it didn't get any better. More comments on the Pope's condition, people putting an effort to analyse what was happening.
But what was there to analyse?
A great man, the Vicar of a Church 1.1bn strong, was about to meet his Lord? What leaps of mental calisthenics need be done to comment on this?
A station had the gumption to call its coverage 'the Pope's Death Watch'. I found this crude and distasteful. The entire media circus was distasteful. Could they not let the man pass on in dignity?
These media outfits truly reminded me of vultures waiting for the last shrivel of life of a dying animal disappeared so they could feast on the carcass.
I gave up on the media circus. Switched off the telly, returned the remote to its cradle.. and started crying.
