Inside the refectory of the monastery.
The monks sat along rows of long wooden tables, eating their evening meal.
It was a simple dinner.
A bowl of oatmeal porridge and a thick slice of black bread.
Just like yesterday.
Just like last year.
Just as it had been for as long as anyone could remember.
The monks ate in complete silence.
The only sounds were the soft slurping of porridge and an occasional cough.
They were long accustomed to this quiet.
And long accustomed to this food.
Yet tonight, the atmosphere felt slightly different.
Every eye kept drifting, intentionally or not, toward the head table.
The Abbot’s table.
Giovanni sat there, sipping his porridge with unhurried ease.
There was an effortless grace to the way he ate.
He did not gulp or slurp like the rest of them.
He looked as if he were savoring the finest delicacy.
The monks watched him.
They recalled the “Firstfruits Thanksgiving” plan the Abbot had described.
A plan to transform tax collection into a competition of honor.
After returning to their cells last night, they had tossed and turned, mulling it over.
The more they thought about it, the more brilliant it seemed.
They also remembered how the Abbot had treated Brother Matteo.
With such grace and magnanimity.
He had personally packed a bag for him and seen him off on his journey.
Such nobility of mind made them feel thoroughly ashamed of themselves.
They felt they must have been blind before.
How could they ever have doubted a man so saintly?
Now Matteo was gone.
There was no longer a single voice of opposition in the monastery.
They were all waiting.
Waiting for the Abbot to officially announce that grand plan.
Giovanni drank his final spoonful of porridge.
He dabbed his lips with a napkin.
Then, he stood up.
“My brothers.” “Today, we bid farewell to Brother Matteo.
Out of devotion to the truth in his heart, he has embarked on a journey to Florence.
Let us pray for him, that the Lord may guard his steps.” He spoke of Matteo first.
It made him appear deeply magnanimous.
It also served to remind everyone that their fiercest opponent was no longer present.
“Brother Matteo’s departure serves as a reminder to us as well.” “We can no longer go on idling away our days as we once did.” “The Santa Lucia Monastery is the Lord’s beacon in this land.
But our lamp is running out of oil.” The monks lowered their heads in shame.
“We cannot go on waiting.
We cannot go on complaining.
We must take action.” “From this day forth, we shall let everyone see the glory of the Lord shine anew upon Santa Lucia.” “I have decided to officially abolish our old practice of going door-to-door to collect tithes.” “On the first Sunday of every quarter, we shall host a ‘Firstfruits Thanksgiving’!” “It will be a grand celebration—a festival where we offer our most sincere gratitude up to the Lord!” “We will no longer be the ones who demand.
We will be the ones who bestow blessings!” “We shall bless every offering!
We shall bless every family!” “And those families who offer the most abundant, devout gifts shall see their names awarded the highest honor!” At this point, Giovanni turned his gaze toward Brother Philip.
Filippo was an old monk who had spent his entire life copying scriptures in the monastery.
His whole life had been bound to parchment and ink.
He was meticulous and exacting.
Prior to last night, he too had harbored reservations about Giovanni.
But now, he looked at Giovanni as if beholding a prophet.
“Brother Philip!” Giovanni called out his name.
Filippo shuddered and bolted upright.
In his intense nervousness, he knocked over his bowl.
Porridge spilled across the table.
He scrambled in panic, his face flushing crimson.
Giovanni smiled, gesturing for him not to worry.
“Brother Philip, you have served this monastery for forty years.
Your hands have transcribed the Gospel of the Lord countless times.
Your pen possesses far greater power than any man’s sword.” “Starting today, I am entrusting you with a new, sacred mission.” “You shall be responsible for crafting a ‘Firstfruits Thanksgiving Register of Honor.'” “This register will be made from the finest parchment in our monastery, decorated with the most vibrant inks.” “Every quarter, those believers who give most generously and demonstrate the deepest faith will have their names recorded in this register—by your own hand.” “This register shall be enshrined upon the high altar.
At every Mass, I shall offer special prayers for the people listed within it and for their families.” “Their names shall abide with the glory of the Lord, forever and ever.” When Giovanni finished, a deathly silence fell over the refectory.
Then, thunderous applause and cheers erupted.
To the monks, this idea was even more brilliant than the Firstfruits Thanksgiving itself.
A Register of Honor!
Enshrined on the high altar!
The Abbot himself praying for them!
What immense glory!
They could already picture the crazy lengths the villagers would go to in order to get their names written in that book.
They would lead their fattest oxen to the plaza.
They would carry their largest sacks of wheat.
They would fight tooth and nail just to claim a spot on that register.
And they, the monks, would serve as the witnesses and administrators of this grand festival.
They would become the distributors of glory.
Brother Philip was so overwhelmed with emotion that he was rendered speechless.
All his life, he had felt like an utterly replaceable man.
Anyone could copy scriptures.
If he died, they would simply hire a younger monk to take his place.
He had never imagined that the hands that only knew how to copy words would one day wield such vast authority.
Recording honor!
That was not merely writing down words.
That was passing judgment.
It was evaluating a person’s piety.
It was deciding the honor or shame of an entire household.
In an instant, he felt transformed from a humble scribe into a figure of monumental importance.
He looked at Giovanni, tears welling in his eyes.
He felt that Giovanni had not merely promoted him.
He had enlightened him.
He had made a piece of rotting wood shine with light once again.
Filippo fell to his knees and bowed deeply to Giovanni, his forehead touching the floor.
“Lord Abbot…
I…
I, Filippo, am willing to lay down my life for you!” He was not merely speaking polite pleasantries.
He meant it from the bottom of his heart.
From this moment on, if anyone dared to utter a single bad word against the Abbot, Filippo would be the first to fight them to the death.
Giovanni walked over and personally helped him up.
“Brother, we are all serving the Lord.” He patted Filippo on the shoulder and turned to face the rest of the monks.
He began assigning tasks in detail.
“Luca, you will go to the notice board at the entrance of the village and post the announcement for the Firstfruits Thanksgiving.
Make sure every single villager learns of this.” “Antonio, you and several of the younger brothers will be responsible for maintaining order in the plaza on the day of the festival.” “The rest of the brothers will clean and decorate the plaza, preparing everything required for the blessing ceremony.” “We shall make this festival the grandest, most glorious day the Santa Lucia Village has ever seen!” “Yes, Lord Abbot!” The monks cried out in unison.
Their voices echoed through the refectory.
At this moment, Giovanni’s authority had reached its absolute peak.