Oh My Papa

Such a deal: The Body and Blood of Christ packed for take-out.

The Pope, the Pope, the Pope. Enough with the Pope already! To be honest, I just don't get it. The man was born the usual way and then elected, he did not arrive here via space ship as the Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Jesus Christ,  Successor of the Prince of the Apostles, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, Primate of Italy, Archbishop and Metropolitan of the Roman Province, Sovereign of the Vatican City State,  servant of the Servants of God, which is his official title. (Pope is a nickname of sorts, meaning "papa.") And yet the minute they find the right guy, he puts on that pointy hat and that fancy dress and next thing you know people are lining up to catch a glimpse of him, even if it means standing out in all sorts of weather for hours and hours just to SEE him, forget having him touch them or bless them or look at them or acknowledge their presence in any way.

Last night, pulling my roasted chicken out of the oven as the wild scene in Madison Square Garden (complete with a huge gold statue of Christ on the cross hanging from the ceiling and hundreds of people chanting prayers and hundreds of the faithful lining up for their communion wafers) playing out on the TV in the next room, I voiced my confusion. My husband explained that, "It's like people going to see Elvis." I pointed out that there was only ONE Elvis and will never be another. (Many people have tried, but all have failed.) But when this particular pope dies there will be another one hired, and then throngs of the faithful will line up to see that guy, each one getting one of those wafers that "really are the body of Christ, they are not just symbols," I heard over and over again, available in regular, whole wheat, and now, gluten free.

And they say Mormons are weird.