Roaming in Rome

Okay all, I’m still alive despite the stuff that you’ve probably heard on the news about the earthquakes in L’Aquila–something like 60 miles from here. Tina told me the next morning that it had registered at 6.7 on the Richter scale. Fortunately, the most that any of us here at the house were bothered by it was that it woke us from sleeping. It was around 3.30 when I was dreaming of a shaking sensation only to open my eyes and discover that it was real–my bed was rocking back and forth longways slamming agains the wall, window was rattling, and I could hear vibrations in the walls. I scrambled for what seemed like several minutes trying to switch my bedside lamp on to see what the heck was going on. I finally got the lamp on, flew up from the bed like flushed quarry, and dashed into the hall way. By the time I’d gotten there, however, the shaking had subsided. My body was up and ready to go, but my mind still steeped in slumber had hardly caught up to the situation and so I assumed that it was the washing machine that I’d heard. I went back to the laundry room, however, to find the door on the machine standing wide open. So, I reasoned something else that it could have been, decided that I’d ask Mr. Magee about it in the morning, and I went back to bed. It was only late the next morning that I heard that it was an earthquake. This was my first experience with an earthquake, and it was thankfully less eventful than my first experience with a tornado a couple of years ago. I wish Bernie, my late four-legged brother, had been here for that one–he was my natural disaster survivor partner. 

In any case, I left for Assisi the morning after it had occurred with Mr. Magee, his two kids, Jack and Charlie, and Tim. I went to Assisi for the sake of following in the steps of one my two Confirmation saints, St. Francis. I got to see the Portiuncla, which is the little chapel wherein St. Francis had his miraculous conversion. I got to see the original San Damiano cross that spoke to him saying, “Francis, rebuild my Church.” St. Francis at the time thought the Lord was calling him to merely rebuild that little chapel, but God had greater plans for him. The Church was in great need of reform (as it is in some way or another in every age, even the disciples had Judas Iscariot numbered among them)–St. Francis took up that task, and he did it within the framework of the Church. We also visited the Bascilicae of St. Clare and San Rufino. St. Claire is the spiritual sister of St. Francis, who, inspired by Francis, started her own order of sisters called the Poor Clares. San Rufino is the place where both Francis and Clare were baptised.

The highlight of the trip, however, was when I visited the tomb of St. Francis. I tried to spend ample time praying at the tomb of St. Francis because he has been such an inspiration for me during my lifetime–even before I became a Catholic. His prayer for peace I said on a regular basis even as a Protestant. If you ever get the chance, you should also read the hagiographical work of his life called the “Fioretti” or “The Little Flowers of St. Francis.” St. Francis is such an inspiration for me because he was always seeking to imitate and to bind himself to the poor Jesus, to the humble Jesus and he discovered this poor, humble Jesus whom he so desired among those who were the poor and the humble (cf. Matthew 25:40). St. Francis took some of the most extreme measures to humble himself before God that ever a man has taken, and yet as much as he did he found that God was always less. He reached down into the depths of humility, but he found that God was always lower (Philippians 2:5-8). Yet, it was only in this descent that he found true joy and true life–despite abandoning all of his youthful hopes for worldly glory, despite being disowned by his father, despite becoming an outcast himself by embracing those who were the outcasts of his society. The more he reached down to embrace this poor Jesus, moreover, the more he realised that none of those other things really mattered in the grand scheme of eternity. Francis’ desire for God was such that though he could not reach down into God’s depths on his own power, Francis found that God was more than willing to pull Francis down into himself.  I believe that deep down in my heart I know that I’m destined to embrace (and currently trying to embrace) this same Jesus if my soul is to find its peace with God in its fullest capacity during this earthly sojourn.  How that core truth will continue to express itself in the various stages of my life’s drama is yet to be seen.  Ad majorem Dei gloriam!

We also got to see some beautiful Italian countryside when we ascended the heights of Mt. Subiaco to visit the hermitage that sits atop it where it is believed that St. Francis received his stigmata. Provincial Italy, like provincial Ireland, is very lovely to behold though in a different way. We saw numerous olive groves and vineyards that were very handsome. I’ve never seen an olive grove, so you can (maybe) understand my excitement. This was a daydream, of course, but I thought to myself many times that it might be nice to spend a summer working in such a place for the sole purpose of learning about the process of harvesting grapes and olives, and making wine and olive oil. Improving one’s meager Italian might be an added bonus.

On the soap box side (this can’t all be high and lofty discourse), if you ever get the chance to go to Assisi, be prepared to pay 0.50 Euro just to use a public toilet as you would in Rome–and make sure you have the exact change if you can get it by some magical means because Italy seems to have no concept of giving change. I had to go back and ask Mr. Magee for some money because I had none, but the only thing he had was a Euro. This also reminds me to ask you to join me in boycotting a place called “Bar Trovellesi” in Piazza del Comune in Assisi if you ever get to make the trip. I went into this place to get some change for one Euro, one Euro!, and they refused to give it to me. I venture that it was because she didn’t have the energy to open the drawer and count it out. I hate to stereotype or to make sweeping generalizations about people, but from what I’ve seen of Italians here they seem to have this “Don’t bother me with these menial tasks” kind of attitude–a notion of customer service is just non-existent among these people. One literally has to go and be a pain in someone’s (insert biblical word for “donkey” here) before he can get anything done. Case in point, I had to go to the Angelicum’s bookstore either 3 or 4 times before I could get the course packet I needed for one of my classes. Most places you go if your an American who can’t speak Italian you’re going to get the “grab your ankles and hold them tightly” treatment. Sometimes I wonder at the fact that Rome ever had so vast an empire as it did–it took blood, sweat, and tears to build something like that. More and more I’m beginning to better understand what Sean, the seminarian I met at the English college, was talking about when he said, “Yes, you’d have found that coming to either Britain or Ireland would have been a much easier transition into European culture from America than being directly emersed into Italy.” In any event, I told Mr. Magee about it and he told me just to go ahead and use the whole Euro for the bathroom. Well, I made sure to get my Euro’s worth while I was in there. I took enough toilet paper to blow my nose with for quite some time, I used enough soap to prepare for surgery, and I ran the dryer until my hands had not the faintest trace of water left on them. While I hated to do as much considering my usual conservatism and frugality when it comes to resources (I desire to be a good steward of Creation), I also relished in my so well cultivated passive aggressive way of saying, “Up yours, Italy!”

Regina caeli, laetare, alleluia, quia quem meruisti portare, alleluia, resurrexit sicut dixit, alleluia; ora pro nobis Deum, alleluia.

O Queen of Heaven, be joyful, alleluia, for he whom you have merited to bear, alleluia, has risen as he said, alleluia; pray for us [to] God, alleluia.

Happy Easter everybody! I hope you had a very good holiday. This hasn’t been the most reflective or sacrificial Lent of my life (well, to be totally honest it’s been the very least), but I’m so glad to be singing again the hymn which I wrote above after Mass. Once again the temporal shadow which the Church calls the liturgical cycle reflects the fulness we will see only in eternity: the dark night is over, the sun is risen, we look to the brightness of day to which there is no end. I still have Fr. Kent’s voice as he sung it last year rather fondly seared into my mind–I think the angels themselves could scarcely have made a more joyful noise than when he broke into “O Queen of Heaven, be joyful…”

Beyond going to Assisi, I’ve been to several Masses and other services with Papa since I talked to you last. All of this excitement began on the 2nd of April when we went to St. Peter’s Bascilica for a memorial Mass for Papa JP II. Then I attended Palm Sunday in St. Peter’s square, attempted to attend Holy Thursday at the Lateran, Good Friday at St. Peter’s, the Way of the Cross at the Colosseum, and the Easter Vigil at St. Peter’s. For Easter, I was invited to go with the Magees and Tim to Vittorio’s house. As far as all of these papal Masses are concerned, however, I am extremely grateful and I feel very blessed that I had the opportunity to go. Indeed, I will look back on it with fondness, but I doubt that I will ever go to another one as such. You had to have tickets to attend (they were free at least), but, like Parking Services at UNCG they always handed out way more tickets than they had places for the people who got them. Why the people who organize such things don’t say to themselves, “Okay, we’ve got this many seats, how about we hand out a corresponding number of tickets?” Capito? Maybe I’m thinking too logically about all of this. Beyond that the lines to get in were more akin to a mosh pit than a group of Christians waiting to celebrate the Lord’s Supper with the supreme pastor of the Church.

In any case all of the Masses were enjoyable once we were able to get into the place where the service was held. I got a good picture of Papa with Heidi’s camera after the memorial for JP II. After that service though, I pretty much quit worrying about trying to take a picture of him and worked istead to get an image of him seared into my memory. That time came on Palm Sunday when he passed me in the pope-mobile about 20 to 30 yards away. Even to be 80+, Papa has a very vibrant face. One got a feel for the universality of the Church at these Masses too. On Palm Sunday, the Prayers of the faithful were given one in Portugese, one in Tagalog, one in Russian, one in Swahili, and one in French.

Holy Thursday was kind of a tragic day. It was held in the Lateran that’s not nearly so big an interior space as St. Peter’s. Mario, Josh, and I got there a half an hour before the gates were to open. We got what we thought was a good place in line on one of the two sides. Well, they let in what looked like 15,000 Belgian kids all at one time while trying to tell the other side that there was only one line permitting entrance into the building. Apparently some of the people in our line began to get huffy with the police and they opened it up too. This whole “one line deal,” as I affectionately refer to it, was of course clearly NOT marked. Then they tell us that from a certain point in our line to its finish has to go to the other side–yep, we were in the part that had to move over. So, we’re shafted behind a good number of people who arrived in front of the Lateran all of about 5 minutes before this blissful occurence transpired. Of course, the police are there running the metal detectors over every inch of every person who passes them, yet the thought that keeps nagging my mind is, “How did that Belgian equivalent of the Exodus get in so unmolested?” In any case, from the time we had arrived until we finally got in the building an hour and a half had passed and there wasn’t a seat to be found, nor was there any kind of vantage point standing up whereby we might see Papa celebrating.

Upon this news, my little triumvirate unanimously decided to leave. But it’s all good! The Irish college is located on the stretch between the house and the Lateran, so as we made our way back I suggested to Mario that we stop in there and see what was going on. The gate was closed, but we did manage to arrive there at the same time as the priest who would preside over the Mass we attended only an hour later. Okay, I have a confession to make. My thoughts concerning the Mass in Irish hands is both partially, and conditionally restored based on my experience at the Irish college. Those boys did it up right! And, that’s the beauty of God’s gift to the Church in that the Eucharist is the same Eucharist whether it be consecrated at the hands of Papa Benedictus XVI or Fr. Billy Swan. Later that night, because the churches all over Rome stay open until at least midnight so that one can emulate the “pray with me for one hour,” I decided that I would go out and take advantage of it while it was within walking distance. Last year at SHM was the first time that I actually got to do that because when I’m at home I have to drive 25 min. to get to Divine Redeemer. In any case, I thought I would attempt to go back to the Lateran because it’s one of my favorite Bascilicae here in Rome, but on the way I passed this chapel that I’ve seen before but never really thought to go in. Apparently, it’s just the chapel attached to a convent of nuns who dress in mostly blue. It was a nice, intimate little setting after all the hustle and bustle that I’d encountered already that day. I stayed there until 12 and read what I could of the four evangelists passion narratives; I was about a third of the way through Luke’s when 12 came and I decided I’d better go. I figured the sisters probably wanted to shut the doors soon.

Good Friday at St. Peter’s was awesome–finally I attended a service worthy of the Vatican. First of all, all but a few minor parts (and the homily) were in Latin, whereas Italian was put into its proper servile position of translating. Latin is, after all, like a bride dressed in a lovely veiled gown with a long train whereas Italian is like one of it’s bridesmaids that’s been purposefully given an ugly dress just to make the bride look that much better. Look at the two expressing the same ideas on a piece of paper side by side and then read them both aloud. In both appearance and in sound the one is clearly superior to the other. Second, the whole thing was chanted! the readings the prayers, the whole 9 yards. We went to the Via Crucis at the Colosseum shortly after the Good Friday service had ended at St. Peter’s. I will say that while this hasn’t been the most reflective Lent, this was one of the best Good Fridays that I’ve ever had.

Holy Saturday’s Easter Vigil was pretty cool too. It’s strange how God works. I had not fulfilled my obligation to go to confession during the Lenten season (I’ll admit that I’m terrible about going to confession though it’s probably my favorite sacrament after the Eucharist), but I had steped out to go to the bathroom again before the Mass had started with my new friend Bistra, a Bulgarian girl I met here. Bistra thought the line for the girl’s room was too long so she left and decided to come back at a later time. I persevered (most of you know how small my bladder is) and when I was coming back up I noticed Bistra just standing on the way. “What are you doing?” I asked. “I’m in line for confession,” she said as she pointed out the confessional that I’d completely overlooked until that point in time. It was my first time in a confessional of that kind–another of the very pretty things that the overly modern churches in the States lack.  In any case, I walked out of there as a new creation, ready to live out my baptismal vows all over again.

Unfortunately, I had to leave about 2/3 of the way through the beautiful, beautiful Exsultet because I was feeling sick. Dummy me didn’t pack anything to eat as a hold over until Mass had ended and my blood sugar got low. I thought I had eaten enough at lunch to hold me over…wrong. We got in line something like 3.30 that evening and the Mass didn’t start until 9pm. Well, I went out to get some fresh air and struck up a conversation with one of the security guys once I learned that he spoke English pretty well. I told him why I felt as though I was sick and asked him if there were any way I could get anything to eat. He took me into a lounge and bought me a tea with lemon, a packet of hard-tack Rosemary bread, and a croissant with chocolate filling. I ate and drank what he had bought me and chatted with him for a while until I got to feeling better. I learned that his name was Nilton and that he was from Angola in southern Africa. Apparently he was once in seminary and had studied quite a bit of philosophy before he decided that it wasn’t his calling. In any event he was studying law at a university in Rome, is employed by the Vatican, and looks forward to returning to Angola one day. His primary language is Portugese (Portugal had colonised that part of Africa), but he spoke Italian, Spanish, and his English was very good. He learned his English in school from the British, I believe. I had to slow down quite a bit and actually pronounce my words a bit better so he could understand me. In any case, I found him after the Mass was over and he wouldn’t let me pay him back with the money I’d borrowed from my friend Chris so I told him I’d pray for him. I’d like it if you all would offer him at least one too for the sake of his kindness to me that evening. Matthew 25:35a

In any event, what I saw of that Mass was splendid. I made it back into the Vigil in time to hear the Gospel proclaimed to the assembly. What I missed was the recollection of salvation history up to its culmination in Jesus–that’s why there are so many readings at the Easter Vigil. The first reading was in Spanish, then German, then French, then English, then Italian, and finally the Gospel was in Latin. Again, it gave one a feel for the universality of the Church. There were a few people there to whom Papa administered the sacraments of Baptism and Confirmation. All of it was surreal to say the least. The only thing aggravating about it was those people who thought they had to pop up and start flashing a picture everytime Papa flinched a muscle. Besides that, you shouldn’t be taking pictures while Mass is going on anyhow…after, okay, but not during. I’ve looked up all of Papa’s homilies during this period and supplied a link to them below. I haven’t got to read them all just yet, but what I have is good reading. What else would one expect from a theologian like Ratzinger?

On Easter Sunday, I went to Vittorio’s house for a brunch-lunch-supper.  He came and got us that morning a little after 10 and we returned a little after 7 in the evening.  We ate and drank the whole time–I’m not exaggerating.  We started with appetizers which included salami, cheese, chocolate, and a number of other things.  Then there was a couple of pastas as a first course. 

Then the meat came out:  sausages, pork chops, culminating in of course, lamb.  Yeah, I know I might seem kind of like a split personality–one person likes to make a fuss over how cute they are, and the other likes to eat them.  The only down side about this was as I ate my little bit of lamb, Vittorio brought out the lamb’s head split in half–yes, brains in tact.  He sets one half on a plate and tells Mr. Magee and Sallie to save it for Jack and Charlie.  The other he sets down on his own plate.  He picks it up and starts to take a bite when he realizes that I’m looking at him.  He stops half way to his mouth and offers it to me.  I throw my hands up in the air neither considering, nor caring whether or not he gets offended and shout, “No, no!  It’s all yours!”  He just sort of shrugs and goes back to eating.  “Thank God!” I think to myself with an internal sigh of relief and some disguised retching.  At some point Sallie called Jack over to take a taste of the scrumptous dish Vittorio had specially set aside for him.  I wish I had a video recording of that kid’s face when he got his first peak at it!  I thought he was going to start crying.  He was at least very, very close when faced with the prospect of having to eat Lamb Chop’s brain!  I know he gave a muffled shout of desperation before running away.  Mmm…good eatin’ Roman style!

 The only “uncomfortable” part of the day was the matchmaker innuendo that kept raising its ugly head like the Hydras that Hercules dueled.  The prospect was to set me up with one of Vittorio’s three daughters who are all roughly my age.  I’m not sure who’s idea it was to start it all, but Mr. Magee and Sallie were definitely privy to it.  At one point after introducing me to one of them, Vittorio swiped turned where she couldn’t see and wiped his right thumb down his right cheek while smiling at me to indicate, “Do you like?”  I cocked my head to one side and gave him one of those befuddled looks that I often do in the kitchen when he’s cooking and smiled back at him feigning incomprehension.  He started laughing and slapped my shoulder.  It seemed like they were joshing me, but then there was a hint of seriousness.  I don’t know, I didn’t give any of them too much to work with because most of my “love affairs” (if you could call them that) have been like Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire,” or Don Rollins’ “The Race is On.”  Enough said about that.  

 I really enjoyed myself that afternoon.  I thanked Vittorio and Fabiola, his wife, for having invited me to their house because I really missed my family (in Italian literally, “felt the loss of”), especially since I got a card in the post from my Great Aunt Ferne that was nostalgic to say the least.  Fabiola said, “It’s okay, we’re your Italian family.”  On my way out I called her “Mama mia (Italiana).”

Ciao ragazzi!

Cesare, il nuovo Romano.

Benedict XVI’s Homily for Palm Sunday

Pope’s Sermon at the Mass of the Lord’s Supper

Father Cantalamessa’s Good Friday Sermon (Okay, so this one’s not Papa, but…)

Papal Address at the End of the Way of the Cross

Benedict XVI’s Easter Vigil Homily

Pope’s Homily for Easter Sunday