In the monastery dining hall, the monks sat at long wooden tables, eating their evening meal.
Dinner was simple: a bowl of oat porridge and a piece of black bread. It was the same as yesterday, the same as last year, the same as it had been for many years.
They ate quietly. Only the sound of spoons stirring porridge and the occasional cough broke the silence. They were used to this quiet, and they were also used to this food.
But today, the atmosphere was different.
Everyone's gaze drifted, intentionally or not, toward the table at the front. The abbot's table.
Giovanni sat there, slowly drinking his porridge. The way he ate looked refined, unlike the others who slurped without care. It was as if he were tasting a fine dish rather than plain porridge.
The monks watched him as they ate. Their thoughts drifted back to the "Firstfruits Thanksgiving" plan he had described, the plan that turned tax collection into a contest of honor. After returning last night, many of them had tossed and turned in bed, thinking about it. The more they thought, the more they felt it was pure genius.
They also remembered how the abbot had treated Matteo. Patient. Magnanimous. He had even prepared Matteo's supplies and personally seen him off. That kind of grace made them feel ashamed. They felt they had been blind before. How could they have doubted someone so saintly?
Now Matteo was gone. There was no voice left in the monastery that opposed the abbot.
They were waiting. Waiting for him to officially announce that great plan.
Giovanni finished the last sip of porridge and wiped his mouth with a cloth. Then he stood up.
"My brothers," he said. "Today, we saw Brother Matteo off. For the truth in his heart, he set out on the road to Florence. We pray for him and ask the Lord to bless his journey."
He mentioned Matteo first. It made him seem generous, and it also reminded everyone that the strongest opponent was no longer here.
"Brother Matteo's departure also reminds us of something," Giovanni continued. "We can no longer drift through our days as we did before."
"St. Lucia Monastery is the Lord's lighthouse on this land, but our lamp is running out of oil."
The monks lowered their heads in shame.
"We cannot wait any longer. We cannot keep complaining. We must act."
"From today on, we will let everyone see that the Lord's glory will once again shine upon St. Lucia."
"I have decided to officially abolish the old method of collecting the tithe from house to house."
"On the first Sunday of each quarter, we will hold the Firstfruits Thanksgiving!"
"It will be a grand celebration, a celebration to offer our sincerest gratitude to the Lord!"
"We will no longer be those who take. We will be those who bless!"
"We will bless every offering! We will bless every household!"
"Those families who give the most generously and show the greatest devotion will receive the highest honor!"
As he spoke, he turned his gaze toward Philip.
Philip was the old monk who had spent his life copying scripture. His world had always been parchment and ink, careful and meticulous work. Before last night, he too had harbored doubts about Giovanni. Now, he looked at him as if he were a prophet.
"Brother Philip!" Giovanni called.
Philip jolted and sprang to his feet so quickly that he knocked over his bowl. Porridge spilled across the table. He fumbled in panic, his face flushing red.
Giovanni smiled and gestured for him to relax.
"Brother Philip, you have served this monastery for forty years. These hands of yours have copied the Lord's gospel countless times. Your pen is more powerful than any sword."
"From today on, I grant you a new and sacred duty. You will be responsible for creating the 'Firstfruits Thanksgiving Roll of Honor.'"
"This roll must be made with the finest parchment in our monastery and decorated with the brightest pigments."
"Each quarter, the names of those believers who give most generously and believe most devoutly will be recorded by your own hand."
"This roll will be placed upon the altar. At every Mass, I will offer special prayers for those whose names are written upon it, and for their families."
"Their names will stand with the Lord's glory, forever."
When he finished speaking, the dining hall fell into dead silence.
Then applause and cheers erupted like thunder.
To them, this idea was even more brilliant than the festival itself. A Roll of Honor, placed on the altar, with the abbot praying for them in person—what greater glory could there be?
They could already imagine the villagers going mad just to have their names written in that book. They would lead out their fattest cattle, carry in their largest sacks of grain, and fight fiercely for a single place on that roll.
And the monks would stand as witnesses and enforcers of this grand event. They would become the ones who distributed honor.
Philip was so moved that he could not speak. All his life, he had believed himself insignificant. Anyone could copy scripture. If he died, a younger man could replace him. He had never imagined that these hands, which only copied words, could one day hold such power.
To record honor.
This was more than writing. It was judgment. It was measuring devotion. It was deciding a family's pride or disgrace.
Now, he felt himself rise from a humble scribe into someone of great weight. He looked at Giovanni, tears filling his eyes. He felt that the abbot had not merely promoted him. He had awakened him. He had made this piece of rotten wood shine again.
Philip dropped to his knees and bowed deeply.
"Abbot… I, Philip, am willing to give my life for you."
These were not polite words. They came from the heart. From this moment on, if anyone dared speak ill of the abbot, Philip would be the first to fight them.
Giovanni walked over and personally helped him up.
"Brother, we are all serving the Lord," he said.
He patted Philip's shoulder, then turned to the others and began assigning tasks.
"Luca, you will post the announcement for the Firstfruits Thanksgiving on the village notice board. Every villager must know of it."
"Antonio, you and the other young brothers will maintain order in the square on the day of the festival."
"The rest of you will clean and decorate the square and prepare everything needed for the blessing ceremony. We will make this celebration the grandest and most glorious day St. Lucia village has ever seen!"
"Yes, Abbot!" the monks answered in unison.
Their voices echoed through the dining hall.
At this moment, Giovanni's authority reached its peak.
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