The Jubilee Year happens every 25 years in the Catholic Church. In ancient times it had radical ramifications with its call to free prisoners and forgive all debt. Today it serves as a reminder of the Corporal Works of Mercy — calling pilgrims to come to Rome and reminding Catholics to renew our stance towards the Body of Christ. Each Jubilee has a specific theme, decided by the Pope at the time.
The Jubilee Year of Hope – its official name of “Spes Non Confundit” is the Latin for this Scripture from Romans– is coming to an end. Its curve of the Nautilus will be giving way to what, we do not know. Our dear, departed Francis opened this year’s theme and our bridge-builder Leo took it on with grace. An outlandish, seemingly laughable theme to follow a year that claimed the hottest temperatures and the most conflicts on record. But what is faith if not our constant attempt to believe without seeing?
I knew in my bones that I had to bring my family to Rome this year, to journey towards faith and hope together. We planned our trip last Advent with the opening of the Jubilee year, and we voyage together over this Thanksgiving week. As we get our sea legs in the Eternal City, we have to find what to hold onto to lead us through this sea of crackling life.
We, the many millions of us, are pilgrims in Hope, traveling a new Appian Way this Jubilee Year. This thought grounds me as I stand tiny through the enormity of it all – waiting on the Via Santo Pio X watching streams of pilgrim groups process towards St. Peter’s Basilica. I’m in awe – each group’s leader walking first with a giant wooden cross with the joyful Jubilee symbol mounted at its center. Behind them trails their group, voices collectively lifted in song. I love this exercise, the 2,000 years of pilgrim history repeating these motions. Now in our digital age, everyone could save time, money, and hassle by livestreaming. But still, we choose to come. Thirty-five million of us have chosen to perform the ancient rite this year, understanding the alchemical process that can transform only if we physically cross these borders of land and soul together.
The week my pilgrim feet traverse Rome is the week dedicated to Choirs. As the old adage goes, “when you sing, you pray twice.” I can’t carry a tune, but nothing transports me, nothing opens up my longing, like song.
On my first Sunday evening in the city, I voyage across town to Santa Maria Maggiore for a Jubilee chorale concert. Santa Maria Maggiore, or St. Mary Major in English, is one of the 4 papal Basilicas in Rome (the collective four being St. Peter’s, St. Mary Major, St. Paul’s Outside the Walls, and St. John Laterans). This Marian shrine is called the “Bethlehem of the West” because it has enshrined a relic of the Holy Crib and also because it is the site of the first Christmas mass. Pope Francis, the Father of the Jubilee of Hope, often prayed here and it is where he chose to have his body laid to rest.
My voyage to the basilica is a pilgrimage in and of itself. I take the #70 bus 4 kilometers, which takes 40 minutes in this busy city. I am hyper-vigilant, counting each of the 19 stops until Piazza Santa Maria Maggiore. It has been a long time since I braved public transit alone at night in a non-English-speaking city without the comfort of a Google Map. It feels somehow right to be un-masked – cleansing in some deep-down way.
I disembark and the Basilica looms ahead in the dark sky. The Patriarchal Choir of the Holy Trinity Cathedral of Tbilisi, Georgia is singing tonight, and I see many signs of the East. Something about East and West meeting has always excited my ecumenical heart. Inside, the church is ornate and palatial, and so beautiful. This church is perfect for the event, with its gold iconography of the East perched atop columns so reminiscent of Western Civilization. It is also so wonderfully human, with scents of cigarette smoke mixing with perfume to sting my eyes.
In the 10 minutes I have before the concert starts, I look everywhere for Francis’ tomb. So many ropes cut off sections of the Basilica that I can’t find it. I tell Francis anyway, “I am here, and I feel you.” I “light” an electric offertory candle, specifically for my friend Tanya and her family, as we have bonded over our love for Francis.
The music starts. My first thought is that I am sad it is all male singers (I am not sure what I thought Patriarchal had meant!). But that disappointment stops the second the singing starts. It is haunting. I don’t know if they are singing in Georgian, Russian, or Latin, but it does not matter – the melody and its meaning predate Babel. It is joy dancing with grief, opening up the yearning for Oneness. It is Rapunzel’s braid let down from heaven. In that moment, I would climb the ladder forever to be united with the One We Desire.
The music ends. Heaven and Earth begin to separate again, but I feel changed. I imagine Francis delighted with the voices that encircle his tomb. I leave Santa Maria Maggiore. Out in the Roman night air, I walk 500 meters to the bus stop and feel a thrill that I have learned my way. My pilgrim feet are tired but my heart is light. I think of Luke’s Sinful Woman, weeping as she anointed Jesus with nard. I have walked her path tonight through the bridge of song, and I too feel her lightness and freedom from my body’s recognition of the Universal’s call. Oh, Sister, we are One. Oh, too, my fellow Pilgrims, we too are One.
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