Editor’s note: Join James Martin, S.J., America’s Vatican correspondent Gerard O’Connell, and “Inside the Vatican” host Colleen Dulle for a special, subscriber-only Zoom event on the synod, Tuesday, Nov. 19, 5:30 p.m. EST. Learn more here.
The final document of the Synod on Synodality is one of the most important documents to come out of the church during the pontificate of Pope Francis. But it’s not exactly a laugh riot. During a recent press conference in Rome, Thomas J. Reese, S.J., the former editor in chief of America and now a columnist for Religion News Service, posed this question to synod leaders: If theologians are in charge of writing the document, how will you keep it from being boring?
It is a beautiful document that has the potential to change the way the church governs itself. And it accurately reflects the discernment of us delegates over the past two years. But it doesn’t, and frankly couldn’t, reflect the more amusing goings-on in the Paul VI Aula in October 2023 and 2024. When you bring together cardinals, patriarchs, bishops (arch and otherwise), priests, religious men and women, and lay men and women, who are not only committed Catholics but also well educated and astute observers of the church, there are bound to be a few lighthearted moments.
So let me fill you in, without breaking any confidences.
When in Rome. On the first day of the first session last year, we spent most of our time dealing with technical issues: how to work the computer screens at our tables, how to turn on the headphones that allowed simultaneous translations and how to “sign in” with our official name tags by holding up a QR code to the screen, which puzzled a few delegates. (I told Father Reese, who had covered many synods, how surprised I was that the first day was taken up entirely with technical problems. “I’m not!” he said.)
At the end of our long day, we were invited to sign up for “plenary interventions,” during which any delegate could address the whole assembly. I was amazed that the roster on our screens filled up immediately, even though we had discussed nothing more than technical matters. Subsequently, roughly 20 bishops spoke (for three minutes each) saying more or less the same thing: how much they appreciated synodality and how very well the meetings went in their dioceses. Afterward, a U.S. cardinal asked how I found the interventions. I confessed my amazement that even though we had discussed nothing of substance, so many bishops felt the need to weigh in, and then said the same thing. “Father Jim,” he said, “You have to understand the theory in Rome: It may already have been said, but not by me.”
Speaking in tongues. The translators were a marvel. The woman speaking in my ear for four weeks spoke English, Spanish, Italian, French and Spanish, apparently effortlessly. But there were occasional snafus when the translators’ microphones were inadvertently left on. This meant selective laughter among the delegates who were, for example, listening on the English-language channel. On various days we heard the following: “That one talked way too fast!” “I don’t have a clue what he was talking about.” And “I thought she would never finish!” And my favorite, “Does even he know what he was talking about?” The non-English speakers, sans headphones, wondered why we were laughing.
Age before beauty. One day, at one of my roundtables, we were electing the “rapporteur,” that is, reporter, who along with the secretary would summarize the table proceedings. After a few ballots, it came down to a tie between myself and a lay woman. Our table facilitator reminded us that the rules stated that, in the event of a deadlock, the oldest person would win. I said, “Well, I’m 63.” She looked aghast. “Oh, I can’t believe I have to say this publicly: I’m 65!” We all assured her she looked younger.
Following the Gospels. At one point during a table discussion, someone lamented what he perceived as the less-than-efficient workings of the Vatican. He recounted an example of how two dicasteries that were supposed to be working together on the same project, seemed not even to keep track of what the other one was doing. “Oh,” said one cardinal calmly. “The Roman Curia is following exactly what Our Lord commanded.” Everyone at the table turned to stare at him. “Don’t let your left hand know what your right hand is doing!”
Food for the journey. A few snarky columnists have lamented the supposedly exorbitant cost of the synod. Of course, the criticism was bound to come. Many of the delegates figured that Francis’ critics would say either “This is terrible! Everything has changed!” or “This is terrible! Nothing has changed.” But the charge of luxury was a surprise since most of us came on our own dime; those already residing in Rome stayed in their own homes, those in religious orders (like me) stayed at our generalates and others stayed in nearby monasteries and convents. So other than providing for room and board, and paying for the modest staff and the translators, things seemed frugal.
There was, however, an exception: the coffee breaks were excellent. This was probably in view of the fact that we started early and many delegates, who were residing across town, didn’t have time for breakfast. Our snacks included little pizzas, tiny sandwiches, croissants, cookies and pastries of all sorts. “If you want to encourage people to participate in synodality in parishes and dioceses, first you need the Holy Spirit,” one bishop said to me. “Then you need cookies.”
Great expectations. Last year, one Latin American cleric was “banging on,” as the Brits like to say, about his expectations for the church. “And with this synod,” he shouted into his microphone, “we will transform the world!” The cardinal next to me, took off his headphones and said dryly: “Good idea. Let’s transform the world. Should we do that today or wait until tomorrow?”
Lost in translation. My French is limited, my Spanish poor, my Italian almost nonexistent and my German truly nonexistent. But I gave it the old college try. One day the superior general of the Jesuits, Arturo Sosa, S.J., told me that a Spanish cardinal was looking for me. Would I try to find him? Of course. (It’s always good to agree to what your superior general asks).
So the next morning I located this friendly cardinal, and he started speaking to me quite rapidly in Spanish. I asked him to speak más despacio, and he nodded but continued to speak rapidly. I told him I had no idea what he was saying. He laughed and clapped me on the back. That night, I told Father Sosa that I had found His Eminence but had no clue what he said. Father General laughed, too.
The next day, walking into the aula, I happened to find myself standing next to Father General and this cardinal and sheepishly asked if Father Sosa, a Venezuelan, could translate, which he said he would be happy to do. It turned out that the cardinal wanted to thank me for an article I had written for his diocesan magazine on L.G.B.T.Q. ministry. He said he had received opposition to the article but was happy to publish it. The next day he found me in the hall and graciously presented the magazine to me, teasing me about my lack of Spanish.
That night I went home, logged onto Google Translate and wrote what I wanted to say: “Your Eminence: Thank you so much for your gracious words and for taking the time to send away for the magazine….” I translated it into Spanish and carefully wrote it down on a blank piece of paper. The next morning I found him and handed him my note. He opened it up, scanned it, smiled and said in Spanish, “Ah, I see you know Señor Google!”
Name, please? A lay delegate was assigned lodgings at a convent nearby. I asked which order of sisters ran it. “The Sisters of…” he paused. “Of…” I laughed. “Don’t tell me you don’t know their name!” He laughed and said: “It will come to me. It’s a long name!”
Nice ones only. Last year one patriarch refused to sit next to me because of my L.G.B.T.Q. ministry and angrily stormed out of the aula. This year one synod leader said: “We made sure there were no patriarchs sitting next to you this year. Only nice ones.”
Call no man your father. Titles abounded in the synod. A cardinal was Eminenza, a bishop Eccellenza, and there was Reverendo and Reverenda for priests and sisters, and Dottore and Dottoressa for academics. And of course, the Santo Padre was also with us. One lay delegate vigorously objected to such titles for clerics, saying it was the opposite of synodality: “Calling someone ‘Eminence’ is ridiculous and puts me on a lower plane.” She was met with sustained applause. Then the “delegate presider” at the head table paused, said, “Grazie,” and introduced the next speaker, “Allora, Su Eminenza…”
A few days earlier, as our tables began our discussions, we were asked what names we would like to be called. Most said something like “Call me Jim.” Or “Call me Susan.” Or, in Cardinal Luis Antonio Tagle’s case, “Call me Chito” (which I told him I could never do). But one title I had heard—for a cardinal patriarch—I found almost absurdly grand. So when it was my turn I said, “I’m Father Jim Martin, but you can call me Beatitude Eminence.” Everyone laughed and someone said, “In that case, call me Beatitude Holiness!”
Focus, please. Some speakers had to be reminded to stay on topic. Often the temptation was to speak about one’s own ministry or one’s own country (those from wartorn countries, needless to say, wanted to describe the situations at home) but also offer vague generalities about synodality. This year one person from the head table warned against saying “just a bunch of words.” Last year someone said, “If the topic is lay ministry, don’t talk about deep sea diving in Australia.”
Flying bishops. At one point a bishop declared in a plenary intervention, with some force, “A bishop should be close to his people!” To which one cardinal leaned over and said to me, “I would be if I weren’t here.”
The last shall be first. One of the biggest laughs in a plenary session came when a bishop from a Spanish-speaking country told a story meant to serve as an example of how relationships can deepen over time. When this bishop was a boy and involved in youth ministry in his parish, he had a disagreement with the pastor, a somewhat formidable man. The two were arguing about a youth event for a few minutes, until the exasperated parish priest exploded and said: “Look, muchacho, in this parish, what I say goes! And I am the captain here!” The speaker paused, reflecting for a moment on the time that had passed, then said, “And now I am his bishop!” He said they hug every time they see one another.
Eminent birthdays. The day after Pope Francis had named 21 new cardinals, Cardinal Mario Grech, the secretary general of the synod, congratulated those who were named and were with us in the aula. Almost half the cardinals-elect were present. “Auguri a Su Eccellenza Monsignore Isao Kikuchi…. Su Eccellenza Monsignore Pablo Virgilio Siongco David…” Applause greeted this news. Then Cardinal Grech said, “Several people are celebrating birthdays today…” He listed a few people. More applause. Finally, he listed a few priests and archbishops who were celebrating their ordinations. More applause. No cakes, balloons or trumpet blasts for the new cardinals. Just congratulations and applause, just like for everyone else. I thought: This is how it should be in the church. Some of us are cardinals, some of us are priests, some of us are celebrating birthdays. As St. Paul said, “There are a variety of gifts, but the same spirit” (1 Cor 12:4). And for me, during those two Octobers, the spirit was not only about unity but joy. And even some laughter.
Editor’s note: Want to hear more stories from in and around the synod hall? Join James Martin, S.J., America’s Vatican correspondent Gerard O’Connell, and “Inside the Vatican” host Colleen Dulle for a special, subscriber-only Zoom event on the synod, Tuesday, Nov. 19, 5:30 p.m. EST. Learn more here.
