When in Rome-10

 

 

We decided to take ol'chubby thighs on another jaunt outside of Roma (clarification: that is the baby, not me). To reach Cassino is only an hour and a half by train so we decided it was an opportunity we couldn't let slip away. The abbey of Monte Cassino is another inhabitant of that hazy gray area between history, myth, and poetry for me. Gregory the Great relates how St. Benedict swept away the local shrine to Apollo and established his abbey there, developing the rule of life which, though specifically Benedictine, would provide the ur-text for all Western monasticism. Josef Pieper notes that the founding of this abbey coincides with Emperor Justinian's closure of the Platonic Academy. If it's at all possible to date such variegated things as cultural epochs, we might say that the ancient world passed into the medieval one on this very mountain, around 529 a.d.

I'm also fairly certain that we were entirely flim-flammed by a local "taxi" driver. Allow me to explain. We had heard from multiple sources that a small bus ran from the train station in Cassino up the prodigious height of the mountain to the abbey. I still think this bus exists. We had been waiting for an hour or so at the station when a small bus-like object zoomed through and past where we were sitting. Eye contact was made, but alas, to no avail. Almost immediately afterward, we were approached by a semi-helpful "taxi" driver who told us that we had missed the bus and he could take us up the mountain. I say "taxi" because that is all the credibility I will give to a man driving a white car with the word "taxi" on a laminated sheet of paper underneath the windshield. We were suspicious but also impatient. We took the offer and successfully made it up where he, either providentially or maliciously, told us that if the bus didn't show up to take us back down when we were finished we could call his number, which he promptly gave us. Fast-forward to after our visit of the abbey is complete. Surprise! No bus. After some fruitless conversations with local officials about transportation, we bit the bullet. Do we spy the tell-tale evidences of a lucrative business deal between the aforementioned "bus" and the infamous "taxi." It is impossible to say, but it is very possible to guess. (Totally in cahoots).

 The first word that I saw was PAX above the gateway of the abbey. Everything else from that point on was simply a confirmation and an elaboration of that reality. The natural peace of the quiet mountain solitude provides a place of impossible beauty for those whose only desire is to spend their lives in agricultural labor, meditation on the Sacred Scriptures, and constant prayer. The earthly peace of this place reaches up to meet the blessing of eternal peace promised by angels to shepherds long ago.

I know it sounds like a bit much, but I kid you not, the courtyard of the abbey was brimming with pure white doves...a bird I have yet to see in Rome, Milan, or Como. I'm sure they are there, but it is fitting that little living symbols of the Holy Spirit should be most prominent here.

Almost everything we saw was the fruit of work done after the abbey's destruction during WW2. But from the courtyard to the church to the sepulcher, every inch of the abbey had been reconstructed with an eye to its ancient and medieval heritage. After all, this abbey has survived multiple destructions in the past without being erased. Struck down but not destroyed, sorrowful yet always rejoicing.

The relics of Saint Benedict and his sister, Saint Scholastic were recovered from the bombing wreckage in the fifties and the sepulcher, though new, evokes the best of paleo-Christian art and motifs reminiscent of ancient Egypt and Babylon. Even the empires that oppressed the people of God and became symbols of spiritual evil are taken captive for the ornamentation of Christian worship. Moses and Daniel did not neglect to glean the wisdom literature of these kingdoms and neither does the Church fear to judiciously arrange what is true and noble of pagan learning for her own purposes. Two passageways lead down from the church within the abbey to the sepulcher. Both are inlaid above with mosaics of stars gleaming in the night sky and monks and nuns both hold lamps as a reference to the parable of the wise handmaidens waiting for the Bridegroom. Christ is portrayed magnificently as well as his Cross as the Tree of Life. Moses can be seen receiving the law and liturgy of God attended by Aaron and King David. Inscriptions from Scripture or from the memories of holy men and women are almost inseparable from the images which function identically. And underneath Christ, resting in the peace that comes after a race well run, lie Benedict and Scholastic.

I wish I could write more about it, but the vision of the whole is hard to find and everything else seems like too little. The beauty of holiness, man.

Three regrets: (1) that I didn't get one of the abbey-made liquors (2) that I didn't steal either a sheet of ancient Gregorian chant or the illuminated copy of Cicero from the tenth century, (3) that I ever had to leave.

When in Rome-9

Baby carriers are useful, but they also turn me and Stephen into the sweat-pocalypse. Annoying. This is precisely what happened when we trudged for over an hour to find the catacombs of Priscilla. Sometimes Roman weather hovers in that magical humidity zone where it isn't quite raining for maximum discomfort.

We were, I believe, the only baby-carriers on the group tour, but between myself, Catherine, Ellie, and Martino, Stephen was sufficiently pampered and cajoled into submission. Our guide had the task of guiding 30-some-odd tourists through a labyrinth of dark caves and tunnels while making sure we all saw and heard what was of historical interest. Not an enviable task. Once again, there were no pictures allowed but I covered for Martino at one of the sites so he could snap a few. I also considered stealing bones but the tour guide thwacked away the only one within grabbing distance. I think I may be the sort of visitor that all the signs are designed to protect against.

As we went into the tombs, the unmistakable feeling of being in a cool damp cave provided something tangible to make the whole experience more real. For me, the catacombs have always functioned as something part way between myth, history, and art textbooks. Everyone knows about them, imagines them, and in a sense are the ultimate appeal to Christian authenticity. So in what way did the early Christians understand burial and worship, death and resurrection? These are the fragments and pieces that every historian and theologian has to grapple with in order to understand what Christianity was, and what it is.

There were far more graves here than I was expecting, from every strata of life. Around many corners there were fragments of Greek or Latin inscriptions saying things about how a husband misses his wife, or misses a child. One chapel was converted from wine cellar of an aristocratic household. As has often been the case in Rome, there is simply too much to know exactly what is happening or what one is seeing at any given point. The ancient character of all these structures used, transformed, destroyed, or rebuilt makes it impossible to have a clear picture of the whole. A few places down here, though, still have a distinct presence.

We saw two chapels in the catacombs and both were covered in rich symbols drawn from Biblical as well as mythological imagery. Even at the beginning, peacocks and the phoenix functioned as meditative images for the immortal life and resurrection found in Christ. Christ himself was pictured as a young beardless Good Shepherd. Jonah was being spat out of a large sea-monster (quite draconian in appearance) and the young men were shown triumphantly defiant in the furnace. But not only were biblical images portrayed as simple representations, already you see the use of the three wise men as a symbol of the Church's universality. These images are being used as exegetical modes to illuminate the mystery of Christ and his Church within a place of both death and worship. This is art born not out of any bare aesthetic impulse, but of the existential need to illuminate all aspects of life with the Word of God.

 

And here, underneath the modern city of Rome, there is still visible the oldest image of the Madonna and Child. Two-hundred years before the Council of Ephesus declared Mary the Mother of God, Christians instinctively pictured Mary with her Son with the utmost seriousness and devotion. We were able to see this 1800-year-old image in its ancient context. Also here is a beautiful mural of Christians gathering around a table with bread, wine, and oil, sharing the elements of the created order, elevated by Scripture and the Holy Spirit into a means of grace and a symbol of the Church's hope in the world, a feast of love.

 

 

Another thing that surprised me is that there are no plain representations of the cross. There are images intended to suggest the cross, such as the anchor but no stark realism as far as the instrument of Christ's death is concerned. Perhaps the reality of crucifixion as a means of execution was still to close or perhaps there was a concern that historical realism could obscure the real significance of the wood as the Tree of Life. After all, few of those who were at the historical crucifixion discerned its inner significance. Symbolism among the faithful is an act of belief that with revelation, history surrenders to the economy of salvation. An instance of death within time can in reality be the source of eternal life.  The letter kills but the Spirit gives life.

 

And one final note from our time. This Sunday we ended up going to a papal mass in St. Peter's Square. Didn't know the Pope was going to be there.... and definitely didn't know that little Stephen would catch Pope Francis' eye and get a blessing. Here's a picture! Little Stephen is in the corner wearing an awesome denim suit.

 

 

 

 

When in Rome-8

 

 

 This past weekend was our first adventure outside of Rome (with any luck we will have another to report after this weekend). Our friends Ellie and Martino got married in his hometown of Como, right outside of Milan. There is a definite air of surrealism when you hear automated train voice announcing stops at towns you've heard about only from books. The beauty of Lake Como and the mountains surrounding make it seem like they don't belong in this world. But it does exist here and we were hosted very graciously by Martino's brother, Alessandro. And though Alessandro did not speak very much English, nor we Italian, we got along famously (He even helped me read some stuff out his book on mountain bikes).

                                              
                                           

Naturally, the baby deposed all the local princes and rulers of men as is his way. He never wanted for adoring fans. Even at a wedding. Catherine was First Witness at the wedding (which is the Italian equivalent of maid of honor) and the ceremony was in a picturesque little church and everyone threw lots of riso afterward.

During the course of our excursion we saw the cathedrals in Como as well as the one in Milan. These are buildings of a staggering size and intricacy. Unfortunately that's true for almost every church we've seen but it's impossible to describe all of them. I'll just let everyone enjoy some
pictures.

Also, I ate a seafood dish that looked like it was considering turning the tables on me. Delicious.

                                  



On a smaller scale of construction, but for me something of greater emotional impact was when we went to the Church of St. Ambrose in Milan. Not only did we experience that rarest of still-functioning Western rites (Ambrosian rite, only found in Milan), but we celebrated it in the very church where St. Ambrose worked and preached. Most precious of all was realizing that we were in the same church where an as-yet unconverted Augustine's knowledge of true Christian doctrine began.

 In the Confessions Bk.5, Augustine says:

"And to Milan I came, unto Ambrose the bishop, known to the whole world as among the best of men, Your devout servant; whose eloquent discourse did at that time strenuously dispense unto Your people the flour of Your wheat, the gladness of Your oil and the sober intoxication of Your wine.  To him was I unknowingly led by You, that by him I might knowingly be led to You."

After the wedding, we returned to Rome and the wedding party followed. We had a blast wandering around and I absolutely will be posting about the early Christian catacombs we went to see (spoiler alert: return of the phoenix). Here's us enjoying dinner at a restaurant that knowingly fulfills its own stereotype with musicians singing 'That's Amore" around your table...a strangely satisfying cultural experience.

 

And finally, to remind myself to write more later about catacombs, St. John Lateran, and the Bridge of Angels, here is a picture of Stephen keeping watch in Sant'Angelo fortress.

 

 

When in Rome-7

Today our friend John took us to a military parade that was marching through the Venetian plaza and all the way along the road to the Coliseum. I think it was a celebration of Italian unification, Republic Day. The pageantry was impressive, including, but not limited to, jets painting the sky with Italian flag-colored smoke, Reggimento Corazzieri (presidential cavalcade with cuirass and horse-hair helmets), and plenty of men belting out martial songs. After a while, some rain set in, which sent the Italians scattering. We went in search of cappuccinos and pastries. I think Stephen wanted to try some.

 

Sidebar: There is an Irish Pub in Rome. How did that happen? Who was the man who said to himself 'You know, Rome is great, but I just don't feel comfortable drinking a Guinness. That needs to change.'? Also, a Subway, McDonald's and a Burger King. Just for your reference books.

 

Afterward, we trotted along to one of the more famous Baroque churches in Rome (according to Esther and Brian's map) San Ignazio. It did not disappoint. True to Jesuit form, all relevant arts and sciences were applied from optics to architecture. It seems that most of the artisans were Jesuits themselves. A talented bunch. As was to be expected, gold was in abundance.

 

A little less expected, for me anyway, was the fact that St. Aloysius Gonzaga and Saint Robert Bellarmine are buried here. And I've been told that the latter was the spiritual mentor of the former so there is something fitting about their tombs sharing a single church. Here's the Cardinal himself.

 

Also of note, yesterday we tracked down the basilica of St. Clement (of Rome). This was a pretty big deal for me since he is my confirmation saint, shares my birthday, and is the inspiration for the name of this blog. The exterior of the basilica is unassuming and once you are inside, individuals are not permitted to take pictures. But, the internet plays by its own rules. Here is the mosaic above the apse.

 

Maybe it was just me, but I don't think it's possible to remain unmoved in the presence of a structure that so perfectly expresses the nature of Christ and the mystery of all things being made new. The apostles and Our Lord are shown as lambs and birds come to rest on the cross, like Noah's dove finding new land. The garden of Eden comes to life again at the foot of the crucifixion and the majesty of divinity is in perfect harmony with the meekness of the Nazarene and the innocence of those like him. I think it's especially fitting that Clement is buried here amidst a vision of nature revealing the destiny of cosmic resurrection. It is, after all, what he saw and wrote about in the signs of nature.

We had the joy of going to mass here and the Irish Dominicans who run the church (yes, that's right) told us that not only is St. Clement buried here, but also St. Ignatius of Antioch. The two great pillars of the Apostolic Fathers resting together until the last day. After mass, the Dominicans let us up to the altar for a moment to pray. Being there was overwhelming, but at the same time, it seems like St. Clement was waiting for me the whole time and this mosaic is the vision that I saw a part of reading his writing years ago. Pictured here is the destiny that all Creation is groaning for.

For the earth shall be filled with the knowledge of the glory of God, as the waters cover the sea