The enthusiasm of a vibrant nation

One of the greatest concerns for the organisers of the Meeting for Friendship amongst Peoples (read: Rimini Meeting) has always been its reduction in the media to a mere political event at the end of August. Out of 150 events, performances and more than ten exhibitions, what made it into the newspapers were the panel discussions featuring this or that minister, the press briefing with the visiting undersecretary, or a statement from some party leader in crisis seeking visibility and votes. The remainder was relegated to a small box at the bottom of the page, perhaps a brief item hidden among updates on the unbearable heatwaves and heavy motorway traffic, or the umpteenth report on negotiations regarding the new electoral law (almost every year, and always in the run-up to general elections, there is talk of a new electoral law). This year, however, something different happened—perhaps something momentous. The Pope, who arrived at the exhibition centre on the second day of the Meeting, turned the tables. Leo XIV set off a long-lasting wave that continued right until the end of the event, having a positive impact on it. As always, ministers, undersecretaries and party secretaries passed through Rimini, followed by cameras and microphones, but this time they were merely the backdrop, merely an afterthought to an event that had opened with a meeting between the sister of Father Jacques Hamel and the mother of one of the radicalised attackers who, ten years ago, killed the 85-year-old priest at the end of a Mass in Saint-Étienne-du-Rouvray. This is what made the headlines in the papers and on TV, rather than the usual feature articles that start by explaining what the Meeting is and end up talking about politics, only to then add that there is, in fact, more to Rimini than that.

What has consistently slipped under the media’s radar—whether due to general laziness or culpable indifference—is the crowd flocking to the exhibition halls, apart from the usual, repetitive drivel about ‘right-wing Catholics’ (which, incidentally, would warrant lengthy discussion), who ‘have lots of children’, are a bit fanatical and certainly a bit odd. A week ago, sixty thousand people turned out for the Pope, choosing to leave the beaches of the Riviera to gather at a fair just a stone’s throw from the motorway. In total, attendance this year stood at nine hundred thousand. Even more extraordinary was the contribution of the volunteers: 3,300 people, including a great many young people, who freely chose to give up or cut short their holidays to arm themselves with bin bags and brooms to tidy up the Meeting venues or to provide continuous explanations of the various exhibitions on offer. First-year Philosophy students who, from early in the morning, devoted themselves to explaining Kierkegaard in half an hour – first in Italian and then to a group speaking only English. And so it went on until evening. Such evidence never features in analyses of disoriented young people, yet it is there; one need only look at it. What unites everyone is the person of Jesus Christ.

It seems strange to say this today, at a time when all we hear about are empty churches, the collapse of values, secularisation and the fading of religious sentiment. And yet, just as forty-four years ago, when John Paul II arrived in Rimini, the focus is the same this time round. “Thank you for being here; thank you for this welcome and for this enthusiasm, which is a sign of the Spirit!”, Leo XIV – who appeared to be in high spirits – almost shouted at the Villaggio Ragazzi, just before delivering his eagerly awaited speech. “You have no idea how wonderful it is to see you all here together. And you are only a small part of it, because there are many more on the other side. Well done! Thank you, thank you! The loudest applause must be for Jesus Christ: we are all disciples of Jesus!” In just a few words, Robert Prevost summed up the nature of this event: “There are so many opportunities here to reflect on our lives, on society, on faith. Carry on with this wonderful journey. Always live with this enthusiasm and you will see that we can truly build a world of peace and love.” There you have it: enthusiasm.

The crowd gathered there—people of all ages and social backgrounds, numerous families, priests and nuns, and individuals who were perhaps simply interested in hearing the story of Franz and Franziska Jägerstätter after watching “A Hidden Life,” the film by Terrence Malick (Joe Gleason, the film’s editor, was present in Rimini)—were enthusiastic. They were enthusiastic about catching up with old friends, about viewing an exhibition (there was indeed the one on St Augustine, but there was also ‘Wonder Bound’, complete with a planetarium and stunning photographs of distant galaxies, as well as the one on Léon Harmel, the inspiration behind *Rerum novarum* by another Leo, the thirteenth), and in tucking into a kebab whilst streaming a talk being held in one of the halls.

The Meeting is neither a political rally nor a spiritual retreat: it is a gathering. “Each of you, over the past few days, has been able to experience this. You have had encounters not only with the hundreds and thousands of other people who have filled the auditoriums, but also with various personalities, who have brought here the contribution of their reflection and creativity,” said John Paul II on 29 August 1982. “But this gathering has been made possible – and indeed almost necessary – by another gathering. The Meeting, in fact, arose from the friendship of a group of Christians in this city. As I have learnt, it sprang from the passion for communication, creativity and dialogue that the Christian faith, when lived in its entirety, always brings with it. Yes, faith lived as an echo of and in continuity with those first encounters documented in the Gospel—faith lived as both a certainty and a quest for the presence of Christ within every situation and occasion of life—enables us to create new ways of life for humanity; it makes us eager to communicate and to learn, to encounter others and to value them.” Just under half a century later, we are still there: what Karol Wojtyla said – who felt so at home that he began to sing in Polish (Leo XIV merely greeted the choir) – was echoed in other ways by the Augustinian from Chicago elected Pope a year and a few months ago. It is the only place in the world where, within a few metres of one another, you can find a sports arena, an Apulian restaurant and Antonello da Messina’s Ecce Homo, which is carefully guarded here and housed in a climate-controlled room.

There has been no shortage of controversy surrounding the Ministry’s decision to send the Renaissance artist’s work to Rimini. The usual, all-too-familiar and predictable raised eyebrows from the self-appointed guardians of the Word and culture – those who, like old-fashioned mourners, lament the fact that we are a nation of ignoramuses who prefer a pint and a football match to contemplating Cattelan’s bananas, and then take offence because a work of art is made accessible to everyone. Those self-important pundits, who read nothing but Hegel and Proust, should have seen with their own eyes the care – and in many cases, the emotion – with which people queued up to look at that small painting, perhaps more captivated by the absent face of Saint Jerome – absent because it had been ruined by the countless kisses bestowed upon it by the work’s owner – than by that of Christ. Yet these are the same commentators who denounce the Meeting without ever having set foot in it, who speak of ‘clericalism’ (oh dear) on social media and remain unaware of the young people who, from morning to night, patrol the exhibition centre, cleaning and emptying the bins.

For years, analyses of varying degrees of erudition have been questioning the existence of a Christian people. Does it still exist after wars and revolutions and the end of so-called Christendom? After the advance of secularisation, the elevation of laïcité to a dogma, the collapse of the evidence? Don Luigi Giussani said several decades ago that ‘tradition and theory, tradition and discourse, can no longer move the people of today. I spoke of the young person, but that trace of youthfulness I mentioned earlier remains in a person throughout their life; therefore, this is true for us too, and it is true even for the adult and mature person; indeed, for the adult and mature man this problem does not arise, precisely because to become an adult in the faith one must have overcome it; one must have overcome the fascinating allure of the historical narrative and the marvellous appeal of an aesthetic derived from theoretical perfection. Neither history, nor doctrine, nor tradition, nor discourse can any longer move the man of today. ‘Christian tradition and philosophy, Christian tradition and discourse, have created and continue to create Christendom, not Christianity’.”

Christianity, Giussani added, is “that flow, that current, that channel identifiable within the realm of history and characterised, precisely, by certain forms of thought, by certain ways of conceiving things, by certain moral rules, by certain values that are emphasised, by certain practical attitudes, by certain forms. Tradition and discourse, tradition and Christian culture, tradition and theology – or, if you will, tradition and Christian doctrine – create forms’. And with forms alone, clearly, one gets very little further. The people must be inspired by something else. The Pope, for example, is an opportunity. This was seen in Rimini, but – to give a much more recent example – it was also seen in Madrid. There has been much talk of a ‘lost Spain’, of faith now reduced to increasingly rare pools of water in a scorching desert, of young people – a category that encompasses just about everything, regardless of chronological age – who think of everything except religion. Then it happens that, in a sweltering June, the Pontiff arrives and, in Madrid’s squares, one and a half million people turn up. The same occurred in Barcelona and in every other place where Pope Francis has set foot. And each time this happens—and it will likely happen again in a month’s time in France—there is surprise, amazement, almost bewilderment: so Christians, and Catholics in particular, do still exist! They exist, despite everything.

Perhaps this is the true meaning of the Rimini Meeting. The programmes and schedules, the panels and the guests are not what matter (though, of course, they do count – heaven forbid anyone would go there just to listen to a flute player). What matters is that once a year, for six days, in the heart of the summer holidays, hundreds of thousands of people gather there, drawn solely by that gathering of which the Popes have spoken. They embody a faith that may not adhere to every precept of the catechism, that may overlook the daily readings, that perhaps votes for candidates disliked by those in favour, but which is a living faith. Living in the sense that it is dynamic, it moves, it reaches out to others, whoever they may be. Jesus spoke of crossroads; two thousand years on, we can speak of Him even whilst tucking into a piadina outside a hall where the revival of faith in France is being discussed. ‘There are so many of us that we need a new baptistery,’ said the parish priest of Saint-Joseph in Grenoble. His parish consists entirely of young people. God willing, he will baptise forty of them at the next Easter Vigil. In short, it seems there really is a community here after all.