Dominic Gallagher | Contributing Writer
The metro pulled into my stop in the centre of Madrid at 11pm. I didn’t get off. Five more stations came and went and I stayed on, heading to the outskirts. I hadn’t eaten since 7am and had been travelling alone from Copenhagen since 8am. But that metro was alive. It was Monday the 13th of August, six days away from World Youth Day and young Catholics from all over the world were flooding into Spain for the preparations. A group from Papa New Guinea were leading the packed train in song and everyone was dancing in the aisles. I looked around and understood why I had come and laughed as the train sped on into the night.
World Youth Day was established 26 years ago by the great Pope John Paul II as a way of reigniting the Catholic faith in the youth. Since then it has taken place every three years in a different continent. The idea is to shed negative views of Catholicism as consisting solely of limiting doctrine and instead create a sense of a joyous faith. This translates into making WYD the largest gathering of people on the planet with 1.5 million attending the final mass. This year World Youth Day takes place in Rio de Janeiro in August. With this in mind I’d like to reflect on the previous World Youth Day in Madrid in the hope of inspiring young people to go.
I found there to be a very special atmosphere in Madrid that week. It was a celebration of faith which reminded me of the Olympic spirit and that wonderful celebration of sport which also brings people together. Yet WYD differed in that we were all athletes, every youth was taking part in that great event. It was incredibly patriotic with each country proudly waving their flags on the highest poles they could find and chanting their native songs with as much spirit as they could muster. Yet at the same time there was an openness, a welcoming attitude to others that was amazing to be a part of. Each country delighted in seeing the other there.
I spent the week with a group of 30 youth lead by five priests and two brothers of the Irish Carmelites. I knew from that first Monday night encountering them all in the Irish Pub beneath our apartment that we shared similar ideals. There was a relaxed atmosphere throughout with ceremonies being optional and our own services gave an insight into the special Carmelite sense of prayer. I recall some thought-provoking discussions within the group and also with the leaders who had the wonderful ability to talk about religion as a friend rather than a superior.
We had struck gold with our apartment. It had three balconies overlooking the Plaza Mayor, Madrid’s major square. What it had in location it lacked in comfort but sleeping on the floor was well worth the view, with scores of pilgrims singing and dancing below. Its balcony also offered the opportunity, which was duly seized, of serenading lonely pilgrims in the small hours of the morning with some nostalgic Irish songs such as “Raglan Road” or “Green Fields of France”. We were the lucky ones, most pilgrims slept in school sports halls and on football pitches but as I kept telling them from my elevated position, “a pilgrimage is supposed to be tough” promptly followed by “offer it up”.
The programme for the week consisted of talks in the morning and afternoon in the English language centres followed by services for everyone in the centre of Madrid in the evening and general roaming of the streets at night. The main English centre was a 15,000 seat indoor stadium and the mostly American speakers took to it like the Pope to a quality rosary! They strode about the stage psyching up the crowd with torrents of enthusiasm. It was Sunday sermon meets “Any Given Sunday” speech. The talks were on a number of different issues from the spiritual exercises of the Jesuits to Pope John Paul II’s Theology of the Body and the role of chastity to the importance of the Theological virtues of Faith, Hope and Charity.
On Tuesday the opening mass was held. Following its end around 4,000 anti-pope protesters marched into the city centre. Word spread like wildfire of riots although I heard no firsthand accounts. Still Riot Police swarmed everywhere closing down roads and creating panic. There was certainly a heated atmosphere where I was as some French youth and protesters roared at each other. However before the situation got out of hand a huge American from Brooklyn raised his rosary beads high into the air and began to pray aloud and it wasn’t long before the situation had calmed.
It was Thursday when the Pope finally arrived. Every street leading from the roundabout of Cibeles where the service was held was overflowing with young people and flags. Huge screens relayed what was happening to those out of sight. It was then that the heat wave hit with temperatures rising as high as 40 degrees Celsius. People began to drop as the strain of standing waiting for a few hours in the midday sun began to toll. But the fire engines came. They passed down the border of the street hosing down the crowd to cries of jubilation. Volunteers, with possibly the best job in the world, walked round with water guns firing at will to shouts of thanks and Madrid locals lobbed bucketfuls of water from their balconies. The pope passed within 100 metres of me as he went on a tour of the crowds in the Pope mobile. It was the closest I got all week.
On Friday the Pope led us in the stations of the cross. After it was over I travelled with two friends to the Bernabeu stadium for Eucharistic adoration followed by a concert. It was a moving experience. The 90,000 seat stadium of Real Madrid was the perfect modern background to the ceremony. As it lay veiled in darkness the vast stands created a sense of grandeur and majesty which echoed beautifully with the solemnity of the adoration. The concert after was an outburst of joy.
When we returned to the centre we found that enormous stations of the cross were being carried in procession through the streets in the Spanish Holy-week tradition. Each of the 14 statues came from a different region in Spain and had around 100 men carrying it and hundreds more men and women in long robes carrying candles or playing music. The greatest was the 12th station, Jesus dies on the cross. Behind it marched 400 of the elite Spanish brigade, La Legion, carrying assault rifles and looking as hard as nails. They bellowed their regimental hymn to the beat of drums and marched through the streets until 5am. Spanish patriots followed after them, wildly enthusiastic.
On Saturday we made our way to the Cuatro Vientros Airfield outside the city where 1.5 million youths camped out for an all-night prayer vigil. On the Sunday morning the final mass was held at 10am. It was an awe-inspiring sight to see people numbering the equivalent of Northern Ireland gathered for prayer.
At twilight black clouds began amassing overhead. With nightfall the storm broke. Huge forklightning strikes light up the sky for a split second as rain pelted down drowning out the loudspeakers and the wind swept through the crowd, sending the Pope’s hat flying. It was terrific. Half the pilgrims were praying for it to stop, the other half were going mental. It was probably the only time in my life I will be involved in a religious moshpit as crowds of youth roared out “Benedicto!” or “Allelulia!” and jumped into each other to keep warm.
As the storm passed and silence descended the Pope rose again and addressed the crowd. He told us that we had survived the storm and it was time to bear witness to the faith. God bless him.
