Brian

You’ll have to pardon my tardiness in arriving at something that may seem all too obvious, but for one who is exceedingly slow in mind, stubborn in heart, and slothful in spirit, (my confessors could tell you as much) I count it as nothing short of a personal and interventional divine revelation. In the evening of this Wednesday, St. Catherine of Siena’s feast day, I went with a small group of people from my Liturgy and Spirituality class to the Basilica of Santa Maria sopra Minerva where (at least part of) St. Catherine’s relics are kept. This was the only day of the year when one is supposed to be able to go into her actual tomb and be able to touch it. Well, I never actually got to go into St. Catherine’s tomb because they were having Mass when we arrived and I had to go because I had a dinner appointment. However, I think that St. Catherine did at least ask God to bless my efforts.

Our group arrived at the Basilica during the Consecration of the Host. It was when the Eucharist was being distributed that the choir began to sing the “Ave Verum Corpus.” I have heard this song many times since I sang it with the Concert Choir at Forbush High in my senior year, and have been able to translate it myself for at least the last four years. (God used the hand of Mozart to put some very beautiful music to these words by the way!) Here are the lyrics:

Ave, verum corpus
Natum de Maria Virgine,
Vere passum immolatum
In Cruce pro homine,
Cujus latus perforatum
Unda fluxit et sanguine,
Esto nobis praegustatum
In mortis examine.

Hail, the true body
Born of the Virgin Mary,
Truly he suffered. He was sacrificed
On the Cross for the sake of mankind.
His side was pierced

And it flowed with water and blood.
Be for us a foretaste
In the test of death.

You can listen to it here.

It was not until standing there watching this assembly take communion that I truly understood the words in my soul–I suppose I had to see the words in combination with the action. Of course! The song is not merely some pious reflection on the Lord’s crucifixion, but its true meaning is “hidden” in the final sentence, “Be for us a foretaste in the test of death.” It’s the Eucharist that the song is talking about when it says, “the true body”!!! Duh! The temporal sacrifice of Christ, taken up into the Eternal and re-presented in each Mass. Thus is it the “foretaste” because we are brought into sacred time, the reign of God–into the presence of him who was, him who is, and him who will be. Our prayer in that moment is, “May death be a test that we face with hope for what has been promised us!” How he made my soul to burn with true love in that moment, such as I have not felt in a very long time! As though a seraph had dropped on it an ember from the furnace of the divine love to, at least temporarily, consume all of the dross that lie hidden there! It was, in it’s own humble way, another kind of foretaste that God gives to keep the soul pining for Beulah–in the words of Richard of St. Victor in his treatise “Of the Four Degrees of Passionate Charity” where he says that God gives the soul, “a spiritual feeling sweeter than honey enters into her soul and inebriates her with its sweetness, so that she has honey and milk on her tongue and her lips distil the honeycomb.”

I must also here confess that I know very little about St. Catherine other than the fact that she is one of three female doctors of the Church, a mystic, and she was often a thorn in the side of Pope Gregory IX (I believe). I found out only on Wednesday on the way to her tomb that she was a Dominican. This leads me into my next topic for the current blog post: that I have been better acquainting myself with the Dominicans and their lifestyle over the last few weeks. To remind, the Dominicans run the Angelicum where I’m studying here in Rome.

I had never met a Dominican until going to Franciscan, and my overall experience of them has been, how shall I say it, more agreeable than my experience with the Franciscan TORs. I have, as you may have guessed, discovered that the Dominicans, like any other group of people, have members who act as though they have perpetual burrs up their hineys; but I have to say that I’m pretty much convinced that I like the Dominicans–a lot. In fact, my discernment has been such this semester that if ever I become a priest, I think I’m going to be a Dominican because their witness has been so powerful–starting with Fr. Giles and Sr. Mary Michael at Steubenville up to Fr. Monshau, Fr. Benedict, Br. Pacificus and others at the Angelicum. On the whole, I would say that they have a fire among them like I’ve never experienced among other consecrated groups.

I have actually started attending Vespers with them at the Angelicum on Monday through Friday in the evenings. Vespers is the eventide prayers in the Liturgy of the Hours. I would go to Lauds with them in the morning only the gate to the school isn’t open at 7 when the start. I started going to Vespers after the choir’s first performance on the 18^th of April. We had Vespers and an award ceremony for a Cardinal Foley (more on that in a minute). I decided to take another leap of faith the next time I had class with Fr. Benedict and I approached him with, “I want to learn your ways.” I figured to myself, “Well, the Liturgy of the Hours is like Mass, it’s technically a liturgical event so it should be opened to anyone.” He was, of course, compliant when I asked him, and he has kindly taken me under his wing as it were in learning to say the Office–it’s in Latin too, by the way. I remember when I lived in Weirton I would sometimes say morning prayer with a guy I lived with at the Franciscan house, Ryan, and I remember that being sort of a complicated thing in English. But, yet again, it’s not so much the language that’s difficult as it is the process. It’s like anything, though, it just takes time.

I actually got to go with Fr. Benedict and an Indian priest, Fr. Cyprian, to St. Peter’s on Friday morning to celebrate a “private” Mass at one of the side altars there. Apparently any priest who’s been given faculties to celebrate the sacraments in Rome can go to St. Peter’s on any weekday around 7 or so in the morning and ask to celebrate Mass on one of the side altars. There were some Italian kids who spoke English who ended up joining us. Later we went to see the tomb of John Paul II, and then went to have a cappuccino. I have a confession to make–I had never drunk a cappuccino before coming to Italy, and now I’m some sort of addict who goes into withdrawals after a couple of days when I’ve gone without one. I don’t know what I’m going to do when I get home. Hopefully the American counterpart will be comparable.

Conducter: Fr. Max. Left to Right: Fr. Wilfrid, Fr. ?, Br. John, Br. Pacificus, some obscure person, Sr. ?, Edda, Theresa, and Sylvia.

I mentioned that the choir that I joined had had a performance. Well, it was at the Vespers and the Alumni Award Banquet for Cardinal Foley. Cardinal Foley was a student at the Angelicum in the 1960’s–back when the classes were conducted in Latin (What happened? Vatican II. The modern equivalent of the Renaissance struck Heaven’s native tongue another fatal blow). It was fun. We had non-alcoholic cocktails (what?), dinner, and then we had our choice of an espresso shot or a night-cap afterward. I chose the espresso even though it was dark out–I figured I’d sleep like a fat baby (Dad, that’s for you) regardless after what we had for dinner.

During the session with cocktails, I got to talk to a Fr. Luke Buckles, another Dominican, for the first time. It was a very interesting conversation and he helped me get a new lease on dealing with Italian ways. I’d like to title our conversation, “Italy: A Study In Excessive, Aimless, Wearisome, and Highly Exasperating Bureaucracy.” I don’t know how we got started on it, but I know that I didn’t initiate it. I did not, however, mind contributing! Well, Fr. Luke’s experiences have been more manifold and frustrating than mine have been, but then he’s got a few years up on me. He told me about these cats they call “pignolos” (I’m anglicizing the plural here), whose job it is to look over someone’s paperwork and try very hard to find something wrong with it, and if they don’t, he said, they seem to get upset. I did some limited research of my own about this word, and I found the word “pignolo” which is an adjective meaning “persnickety, over particular, or fussy,” in English. There’s also a plural noun “pignoli” which means “pine nuts.” I don’t know, you be the judge.

Well, in any case, he gave me some advice that a nun had given him when he first moved here back in the 1980’s. “Brian,” he said, “think of yourself as being on pilgrimage here.” He launched into a very welcomed lecture about how sainthood is achieved in small stages–it’s not some great and decisive moment out there in the future where God is suddenly going to beam his light down on you and flush all the negative aspects your humanity away. He’s working right here, right now in some capacity, and he is offering you the opportunity to respond to the grace he gives you in order to sanctify you at every moment of every day. Think of all the opportunities you have while you’re here to offer God your frustrations (and here there are ample) and let him transform them for your own good or for the good of others. That’s the great thing about God, he wants what makes us happy, what makes us sad, what makes us angry, etc. all in an effort to make it more meaningful. Now, I probably could have told myself all of that, but sometimes even the most dazzlingly brilliant (that’s tongue in cheek for those of you who do not know how very facetious I am) need to be reminded of very simple things.

Okay, I’ll go for now!

Arrivaderci!

Brian

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.

St. Francis' and St. Clare's Baptismal Font

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!

St. Francis' Bascilica.

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.

A view from Mt. Subiaco.

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!

Fr. Kent, here's some Wisteria I found growing along the Appian way. I didn't prune this one like I did yours--it doesn't have as many blooms!

 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.  

Fr. Kent, Mario paparazzi'd this picture of me praying at the tomb of St. Paul like you told me to do.

 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

My friend Devon (I still swear she’s the female version of me) described my own feelings wonderfully when she told me one time that she had a “wanderlust,” that being a driving, restless desire to travel the Earth’s furthest reaches to experience its lands, its peoples, etc.  Others might describe it as “The world is my oyster.”  For some people, I believe that settling down is a matter of getting too old and tired to move around anymore, and I hope that doesn’t happen to me anytime soon.  Not only that, but there’s a big, beautiful world out there just waiting to be explored by those who are curious about it.  In a sense, we’re sojourning no matter where we are in this world, even when we’re at “home.”  North Carolina is my “home” as we say in temporal terms, and I would rather enjoy lying there in wait for the Resurrection, but my true “home” is Beulah (Heb. “Married,” Isaiah 62.4, Isaiah truly is a beautiful book).  Thus, no matter where I am here and now, my soul will always be longing for its true home which no place on Earth could begin to satisfy–we are climbing Jacob’s ladder.  Well, I let you in on my philosophy, make of it what you will.

In any case, of all the places that I’ve wanted to go on the face of God’s present creation, Ireland has been chief among them.  I finally had a chance to go to Ireland between the 25th and the 30th of March.  I’m not really sure what my motivation has been, the only thing that’s kind of Irish about me is that I share the same first name as Brian Boru, High King of Ireland c. 940-1014 AD.  I suppose I was intriguied by St. Patrick’s day festivities (mind you, quite a bit beyond using it as an excuse to drink profusely), pictures of beautiful countryside, and fantastic tales of the “wee folk,” which I somewhat believe in    I am a big devotee of St. Patrick himself.  I especially love and desire to identify myself with the opening of his Confession, “Ego…peccator rusticissimus et minimus omnium fidelium et contemptibilis sum apud plurimos.”  (I am…a sinner most unlearned, the least of all the faithful, and contemptible among the masses).

Nevertheless, I have wanted to go to Ireland since I was in the 10th grade when my high school Spanish teacher, Mrs. Beamguard, put the notion in my head that going to Ireland could be more than just a secretly kept fantasy of mine, but that it was in fact a possibility.  Moreover, I hoped and prayed for 9+ years that God would provide a way for me to make it there.  Since I’m in Rome now, I figured there was no time like the present seeing that I’m only a 3hr plane ride from it.  Glory be!

I went with Tim, John, John’s brother, Tony, and John’s cousin, Sean.  We flew into Dublin on Wednesday afternoon (25th) and spent all of Thursday and a little bit of Friday morning there before Tim and I separated from John and his brethren.  We spent Thursday touring Dublin.  We first went to a memorial, then Christ Church cathedral, then St. Patrick’s cathedral, and finally to Trinity college so that we could see the book of Kells and an exhibit in the “Long Room” concerning “detective fiction” as a genre of English literature from (approx.) 1841 to 1941.

Interjectory paragraph:  English!  Beautiful English!  Spoken and understood by most everyone we came across.  Mr. Magee and Sallie were right to say that it would be such a relief to be back in an English speaking country.  It was so weird, though, to be able to communicate freely with any and everybody, once you got past the accent barrier!  I shed my hesitation to speak with strangers like a snake undergoing a molt.  If ever I needed help finding anything, etc. I had absolutely no qualms whatsoever about hailing the closest person who looked to be a native and asking him/her my questions.  I live in what Brother Mark, the Superior at St. Cosmas and Damian, describes as an “American Ghetto,” here in Rome and attend a school where classes are (at least mostly) in English–that’s definitely not helping me learn to speak Italian.

Story line continues:  Christ Church and St. Patrick’s were very beautiful Gothic (I think, my knowledge of architecture is infantile at best) cathedrals–inside and out.  The bad thing was that they belonged to the Church of Ireland (Episcopal)–in other words, like a museum they charged admission to come in, yet nobody was home.  Good thing, I guess, if he had of been home, he likely wouldn’t have been happy about the idea of people being charged to come in to see his house(s).

Outside of Christ Church

Outside St. Patrick's Cathedral

Going in to see the Book of Kells was very interesting.  The Book of Kells is basically an elaborately decorated Latin copy of the four Gospels that dates back to the 9th century AD.  (Dr. Parker, I can still make neither heads nor tails of that script most of the time!)  There was an exhibit that you had to go through and read before actually going in to see the Book that described when it was made, how it was made, etc.  It was all very interesting…some of it was a review ofthings that I learned in my Medieval Latin class back at UNCG when Dr. Parker discussed the copying of manuscripts.  It was, however, more interesting to see the real thing than a facsimile at the library.  It’s really awesome when one considers all of the hardwork that was put into copying and ornamenting such texts as the Book.  Check out this sample page.

 The detective fiction exhibit in the Long Room was very interesting to me as well considering my love of Sherlock Holmes.  They had books opened up in display cases of the works of what are considered the major contributors to the genre:  Arthur Conan Doyle and Agatha Christie were key figures, of course.  Sadly, we weren’t allowed to take pictures in the Long Room!  Rain on my parade again–I think the Long Room should be the model for all libraries everywhere!  In any case, I didn’t know it before, but the genre actually started with the short story, “The Murder in the Rue Morgue,” by Edgar Allen Poe.

I also had my first experience of the Hostel.  You will be glad to know, however, that we didn’t do one of those deals where you stay in the same room with 10 or so strangers.  Rather, we were able to book a room that was for four.  I did get the loud, party-riddled Hostel experience that one sees on whatever cell-phone commercial that is in the States, but it was downstairs and its flame had usually snuffed by eleven.  It put me in mind, rather unfondly, of dorm life at UNCG.

Well, I didn’t go to Ireland to see it as man made it, so we left Dublin (at last) on Friday morning and headed for the west coast.  Why head for the west coast?  I took this mostly by the recommendation of Fr. Chris–the land’s beauty he said was unmatched.  Tim and I were a little too ambitious in our undertaking of this journey as it turns out, so we really only made it to the town of Dingle on the Dingle peninsula in County Kerry and then back to Dublin in time for the plane ride back to Rome.    We employed the most affordable means of transportation:  taking a bus in the Eireann system which allowed us three days of unlimited travel over a period of six consecutive days.  The problem is that it took near on 8hrs to make it as far as Dingle by bus and we wanted to take time to soak it in.  Otherwise, we’d have been stuck on a bus the whole time.  Nevertheless, we did get to see some beautiful country side through the windows.  I remember that by the time we got to Roscrea, about halfway between Dublin and Limerick, it was as though someone had flipped a switch and it only grew increasingly more pleasant as one went further west.  A little town I thought was most notable was Adare on the route between Limerick and Tralee.  There was also a lot o hill country that reminded me of the beautiful hills of Wilkes county on one’s drive to Boone along highway 421.

The most pleasant part of the bus ride was between Tralee and Dingle town though the atmosphere left something to be desired.  Unfortunately, we were riding on this leg of the journey with a bunch of grade school and high school students who liked to drop the F-bomb as often as one might say “and” when stringing sentences together.  I myself am no stranger to using, as my mother frequently laments, an occasional “dam” with an “n” tacked on the end, and, as my sister says, “h-e double hockey sticks,” when faced with frustration, etc.  As my friend Pete once remarked, “He’s no saint,” nevertheless, I have to admit that I was both taken aback by it, and slightly appalled that it was used in such a cavalier manner.  But as I discovered, the Irish seem to be pretty immune to it.  A cultural thing, I suppose–I’d rather they say that than the Lord’s name as an interjection, which is also pretty frequent.  In Ireland, the Lord’s middle name is also apparently “F—ing.”  I learn something new everyday.

Tim and I took Rick Steve’s advice and stayed at a B & B.  In Dingle town this was pretty much the only option anyhow.  We stayed at this place called the Quays (pronounced “keys”).  Dingle town was interesting for more than the beautiful coastal landscape, however, it is also one of the few regions of Ireland where the Irish version of Gaelic is the primary language.  In most of Ireland signs are printed in Irish and then the English is below it, but here it is (mostly) only Irish.  Ireland has in the last few decades made rigorous attempts to preserve and resurrect its native tongue which was so often suppressed during its English occupation.  They haven’t had quite the same success that Israel had with Hebrew, but then the circumstances are quite different as well. 

Saturday was a beautiful day, so Tim and I ended up taking a series of walks.  First we walked west along the cove all the way to Ventry and came back to Dingle for lunch.  Then we went out toward the lighthouse on the east side of Dingle.  Taken all together, our host at the Quays, Thomas, figured that we must have walked around 10 miles that day.  How lovely it all was, I have no words to describe.  More hills on the one side of the road covered with sheep at pasture and then the waters of the Atlantic crashing into the other!  An Old World microcosm of the fairer of the two Carolinas’ geography.  I saw lambs galore on those walks!  Truly, they are the most innocent and gentle looking creatures in the whole of God’s creation!  It’s no wonder to me in looking at these precious little creatures that were used for sacrifice in the OT and Jesus became the “Lamb.”

Okay, no lambs here, but sheep are pleasant enough.

ADVISORY:  I am going to mount one of my many soap boxes in the following paragraphs.  Either hold on or get off now!

Lest you think that the experience of Ireland was all peaches and cream for me, I will tell you of something with which I was greatly disappointed:  Mass in Ireland.  While I still like to operate by my friend Katie Tang’s principle of “One bad take does not the whole Church make,” I am obliged to mention that I have some corroborated evidence from John’s experience at a parish outside of Galway, and my subsequent discussion with Mr. Magee, a native Dubliner, concerning my “disappointment.”  I say disappointment for what began as indignation but, upon reflection, turned more into pity.  The Mass is the Wedding Feast of the Lamb, and so this one was but it was the fast-food version of it.  It gave new meaning to the phrase, “going through the motions,” and as quickly as humanly possible at that.

Tim and I decided to go to Mass on Saturday night primarily because I was beginning to look critterly, not having shaven in four days and I had no Sunday clothes to wear because I packed so lightly.  We got there about half an hour before the Mass started so that we could take a seat on the sinner’s pew–where I typically belong anyway.  The whole thing started off badly anyhow.  There were between 20 and 30 empty pews up ahead of us, yet there were probably between 30 to 40 people standing up in the back of the church as though there were standing room only.  All of the prayers were as lifeless as possible, by both priest and people, and said at a speed that would have put the Micro-machines man to shame.  There was one good note in the whole accursed thing, however.  The priest gave an excellent homily which was at a steady speed and lasted a good 10 minutes, but I’d have sooner preferred to read it quietly to myself than look at him lean on the lectern and then listen to him portray a total lack of enthusiasm.

What really struck me during this charade was looking over on the left wall of the church to see no one other than Padre Pio’s (St. Pio of Pietrelcina) picture hanging there.  The lines he spoke in “Padre Pio:  Miracle Man,” came to mind when he sensed that a fellow priest was checking his watch while Padre Pio was celebrating Mass, “In the presence of Christ’s body you shouldn’t be checking your watch.”  And then later when Padre Pio was rebuked by the same for his three hour Mass, ”The Mass is the Passion of Christ…do you want to set a time limit for the Passion?”  What a stark contrast!  John told Tim and I that the priest at the parish where he attended made the comment in his homily, “Well, I got told to make it a quick one so I’ve only a couple of points.”  If I’d been that priest, following the spirit of Padre Pio I’d have smacked the parishoner who said such a thing to me, told him to wake up, and where he’d WOULD (not COULD) go if he didn’t straighten his act out.  If I become a priest…I’m bound to become a pain in the backside to someone–it doesn’t help that I’m getting increasingly more loose-tongued with age, and if I received the Lord’s anointing I think I’d be too hot to handle.

I remember remarking to Tim, much to his amusement, on my way out the door that come Easter Christ would barely be resurrected and have his shroud removed what these Irish Masses wouldn’t be ended and the people would be in the pubs seeking immediate anesthetic relief because the Mass went a full hour at the very least.  If I’d have said nothing, I think I would have been fine (I’ve gotten good at holding things in until I can find a suitable punching bag).  However, once my jaws had loosened, my blood started bubbling, and steam started pouring out my ears.  I ran the whole thing down within earshot of any and every parishoer I thought was within earshot, hoping they’d hear it and confront me about it and I could rail on it some more.  However, they scattered and fled from that church at the speed roaches flee from the flourescents being turned on in a dark room.

When I was a Protestant I used to people who’d b—- and moan about preaching going on 15 to 20 minutes after 12 which “ruined” their chances of getting a seat at Jim’s Grill down the road until 1 o’clock or a little after.  One remark I did like of my Great-Uncle Verne’s during that time was ”We’re on God’s time.”  As a Catholic I’ve seen people leave the Mass before the final hymn was concluded, or better yet walk out the door after having taken Communion.  I’ve seen some pretty dead Masses before too, but I try to console myself by thinking that that’s due more to either lack of sleep or poor formation in the faith–the latter of which is never necessarily the people’s fault.  But, in all my time I’ve never seen so sad a display as I saw that night in Dingle.  I asked St. Patrick, “Were these the people you worked so hard to evanglize so long ago?”

In talking to Mr. Magee about it, he did remark that this kind of thing was more typical of country parishes and that the people of Ireland are much more concerned with private devotion than they are with following rubrics.  It’s not that they’re not faithful (a point I wasn’t particularly contesting), because certain fruits of the faith do show in their relations with one another, but they’re not big into the liturgical scene.  But again, what is the Mass?  It is the highest and best form of prayer that God has given to his Church wherein he feeds them with himself.  What distinguishes us as Christians as opposed to ordinary “good people?”  That we gather together as one Body of Christ (there is no mere ”Jesus and Me” according to St. Paul, cf. 1 Cor. 11.12ff) and celebrate the fact that the matrix that made and binds all things together took our own human form, was crucified, died, and rose again in order that we might have life and have life more abundantly.  Private devotion is a necessary good unto itself, but can easily grow anemic and die if it is not fed by the liturgical–the source and center.  The faith is more about what God has done, does, and will do for us than what we do for God–how do you think man gained redemption in the first place?

Okay, I’ll dismount…my steam’s running low.  Sometimes this blog is wonderfully therapeutic.

Sunday morning, the rain that Ireland is famous for had returned.  Tim and I were evicted from the B & B around 11 that morning so we wandered around in the streets for a little while until we came across a coffeehouse that was open called “Dingle Crystal.”  If you ever get a chance to go to Dingle, I would recommend this place highly because there is a very nice couple that runs it.  After a cappucino, however, Tim and I had to make our way to the bus stop.  I’ll have to say that my heart was very heavy in that moment, though it would grow even heavier when we got to the airport.

We stayed overnight on Monday in Portlaoise (Port-leesh, yeah I’d like to study some Gaelic just so I’d know how to pronounce some stuff there…I said something like Port-low to Thomas and he looked at me like I had three heads), which is about 50 miles SW of Dublin, so that we wouldn’t be stuck on a bus all day again.  We got there right before dark which also gave us time to find the room we had booked before nightfall had set in too much.  It was a place called the Maldron Hotel.  The really odd thing was that it was that Tim and I found it to be a very nice hotel, though we’d found it on Hostelworld.com and only paid 30 Euro per person!  When we got to the front desk, however, they had no record of us having made a reservation–but printed receipt to the rescue!!  Thank you Dingle public library printer!

Tim and I ate a very hearty breakfast at a place called Mulhall’s in Portlaoise which was, I think, a “traditional Irish breakfast.”  There were about 5 different kinds of meat and I couldn’t finish it.  I wanted to try the blood pudding, but I had put it off too long, and by the time I’d gotten midway through my egg on toast I was already beginning to retch a little.  The bacon, that duped me into thinking that it was ham, I put between the split halves of the other piece of toast, wrapped in a couple of napkins, and put in my knapsack.  The blood pudding didn’t look all that appetizing anyhow. 

When we made it to Dublin again early in the afternoon on Tuesday, Tim and I made a bee-line for the Jameson Distillery.  Unfortunately, we did not get to take a tour of the distillery because the tour did not start until 1pm, it lasted for an hour, we had a thirty min. bus ride to the airport, and our plane was leaving at 4pm.  In any case, I did take the tour guide’s advice and stop and have an Irish coffee.  Basically you put some brown sugar in a mug, pour in a shot of whiskey, pour in coffee, and leave room for a collar of cream on the top.  My observation concerning the Irish coffee is that whiskey is good (especially Jameson) and that coffee is good, but two goods combined do not always equal a good if you know what I mean.  It was worth trying at least once.

The Irish Coffee

As we got on the plane that afternoon, I remember remarking to John, “You know, leaving here strangely feels like leaving Carolina all over again.”  “I know what you mean,” he said.

~Brian Holcomb, Vagabond from North Carolina 1984-? AD

Speaking of walking, I am also beginning to get accustomed to going everywhere on foot.  It’s been somewhat of a challenge for my left leg because I went through a period there while I was at home where I got out and walked very little, and then one must always walk on pavement of some sort here that is commonly uneven.  First, my knee gave me a little bit of trouble, then my ankle for a few days.  My hip joint decided to join the ensemble about two weeks into my stay here and has only within the last few days ceased aching to beat the band.

A number of you have asked me how the weather is here.  I think I would have to say it’s like coastal Carolina–mild, sunny, with an occasional strong wind blowing in from off the water.  There have been a couple of cold days here, but they’ve all been very pleasant nonetheless because the sun shines on a regluar basis.  I thank the good Lord that I’ve been at home and here as opposed to being back at Steubenville.  In Steubenville this time of year you might get half a day’s sunshine only to atone for it with three or more weeks of heavy cloud cover with gravy’s consistency.  I think things start to change pretty significantly once you start heading for the Apennine mountains.  They are about as far from here as the Brushies are from the Blue Ridge, and from certain places in Rome you can see them in the distance.  Sometimes they look so familiar that I almost think I am at home–it’s no wonder to me that N. Carolina has made such advances in viticulture over the last couple of decades.

Mr. Magee said this would be good blog material, so I’d like to share a story with you.  I’ve now ridden on a motorino (the motor scooters that I think at least 2 million of Rome’s 3 million own).  I got in from class shortly after 12 last Tuesday when I heard Vittorio talking to Mr. Magee at his office door.  Before I knew it I heard “Cesare!”  I ran to Mr. Magee’s door, only to be confronted with Vittorio shouting something at me in Italian all the while Mr. Magee has a wry look in his eye.  “Vittorio’s going to the Tabacchi to buy cigarette’s, why don’t you ride with him?”  I acquiesce without too much hesitation thinking to myself, “How bad could it be?”  That was my first mistake.

We go outside and Vittorio pulls up the seat of the scooter and pulls out two helmets.  Next he whips out this pair of sunglasses that are so big that they put me in mind of a pair of sunglasses that I saw Fred Dryer wearing on an episode of “Hunter.”  Next he tells me to hop on.  I do, and away we go!  I will say this of the experience, that I am glad the Tabacchi is only like a 1 minute ride from our house.  Vittorio, as I found out too late, drives with every bit as much of the “vigor” as any of the other crazy scooter drivers one sees here in Rome.  I think I remember him nearly taking some pedestrians out on a crosswalk…

Well, on another note about Vittorio:  If he was at all initially suspicious of me wanting to help in the kitchen when I arrived, I was inducted into the circle of trust just a couple of days ago.  We’ve established a schedule.  If I’m to observe and help him prepare pranzo, he told me that I needed to be ready to go every morning at 10 o’clock.  I told him that I could do it everyday except Tuesday because I had class–he seemed content with that.  Thus, I am finally learning to cook like a Roman (he refuses to make certain things because they come from other parts of Italy) and he’s not trying to hide anything from me…only I’ve been sworn to secrecy. 

  He told me the other day (through Sallie) that he had me figured out.  “You’re going to take all the knowledge you’re picking up here,” he said through a smile, “and open a restuarant when you get home!”  Seriously, though, working with him is often interesting for more reasons than learning to cook…he can be a real wild card.  I could fall from grace and gain redemption all on the same day.  He’ll say, “Maledetto, Cesare!” (Damn, Cesare!), and then he’ll call me his “grande aiutante.” (Good assistant).  He’ll order me around as though he owned me, and then he’ll feed me tidbits of his ingredients and preparations as a father might feed his starving child.  The list could go on, but there’s definitely never a dull moment.  For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the Italian…

I wanted to tell you that I joined the choir at the Angelicum.  The last time I was in a choir at a school was back at Forbush High.  I had forgotten just how much I enjoyed singing in a large group like that.  I saw the poster up at school for a couple of weeks and I toyed with the idea in my mind, and then decided against it–besides that I had signed up for Adoration during the time that they were practicing.  However, a couple of weeks ago I was at Adoration and I heard them singing (their rehearsal room is right next door to the Adoration chapel), and I changed my mind.  I went that very evening and changed my time for Adoration.  We’re supposed to have a few performances throughout this semester, I’m just not exactly sure when they are just yet.  Anyway, it’s also a chance to meet some more and different people.  Today I ended up having a cappucino at the Angelicum’s coffeehouse with one of the sopranos (no pun intended) named Sylvia.  She’s from a town on the east coast of Italy along the Adriatic Sea named Ancona, and from what I could gather she’s studying pretty much the same things us Franciscan students are though she called it Religious Science. 

Last Friday morning, my one of my friends from Steubenville, Devon, came for a visit.  It was nice to have a visit from her for several reasons–chief among them being that she is a light-hearted character and she’s a familiar and welcome face from among those at home.  We all had a pleasant, yet all too short, visit with her until Tuesday when she had to go back to the States   Any others of you who will, come over and join us for a little while!  We’d love to have you!  You know, if you happen to find a thousand or so extra dollars hidden between the cushions on the sofa or something like that.

Left to Right: Devon, Mario, Chris, and me.

Later, I went with Tina, John, Mario, and Chris to the Catacombs of Callixtus which is on the Appian way not too far outside the old wall of Rome.  Seeing the Catacombs of Callixtus was a little less exciting than Priscilla’s the other week because we were rushed through them even more and very little was explained about them.  We did, however, see where the bones of St. Cecilia (the patroness of Music) were discovered.  There is a monument to her in that spot.  Afterward we moved on to the Bascilica of St. Sebastian, but we did not go into the catacombs that are located there because it was getting close to closing time, and once you’ve seen catacombs they all pretty much start to look the same. 

The shrine of St. Sebastian

Close up on St. Sebastian

My favorite part of this trip, however, was just the taking of a reprieve from the urban and venturing off into the rural.  On our way to the catacombs of Callixtus, we came across a small walled field filled with sheep.  It looked as though a number of them had recently birthed because there were a lot of little lambs running around too.  I was half inclined to go up and nab one of them for my future hobby farm (wishful thinking?) and because they were just so cute!!!  (Unfortunately, there was a hawk-eyed shepherd standing nearby.)  Then, after we’d taken our tours, we took a long walk along the Appian Way.  How lovely it was!  My soul was more refreshed in seeing open fields, grass, flowers, hearing birds chirp etc. than by anything I think I could find in the city proper.

Rome from a distance.

This past Sunday night, I went with John to a Byzantine Liturgy.  This was my first ever, and in hindsight I could kick myself for not having taken the opportunity to go to one while I was in Weirton.  (In Weirton, there was supposed to be a Byzantine parish just down the road from where I lived.)  For those of you who are not familiar with what I’m talking about, I’m talking about one of the many Rites within the Catholic Church.  I am a member of the Latin Rite, which is (I’m working on an assumption here) what most people think of when they think of “Catholicism.”  While it’s true that (this is also an estimation) probably 9 out of 10 Catholics belong to the Latin Rite, “Roman Catholicism,” as I’ve heard it many times erroneously applied, does not equal “Catholicism.”  If one looks on any of the Church’s official documents, he will never find the ”Roman” Catholic Church.  To do so would be to the exclusion of our brothers (there are many other Rites beyond the Byzantine) who belong to eastern Rites, have liturgical celebrations and traditions that are just as ancient as the Roman, and are just as much a Catholic as those who belong to the Latin Rite.  (I didn’t really know all of this stuff until I got to graduate school!)  All of this is to say that the experience was something utterly different than anything I’ve grown accustomed to in my near 6 years of being a Catholic.  All essential parts of the Liturgy were there, just carried out, expressed, etc. very differently.  I would recommend that anyone experience it at least once…preferably in English.  Well, even if it’s in a language you don’t understand it’s still pretty cool.  I won’t bother you with words, just go and see it for yourself if you get a chance.

This past Monday, I went with Tim, Mario, Devon, John, and Heidi to a Scottish Pub (N.B.–Italy doesn’t do beer so well) called “The Nag’s Head.”  There was a cover band there playing Queen, and they were awesome!  What was more impressive than the sound was the fact that the main singer had the whole Freddy Mercury persona down!  (Pete, you should have been there!)  As you might have expected, they played Bohemian Rhapsody, and then a sprinkling of some more common ones mixed with some I’d never heard before.  I felt sort of cheated, though, because I wanted to hear Bicycle Race, and John and I both wanted to hear Fat-Bottomed Girls.

On St. Patrick’s day, we did something very suitable for the occasion.  We went to the Pontifical Irish College after class to see a play that the seminarians who live there were putting on.  It was an Irish parody of a Sherlock Holmes mystery.  Sherlock’s Irish counterpart is called fittingly enough, Shamrock Holmes, and this was the mystery of The Emerald Jewel.  If you’ve ever read the Sherlock Holmes collection and are either a hardcore buff (such as my friend Pete) or simply a big fan of them (like myself), then you would have been delighted in seeing the elements of the characters, plot, etc. that they preserved to the letter and those that they gave an “Irish nuance.”  It proved an enjoyable evening–and I decided that it’s been way too long since I’ve gone to a live play.

Until next time,

Cesare

I hope you’re all doing well, and I ask that you’d pray for this fresh new life!

Zio Cesare

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!

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!

After these things had transpired, we went onto the actual dome of the Bascilica.  We climbed steps and we climbed steps…then we climbed steps.  Throughout the whole journey, I was beginning to feel like I was climbing Jacob’s ladder–another perfect opportunity to break into song   There was, at least, a nice little break in the cardio-aerobics when we got to a certain point in the dome where we could actually go in and look down on it’s insides.  It was at that point that I started getting the sweaty palms, rapid heart rate, feeling of dread, etc. that I typically get when I’m in a high position and am directly overlooking the spot where I’ll meet my destiny should I fall. 

We were behind a 12 ft cage with closely knit wire, so there was really no "rational" reason for me to be afraid, I guess.

  We ascended some more stairs and I used this opportunity to begin a set of Hail Marys.  It worked!  My breathing began to regularize about the time we went out onto the platform atop the dome.  Boy, was I glad I went up there!  It was a sight to behold.  I think one can see the length and the breadth of the city from up there.

The cost of a metro ticket to get to St. Peter's...1 Euro. The cost of a pass to go on St. Peter's dome...5 Euro. The look on this acrophobe's face from a few hundred feet in the air...priceless.

This is the very best shot I was able to take. St. Peter's square in the foreground, and the Tiber beyond it.

 On our way back down, we were able to stop at another point on the top of the building and look back up at where we’d been.  It was an interesting spot.  We were behind the statues that one sees when he looks up at the building from the square.

If you look closely, you might see a ring of people below the ball at the top.

 We came back for another wonderful lunch at the house custom made for a meatless Friday in Lent.  We had coffee and a brief siesta before heading back to St. Peter’s where we met up with Heidi and Tina.  This time we were going for a tour of the building that houses the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, what Mario jokingly referred to as the “Hammer” of the Catholic Church.  To our good fortune, Chris knew someone who was friends with a priest, Fr. Steve Lopes, who worked in the CDF.  Chris wrote Fr. Lopes on his friend’s recommendation and he agreed to let us in and show us around.  We actually got to sit in the room where they hold their conferences!

Left to Right: Heidi, Josh, Chris, Mario, Doyen, Tim, and Tina.

Fr. Steven Lopes