World Youth Day 2002
A Pupil’s Pilgrimage, Toronto, Canada

This article by Craig Carey, was originally published in the Terenure College Annual 2002, and is reproduced with kind permission.

Looking back on my experiences of World Youth Day the one image that strikes me more than any other is that of a mass of faith. Never in my life have I been so overwhelmed and touched by human kindness and sincerity, than I was in Toronto, Canada. Amidst a thriving city that epitomises consumerism and capitalism at its best I witnessed, along with 800,000 other youths, deep spirituality and an atmosphere of sheer peace and beauty that was almost tangible. I just wish that everyone could have experienced it. On a very bleak, grey, rainy, Dublin morning in the middle of July, over 400 anxious Dublin youths departed for Toronto, Canada on a pilgrimage of epic proportions.

Whilst contemplating my faith and my reasons for going to World Youth Day, in the grotty terminal at Shannon Airport, I have to admit that I was having second thoughts. Was my faith strong enough to withstand two weeks of pilgrimage? Did I have enough confidence in my faith to enjoy the experience? Was this really a misguided event for people in dire need for escape? I looked around, trying to pick out the stereo typical “Bible bashers”. There were none. Much to my dismay all I could see were 16-30 year olds, playing their guitars, reading their glossy magazines or enjoying an apt novel due for completion by the end of the fortnight. I realised that I was one of them and I suddenly felt guilty. My scepticism and judgemental attitude had suddenly seemed so inappropriate that I had decided that there was no hope for me that I should just turn around and go home. But I didn’t, and it turned out to be the best decision ever.

Following our first few days staying with families in a diocese outside Toronto, our time had come to get out our hiking boots and walk, and walk, and walk! Luckily enough I had bought a pair of sandals in anticipation of the intense heat. Any intentions of being fashionable were dashed as I descended among the Irish Pilgrims on that Tuesday morning, but I wasn’t alone. There we all stood with bright blue and yellow bandana’s over our heads, unavoidable red and beige bags, name tags plastered around our necks all polished off with a sizeable wooden cross, just in case anyone forgot why we were really there.

Some were furious at the uniforms at first, especially the girls, where were they to put their make-up and essential accessories? It all seemed to be getting a bit much; after all they had just gotten over the shock of not being able to text anyone! But after a day of strenuous physical exertion and unavoidable heat, the moans soon turned silent. There we all were at the end of day one, like the walking dead to quote Fr. Jim, one of the organisers. But thanks to my pessimistic nature I knew that this was only the beginning and things were about to get an awful lot more testing. My intuition was also helped along by the sly and almost sinister grins of the experienced pilgrims. They knew something I didn’t.

The following days were taken up mostly with Catecheses each morning for three mornings, the commencing one with our very own Cardinal Connell. Each afternoon following mass, we would all hop onto the Metro, free of charge of course thanks to our extremely valuable passes! Then we would all hike down to Exhibition Place where the majority of events were, stopping on the way to talk to pilgrims from all around the world. On that Thursday Pope John Paul I1 was due to arrive. Our spirits had been raised by reports of a healthy and determined Pope who had managed to walk down the stairs of his airplane.

We were expecting the largest crowds so far at the welcoming ceremony and we were all a bit nervous. The situation, however, was not improved by a member of our group who was prone to impromptu fainting. On arrival we noticed that some barriers had made a temporary path and I made the clever assumption that the Pope would be travelling up there in his “Pope mobile”. Disheartening for me, it turned out I wasn’t the only member of the group who noticed this and as I turned around to inform the group of my observation, I noticed that they were already sitting down rooting through their bags desperate for water. I quickly joined them and marvelled at our incredible vantage point. An air of satisfaction descended amongst our group, we had done ourselves proud and we were now only a few inches away from where the Pope would eventually be.

Suddenly the helicopters came flying overhead and an indescribable deafening cheer soared up into the air. The Pope had landed, the person who we had all come to see. The man who would change my life. The security guards were in a flurry. He wasn’t due for another 45 minutes. I grinned: it seemed so typical of his playful and youthful nature. There was a sudden stampede towards where we were standing as people suddenly realised that the Pope would be there in a few short minutes. The excitement I felt was parallel to that which I feel every year on Christmas Eve, but it was soon to be surpassed. The man who was standing in front of me was leaning against the barrier when he nudged me and told me to take his place. I initially refused saying that I could already see, but then he took my arm and said in broken English “Please, take my place, I’ve already seen him before.” It was at that moment that the emotion of the whole event and the reason for tour being there seemed so obvious. It was his simple act of kindness and generosity that symbolised so effectively the whole purpose of the pilgrimage.

By this point the sense of harmony and anticipation was so infectious that I found it hard to focus on the cavalcade that was approaching me. Then it happened, less than a metre away John Paul looked me in the eyes and waved. I was expecting a feeling of awe and amazement to envelop my senses, but nothing happened. It was as if I had known him all my life. Initially I was slightly disappointed, it seemed anti-climactic in a way, but reflecting upon that moment and the days that followed, showed me that it wasn’t the power that emanates from him alone that is so striking, it is the power and intensity that he creates among the people. During his homily he humbly informed us why we were there. We were there for the youth of the world, we were there to be “salt of the earth and light of the world” and we were there for Jesus.

The following two days were slightly less vigorous and we had time to bond as a group and enjoy different events that were taking place all around the city. It was the calm before the storm. Quite literally. On Saturday afternoon, 800,000 pilgrims walked the 6 km walk to Downsview Lands in the intense heat. This was where our night vigil with the Pope, followed the next morning by a Papal mass, would ensue. As long as I live I will never forget the heat, the crowds, the dehydration and the blisters that we all suffered! As we walked down the cordoned-off “Highway” civilians hosed us down from the overhead flyovers. Some threw down ice pops and energy bars, while others just waved and occasionally shouted, “Hey my Granny‘s from Ireland, she came over on one of those potato boats!”

Eventually following many breaks and motivational talks to continue on our quest of pilgrimage, we reached the abandoned airfield. The Dublin group were determined to get near the altar and of course, close to the practicalities needed for such an event, toilets, food etc. Unfortunately, this was not possible because the toilets were a mile away from the altar so we decided to opt for the altar view. We entered our colour-coded section and tried to mingle with a large number of Italians, in vain. They were none too happy with our sudden Irish presence and continually shouted us off “their plastic”. We were appalled with their abundant lack of Christian spirit and so we entered into peace talks with them. Our negotiations would have made Washington politicians envious! After an awkward hour or so we were finally at ease to stay provided that we stay off the plastic. (The plastic was their attempt to protect themselves from the grassy ground, which I hasten to add, was totally arid following the two-month drought). Anyway, there we stayed, but not without fear of an Italian attack.

We had been warned that there was a 70% chance of rain that evening; it would have been welcome however had we had sufficient confidence in our sleeping bags to protect us! As the evening drew on, in flew the Pope to another rapturous welcome. When on the altar he spoke to us like you would a gathering of friends. He asked us all to light the candle provided to us in our packs. We each did so. I can remember standing up to stretch my legs and as I did, the multitude of people and the sea of light that was illuminating the dusk coloured sky took my breath away. At the end of the ceremony he paused, looked out over the throng of young people, waited for his applause to die down, he then grinned and said, “Sleep well, Bon Nuit.” For me that did it, that was it. the one thing that hit me straight to the core. I felt so safe, I felt like I was a baby again and my own father was tucking me into bed. The moment was so poignant that the blotchy sunburned and fatigued Irish decided to have a mini céilí when the ceremony ended, despite venomous looks from the Italian congregation.

That night as 800,000 pilgrims slept, I laid out on my sleeping bag, listening to the noises around me. A woman behind me was muttering the Rosary, an Italian man was snoring, the beat of a Spanish dance in the distance. The whole moment was so surreal and profound that it was almost unreal. But it was so simplistic. It was human nature at its most basic, people sleeping, eating, talking, singing and praying. My head was spinning, I pondered on all the philosophical debates that were swarming inside my head. The kind of thoughts you get at such an occasion. But by the end of it I was so exhausted and overwhelmed that I fell asleep, listening to the sound of people, the way we were intended and the way we should be.

That morning at 6 am I woke up, turned to my friend Michelle and told her that I thought there had been drops of rain during the night. I zipped up my sleeping bad and propped my now well and truly flattened rucksack behind my head. With that the heavens opened. A thunderstorm of Biblical proportions ensued. Rain drops as big as sprouts plummeted to the earth, which was unfortunately concealed by a mass of pilgrims. Havoc followed. The Italian men were running about their plastic gathering up their things and screaming with peril as the wax was dripping out of their hair; devastating is not the word to describe it. We however were well used to it, being Irish, but still the shock of being woken up to that was still a bit alarming. In the space of 10 minutes the Italians had rolled up airbeds, folded designer pyjamas and sealed Gucci sunglasses in their leather cases. They had disappeared, gone without a trace. It seemed a shame really; they were going to miss the culmination of the whole pilgrimage. The rain lasted for 3 hours non-stop. I surveyed the wreckage. The plastic was destroyed. ripped, trodden with mud and invested with frogs and sporadic pools of water. I couldn’t help but smile. The irony of it all!

The Papal mass had begun, when a gust of wind blew so hard that large screens were shaking on scaffolds and large globes of fluorescent lights were blown off their moorings. The Pope started the mass and jeered us. According to him we had a ‘natural baptism’. By the time the mass had reached the first reading I was astonished at the dramatic change in the weather. It had reached 32 degrees in one hour - it was only 10 am! I don’t care what anyone says - it was totally miraculous despite all the logic of meteorology. During his homily which was interrupted continuously with chants like “JP 2, we love you”, I witnessed one of the most humbling moments of my life.

There I was looking at this 82-year-old man, paralysed with arthritis and Parkinson’s disease, standing up with a gold chalice in his hand saying the same words we hear every Sunday, “This is the cup of My Blood, the Blood of the new and everlasting.. . ”. During his homily, his bravery, integrity and determination was so evident as he addressed the topic of abuse in the Church. His voice still resounds in my ears as he said “Think of the vast majority of dedicated and generous priests whose only wish is to do good! Be close to them and support them!” His voice was SO powerful, his presence so calming and his words so inspiring that it was hard to take it all in. In his last few words to us he asked us to be saints of the new millennium, to be salt of the earth and light of the world. These are the words, which I will always remember, words that touched me and the other 800,000 young pilgrims, so profoundly:

“You are young, and the Pope is old and a bit tired. But he still fully identifies with your hopes and aspirations. Although I have lived through much darkness, under harsh totalitarian regimes. I have seen enough evidence to be unshakably convinced that no difficulty, no fear is so great that it can completely suffocate the hope that springs eternal in the hearts of the young. Do not let that hope die! Stake your lives on it! We are not the sum of our weaknesses and failures; we are the sum of the Father’s love for us and our real capacity to become the image of His Son.”

It is hard to write down in words what I felt as he spoke to us. his words were so powerful. He has that amazing gift of saying so much in so few words. To hear this man speak with such conviction and passion is not only awesome. it is invigorating. To be honest, I went to Toronto, with spirituality more so than a strong faith. but hearing the Pope’s words, witnessing acts of genuine human love and care has convinced me of my faith and of my duty as a person.

As the Pope announced the venue for the next World Youth Day in Cologne, Germany 2005, he said that Jesus will meet us there. It was the first and last time that I would ever breathe the same air as this truly great man. To an exhilarated and enthused congregation, his final words were: “Young People of the world, the Pope is with you.”

The group of eight who travelled to Toronto from Knocklyon were: Annemarie Bailey, Fr. Philip Brennan, John Cahalin, Craig Carey, Ed Kellet, Hazel Gormley Leahy, Michelle Quinn and Jonathan Sadlier.