Roaming in Rome

I have to but wonder where the last month has gone.  I came here thinking that I would have a lot of time to do a lot of things, but then there’s so much that it’s impossible to do it all.  I feel as though I’m making a good effort though at exploring and that I’ll leave here feeling that I’ve made the most of my time inasmuch as I could.

However, I’ve had to put learning any real Italian on the back-burner because it’s just not that essential to my stay here and there are so many other things I need and want to do that I’ve been unwilling to expend the time and the effort.  So, for all of you whom I have shared my romantic fancy of learning Italian for the sole purpose of being able to scream alound in the kitchen whilst I prepare delightful and delectable dishes and crack counter surfaces with cookery, I regret to inform you that you will be much disappointed if you hope to see this dream realized by the time I return to the States.  Nonetheless, I have learned one helpful phrase very well, “Scuse Signore/a, palare Inglese?”

The last week has been an interesting one to say the least.  I’ll try to share some things with you briefly.

I finally met up with Fr. Chris whom I told you about in the post “First Day of Classes Finished,” for a cappucino at the Angelicum’s coffeehouse on Wednesday.  I meant it to be merely a friendly meeting but it took a rather unexpected yet thought provoking turn.  After I had given my allowance, he began to ask me a series of rather pointed questions, and the talk over cappucino became a discussion in spiritual direction between the two of us.  I got the feeling during the course of our talk that he could read the struggle in my soul almost as well as someone reading a map.  It was for this very reason that I had been hesitant to make any attempt to talk with him before.  I had the feeling on the first day I met him that he could tell there was more there than met the eye.  That day he had asked me, “So, are you in formation for the priesthood?”  “No, not yet.” I said.  “Now, when you say ‘Not yet’ what do you mean by that?”  I was actually at a loss for an answer.

Most people in past days have always assumed that I would one day be a minister.  When I was a Methodist, I think I’m safe in saying that it was expected by everyone with whom I went to church at Center UMC.  Since becoming Catholic, most people I’ve met have asked whether I was thinking about it, or planning on it–especially since I began studying Theology.  Often times, however, I’ve responded to these questions with either, “I’m not cut out for that work,” or more bluntly, “That’s really the last thing I want to do.”  I remember one lady at Divine Redeemer responding rather bluntly in turn, “It’s not always about what you want for yourself.”  In a sense, I believe she’s right inasmuch as God knows what’s best for us and our desires for ourselves as humans are fickle more often than not–they can change like the blowing of the wind.  I believe that it’s only when we desire what God truly desires for us that we begin to find any sort of contentment with ourselves.  In any case, I have to confess here that my Latin is bad and my Theology is worse…

Charlie's Tigger was all washed up with no place to go...we just hung him out to dry. Yeah, this picture has nothing to do with the narrative at hand, but I was trying to provide some comic relief.

Fr. Chris’ last question to me that was, “Brian, what is it that you desire?”  I had no answer for him other than what Fr. Murry had said in reference to St. Bernard of Clairvaux the night before, “I desire to desire God, but I don’t know what it is that I truly want.”  That was a very open ended answer.  I have always thought of myself as one who would (by the grace of God eventually) marry and have children, but then marriage and fatherhood do not always involve the corporal.  In my soul, I do yearn to be instrumental in forming and confirming the faith in the hearts others–especially the young who are in most need of the truth and hope it offers.  I know that I reflected with John the other day that if I were to become a priest, I would most rejoice in participating in the Church’s faculty to pardon sins; that I could act as Christ Jesus’ mouthpiece when I say, “Your sins are forgiven, go in peace.”  So many people in my life have remarked to me how easy they find it to tell me things they wouldn’t ordinarily tell others, and I’ve gotten very good at abiding by a confessional seal of sorts.  These are mere sentiments and reflections for now, but I know the Hound of Heaven will continue to pursue me and wear me down as he has done so many times in past days.  Often I feel like the deer in Psalm 42, yet so much more often I feel like Jonah.

We had a very good Liturgy and Spirituality class on Wednesday night.  We talked about the nature of how one’s theology informs one’s spirituality.  His first example was one’s conception of the nature of the Parousia.  Essentially there are two theories about the nature of Christ’s return:  it will be either as a continuum or as a cataclysm.  I am guessing that most people think of it in terms of a cataclysm, I know that I myself thought of it in terms of cataclysm simply because I had never heard any other theory on the matter. 

I think we can all understand what a cataclysm is, so I’ll glitz over that.  The continuum theory states that God is the author of nature and that nature has been set up in such a way that it eventually heals itself.  Fr. Monshau used the example of a broken arm to illustrate this.  A broken arm when it is set begins to mend itself, but it takes a really long time in order to accomplish it and it is difficult if not impossible to point to one particular point in time that the arm is healed.  The catch to the continuum theory is that everyone and everything must be brought into restoration together before the restoration is accomplished. 

Now Fr. Monshau brought us to the question of how the theology informs the spirituality.  In the case of the cataclysm, one’s spirituality begins to turn in on oneself with the mentality, “I must get myself and keep myself ready for this divive hammer strike at all times.”  In terms of the continuum, however, one’s spirituality is more inclined to turn outward with the mentality, “Well, the perfection of the world is only accomplished as a whole, so what can I do to bring myself and others toward this?”  Fr. Monshau is my favorite lecturer at the Angelicum.

On Friday I went with Sallie, her friend Mary, and Josh to the Holy Staircase.  It is one of many Lenten devotionals to ascend the staircase on one’s knees while praying and reflecting on Christ’s ascent for his interview with Pilate.  Allegedly, the steps are one of the many relics that St. Helena brought to Rome from the Holy Land.  They are either marble or granite steps that have been covered with a wooden cover.  The wood is very hard and uneven.  They are also very worn from perhaps hundreds of years of pilgrims who have climbed them.  There are slits in this wooden cover, however, where one can actually touch the steps which is helpful for very tactile minded people like myself.  Ideally, I would have had my prayer booklet that I had bought a week or two ago so that I could have said the prayers that were written for each step, but my booklet is currently MIA.  In any case, after about five steps I decided on an Our Father, a Hail Mary, and a Glory Be.  My knees were killing me by the time I made it to the 10th, and so instead of envisioning Christ in general, I began to try to imagine myself ascending the steps with him on that fateful day.  The pain was then still very present, but it was at least bearable.  It has just occurred to me that it would be helpful for one to see the steps as a microcosm of one’s life!

On Friday night I went back to the Centro Internazionale Giovanile San Lorenzo for daily Mass.  The Mass was, again, in multiple languages, but luckily the celebrant was an Australian bishop so it favored English more this time.  Afterward I went down into the meeting hall to see if I could strike up some conversations with some new people.  I feel like the Lord drove me there as another effort in getting me out of my comfort zone.  This has been the semester of getting Brian out of his comfort zone, and so far he has not found it to be such a bad thing though it may not be, well…comfortable.  I first spoke with some Frenchmen, and later I spoke with a guy from Germany and a girl from Austria.  It warmed my heart that I finally came across some people who spoke German because it gave me a chance to finally practice the very little I know.  When I initially burst out with a sentence, they seemed very pleased with how it sounded.  This made me very happy considering how much time I have spent in past days practicing the sounds of German, such as the gutteral “R.”  I told them that in succeeding weeks they’d have to help me improve my grasp of the language and my accent.  We talked about all manner of things, you know, the small talk stuff that people who’ve just met discuss.  The guy’s name (I may be butchering the spellings) was Nierz, and the girl’s name was Oolie (I think, I never did learn how to pronounce her whole name).

On Saturday, Tina and I made a trip to Ostia Antica, the ruins of which is supposed to be second only to Pompeii in Italy in terms of its being preserved.   During the Golden Age of Rome, Ostia was a port city, now it’s a few miles off the coast because of (I am assuming) sediment deposits flowing out of the Tiber, much in the same way the Mississippi built Louisiana’s coastline.  I honestly had no I idea what I was shooting at, so I killed my freshly charged battery in taking pictures that day of anything and everything I could shoot.  Tina and I left at 11 that morning and got back around 8pm.  At some point in the afternoon I was nonplused.

Speaking of Ostia, if you ever get the chance to go there, apparently you need to be careful where you go.  “Forbidden” areas may or may not be marked as I found out.  Tina and I had gone up on a particular portion of the ruins which were all of about 10ft above the road bed below and were looking around when all of the sudden I heard a whistle blow (I’ve noticed that people here seem to be very whistle-happy people).  I didn’t think anything about it for a second, but then I looked down at some fellow tourists who seemed equally bewildered by the noise.  So, I turned around and decided to investigate.  I turned to see a man and a woman standing together, both of whom were wearing name tags so I assumed they were employees there.  The man made some utterance I didn’t understand in the reductive and adulterated Latin of Italy, and then the woman said, “Descendere!” and pointed down.  I interpreted this to mean that they meant for me to get down from where I was standing.  In those seconds that followed I stood there shocked all the while I felt the the adrenaline surging through my veins, my hot Holcomb blood boiling like oatmeal or rice that’s been left on the stove too long.  I felt the sudden urge to jump down from there, rip that whistle clean from off his neck, stamp it into as many pieces as I could against one of the Roman paving blocks beneath them, proceed to shout as loudly as I could about how that portion of the ruins needed to be clearly marked by some form of block or sign (as was the rest of the ruins) if they didn’t intend for tourists such as myself to explore it, and that I was not a dog and an exceedingly simple “Scuse Signore!” would have worked perfectly well to get my attention. 

You will be glad to know that I did not act upon my initial impulse, but chose to walk away.  Most of you who are familiar with me at all know that I make a diligent effort to follow rules as scrupulously as I can–not because I’m a legalist, but because I know that rules have been (or at least ought to have been) established in society, in school, etc. for the benefit and protection of everyone.  Yes, it was a matter of principle for me, but that’s a ditch in which I chose not to die.  I chose it for two reasons.  Primarily, I did it for the sake of Tina who was traveling with me–I didn’t want her embroiled in a scene she for which she wasn’t prepared or willing to participate.  Secondarily, I chose it because in that same moment I imagined being taken off to jail when the police finally showed up 5 or so hours later (It’s funny that things that should move quickly seem here to roll along like frozen molasses–I think I agree with Mr. Magee’s theory that the Germans should be running things here because they would be so much more efficient).  To boot, an image flashed in my mind of my dear mother hanging her graying head with her hand to the fore all the while shaking it from one side to the other asking herself, “Where did I go wrong in raising that boy?!”

I say all of this because I wasn’t feeling very diplomatic that day.  By the time my blood had cooled and I had thought of a genteel way of phrasing the matter, I couldn’t find them any more.  It probably would have done little good anyhow.  I did hear a whistle blow again about 10 minutes later from a distance…I wonder what that was all about. 

Sunday proved a very interesting day.  I went to Mass at the Venerable English College on Via Monserrato which proved more similar to the American practice of the Mass, yet with its on eccentricities.  I had been invited by an older lady who was visiting Rome from Manchester, England.  But, I neither saw the lady there who had invited me, nor the priest whom she had recommended to me.  I found it funny, however, that during the Mass I noticed the painting on the ceiling of the church was of Our Lady’s Assumption, and I knew I had to be in the right place.  I still remember how she spoke to me at Our Lady of Grace in Greensboro that one afternoon when I was on my way out of Mass.  My nerves were all tangled up over a trip I was about to take when I up looked at the stained glass of her Assumption and she seemed to say to me, “Don’t worry, child, everything’s going to be just fine.”

There were, perhaps, a dozen or so priests concelebrating that day, and much to my surprise Fr. Chris was one of them!  I talked with him and a seminarian named Sean who was also from Leeds for a while after the Mass.  Later, we all went to the Angelus at the Vatican, and then they treated me to my very first Gin and Tonic–I got light headed about halfway through, but I persevered!  This combination is proves a very pleasant taste to me though I would take neither of them by themselves.  I think that was the very best walk home through the busy and crowded streets of Rome I’ve had yet.  (Note to mom:  Alcohol in moderation, the abuse is the sin.)

Well, God be praised if you made it this far, and if you didn’t…God be praised anyhow!

Cesare

The name persists!