The Man on the Street the Dove Alighted Upon – Folha de S. Paulo, December 5, 1976
by Plinio Corrêa de Oliveira
Pollution in all its forms remains a pressing problem. More specifically, I am referring to the moral pollution inherent in the dizzying decline of customs, the mental pollution caused by the turmoil of modern life, and the ideological pandemonium that the revolutionary psychological warfare waged by Moscow has spread throughout the West.
How to escape this? Going on an excursion, for example, listening to beautiful speeches or reading a novel, satisfies many. Some are satisfied with less, that is, taking any pill that leads to the depths of unfathomable sleep. Among so many de-polluting resources, there is also the opportunity to explore vast regions of the past through historical narratives. At the pinnacle of these is the legend, with its charm, lightness, symbolism, and splendor.
To the disappointment of the majority and the possible delight of a few, this weekend I propose a journey into the past. Not the historical past, but the legendary past, so broad and beautiful that it seems, in some ways, to touch eternity itself. I have just read a story, chosen more or less at random, from Jacques de Voragine’s Légende Dorée. Would you, reader, like to travel with me to the ethereal regions of that story?
Fabian was a simple Roman, like any other. A “man on the street,” as we would say today. And as thirsty for news as his fellow men had always been.
Now, big news had just broken in Rome: the pope had died. Even bigger news was in the works: the new pontiff was to be chosen by the people. As was customary, our “man on the street” left his home and mingled with the crowd gathered for the august choice. Fabian thought he was late, but arrived just in time to hear the result.
And it came about quite differently from what Fabian could have imagined. A dove of splendid whiteness descended from the high heavens and alighted on his head. By this symbolic act, the Holy Spirit made clear that He had chosen Fabian. Piously enthusiastic, the crowd acclaimed him pope. And Fabian, who had gone out for a walk, found himself elevated to the unparalleled dignity of successor to the one of whom the Savior said: “You are Peter, and on this rock, I will build my Church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it” (Mt. 16:18). From that moment on, the “concern of all the churches” (2 Cor. 11:28) became his life’s sole concern and activity.
In some ways, those distant times resembled ours. The Church had powerful and implacable adversaries. The blood of martyrs flowed in torrents throughout the vast Roman Empire. Today, too, the Church has powerful enemies. And true Catholics (I mean the really true ones) are persecuted everywhere. It is true that today’s adversaries, behind the Iron Curtain, are not as brutal as those of yesteryear. They persecute with a hypocritical smile on their lips and a hand extended for malicious collaboration. Those behind the Iron Curtain are hypocrites when dealing with the West and brutal when persecuting in the East. Hypocrisy and brutality are accidents. In essence, the hatred is the same.
Fabian, full of veneration for the martyrs, began his pontificate by sending seven deacons and seven subdeacons throughout the Empire to collect records of martyrdoms. A far-sighted man, he wanted to bequeath to posterity narratives of unparalleled heroism written in human blood for the love of Christ’s Blood, so that they would adorn the Church until the end of time.
But Fabian had not received the Dove’s visit in vain. The supposedly quiet and ordinary “man on the street” became a hero, not merely a collector and compiler of others’ heroic deeds.
Emperor Philip led a life full of sin. Nevertheless, he decided to attend the Easter Vigils and participate in the Holy Mysteries. Fabian, of course, had never heard of Ostpolitik, Willy Brandt, Archbishop Casaroli, or Kissinger. Lucky him! Instead of accepting the sinner’s scandalous presence, shaking his outstretched hand, or kissing his feet (the heretical archbishop Meliton can say something about this strange rite), Fabian prevented Philip from crossing the sacred threshold until he confessed his sins and agreed to take his place among the penitent sinners inside the Church. Philip yielded. And Fabian, by the grace of the Dove, thus conquered the beast.
Happy is the Church when governed by men who, strengthened by the Dove, fear no beasts. Alas!
Of course, beasts dislike this treatment. Emperor Decius had Fabian beheaded in the 13th year of his pontificate. This was the sinister end of the “man on the street” whom the Dove had visited and turned into a conqueror of beasts.
Sinister? Let us consider the story’s outcome, so lofty that the golden legend only hints at it. At the moment Fabian’s venerable head was cut off, a glittering court of angels descended from the lofty heights where the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit reign to receive the new martyr’s most holy soul. Carried by the heavenly princes, Fabian ascended and ascended, yet the Holy Trinity remained hopelessly inaccessible, no matter how high he rose. After a glorious journey through the endless hierarchies of angels who acclaimed him and carried him away in affectionate songs, the angels laid Fabian, ecstatic with happiness and glory, at the feet of Our Lady. And just as the most distant stars seem to draw closer to us through a telescope, so too, close to the Heart of Mary, Fabian felt entirely satiated by the presence of God. How sweet and glorious it is to contemplate God face to face at the foot of Mary’s throne!
At these heavenly heights, the journey of the “man on the street,” who had been quietly searching for news of the newly elected pope, came to an end. And until the end of the world, there will be people who say: “Saint Fabian, pray for us.” I, for example, and you, too.
“Pray for us.” Pray, Saint Fabian, for the Holy Roman Catholic and Apostolic Church, so that from its lofty summit to the humblest of its ranks, no one will make pacts with the Philippians or seek Machiavellian compromises with the Deciuses. Oh, pray for the Church, Saint Fabian!
