Roaming in Rome

Saturday was an interesting day when I got started.  I went with Tina, Josh, and Chris to(ward) the north-eastern corner of Rome first to visit the catacombs of Priscilla, and then to the Bascilica of St. Agnes and the Mausoleum of St. Constance.  I actually got to pray at the tomb of St. Agnes, a young Roman virgin and martyr.

The catacombs of Priscilla, from what I’ve heard, are supposed to be the oldest of the catacombs though they may not be the best in terms of being a tourist attraction, and it’s supposed to have the oldest devotional depiction of the Blessed Mother.  Like going on the Scavi tour the other day, we were not allowed to take pictures (yet the tour guide used a flash light to point everything out to us?).  In one respect, I felt like I was one of the Goonies while I was down there.  I’d always wanted to go on a “crazy Goonie adventure” (Chunk’s line) when I was younger (and sometimes still would!).  In another respect, it had an odd feel to me.  For some reason the Eagle’s “Hotel California” started playing in my mind (specifically the line, “You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave!”), and I thought that it would be a great plot for one of those short stories I was so fond of writing during my high school years.  In any case, there was a lot of moisture on the walls and a very musty odor.  I looked ahead of us on the way down toward the tour guide, a light was shining in her direction and I could see her breath though it didn’t seem anywhere near cold enough for one’s breath to be showing like that.  Oddly enough, Tina and Josh later complained of having come away from it feeling somewhat physically ill–Josh looked particularly puny on the bus ride home.

Yesterday was a rainy and somewhat uneventful day until I finally left the house this evening and went to the English Mass at San Giovanni dei Fiorentini (it’s on the other side of the Tiber from St. Peter’s).  The Mass started out normal enough.  I was asked to do the second reading.  Yes, the drawal of my Appalachain accent resounded in the halls of a Roman Bascilica!  There’s that collision thing again.  Fortunately, the Lord preserved me from the morbid fear of public speaking until I was finished.  I was proclaiming the last line before my left leg started the nervous twitch that it did so badly the last time I sang by myself in public.  (The members of Center UMC in Yadkinville can attest to this fact–my leg might as well have been the string on a Double Bass that was being picked in a Bluegrass song.)  Then I dashed from the lectern.

Fr. Thomas read the Gospel, which was on the Temptation of Christ in the wilderness, and somewhere in the course of his homily on the sly nature of Satan’s tactics in duping us the Mass took a dark turn.  I have had a good laugh with Mr. Magee and some of my other housemates about the whole business since it occurred (in the same manner one might laugh about anything after the fact–quite a bit AFTER the fact), but I am being dead serious when I say that a feeling of absolute dread came over me.  You can draw your own conclusions about this series of unusual events based on the account I’m going to give you.  The man either belonged in an asylum, was drunk out of his mind, or he was possessed.  I know that all of this will sound a bit sensational, but please bear with me because I will relate it all to you as Sherlock Holmes might expect it to be related to him–according to the facts of what happened with minimal to no subjective conjecture.

In Father Thomas’ homily, he described some ways in which Old Scratch works that reminded me of reading C. S. Lewis’ “The Screwtape Letters.”   I myself have only just read Lewis’ work over this past Christmas holiday, and I would highly recommend it to anyone.  Anyway, as Fr. Thomas carried on with his homily I began to notice a significant amount of muffled chatter coming from somewhere behind me.  I also heard a significant amount of clicking–the kind one makes by putting his tongue to the palate behind his incisors and pulling down.  I half expected to turn around and see someone shaking his head, waving his finger, and muttering as though he were in utter disagreement with what Fr. Thomas was saying.

All of these sounds increased in frequency and in intensity as the Mass progressed, but oddly it all halted during the consecration of the host.  No sooner had Fr. Thomas risen from his bow to the Precious Blood than all of the commotion recommenced–throughout the eucharistic prayers that followed, througout the Lord’s prayer, throughout the reception of Communion, and throughout the concluding rites.  This whole experience was especially interesting during Communion–he sat in place and kept shouting what sounded to me like, “Bastardo! Bastardo!” and then “Tu, tu!” 

When I stood up to get in line for Communion, I couldn’t resist looking back.  I stood there looking at a man with dark, almost middle-eastern features.  I stood there looking at him with a questioning glance on my face, as one who is mesmerised for a few moments all the while everyone else who was participating in this tiny congregation passed me by.  While he continued with his invectives, I came to a point wherein I realized that I had better get in line if I were to receive the Eucharist for myself.

When the Mass had ended, Fr. Thomas processed down the aisle singing a hymn in the same manner that he had processed in when it began–again this man hushed himself until Fr. Thomas had quit singing and had gone into the Sacristy to divest himself.  I didn’t take my usual prayer time after Mass, rather I decided it was more prudent to book it out of there.  Again, I attempted to make eye contact with the man as I walked down the center aisle.  The odd thing was that he didn’t really seem to be looking at anything, rather his eyes were partly closed and he was mumbling more of his jibberish to himself.  As I came within approximately 10 to 15 ft. of him, he seemed to jerk a little, his eyes rolled in his head beneath his eyelids, and he finally opened them all the way.  I had had my eyes trained on his face until he, rather sloppily, threw out his hand in a panhandler’s posture at that same particular point in time.  My grip tightened on the umbrella I was carrying, I trained my eyes instead on his body posture, I kept my pace going past him, and I readied myself to strike when and if necessary–I didn’t want a possible repeat of Acts 19:11-16.  All of this is to say that I did not get a very good look at his eyes.  His murmuring continued as I blessed myself at the holy font, and as I made my way out the door it seemed as though his words hounded me.  I made my way home as fast as I could.

Make what you will of all of this, and I’ll talk to you again soon!