Anthony Lusvardi, SJ

San Giovanni dei Fiorentini

To celebrate the feast of the Baptism of the Lord–which this year falls unusually on a Monday–I thought I’d share a few photos from one of Rome’s lesser known churches, San Giovanni dei Fiorentini. A baroque church, it was built for the Florentine expats in Rome back when Florence was an independent city-state and named for the city’s patron, St. John the Baptist. The church contains a relic of Mary Magdalene (her foot), and is the burial place of the great–but tragically unhappy–baroque architect Francesco Borromini. It also contains a number of interesting artistic works featuring baptism.

I’ve written before about the importance of baptism, but I have a personal reason to be particularly fond of San Giovanni dei Fiorentini. Its 17th century altarpiece, the Baptism of Jesus by Antonio Raggi, features on the beautifully designed cover of my book Baptism of Desire and Christian Salvation. Of course, I’d like to think that what’s inside the cover is pretty interesting as well, and I’m pleased that the book’s release date is coming up later this month–January 26. There’s more information on the website of Catholic University of America Press, and the book is available on other online sellers such as Amazon.

In the meantime enjoy the views of San Giovanni dei Fiorentini.

Baptism of Christ, Francesco Mochi, 1645

Mary the Mother of God and the relationships that define us: homily for the Solemnity

Madonna and Child, Umbrian , 14th century, Spoleto

Homily for the Solemnity of Mary, the Mother of God

Today we celebrate the Solemnity of Mary Mother of God. Fortunately, as you came into church this morning, you did not see armed troops guarding the doors, nor bishops jostling and shouting angrily at each other in Greek. We should be grateful for such peace and calm this New Year’s Day, 2024. Sixteen-hundred years ago, you might have seen just that. At that time, the fiercest controversy in the Catholic Church was over whether the title “Mother of God” could be applied to Mary, a controversy settled by the Council of Ephesus in 431. Before the Council of Ephesus, Nestorius, the bishop of Constantinople, had claimed that Mary could be called the “Mother of Christ” or the “Mother of Jesus” but not the “Mother of God.”

If you think for a minute about what is at stake in the title, you’ll realize that the controversy was not really about the identity of Mary, but the identity of her son. Mary can only be called “Mother of God” if Jesus is, in fact, fully man and fully God. The Council of Ephesus declared Nestorius a heretic for obscuring what we celebrate this Christmas season: that the Son of God has become man, that from the moment of his conception in Mary’s womb Jesus was and is God.

But today is a Marian feast. What does this title tell us about Mary? You have probably heard many times that Mary always points to Christ. Her final words recorded in Scripture are to the servants at Cana, after she has dropped an unsubtle hint to Jesus about the need for more wine at the party: “Do whatever he tells you,” she says (Jn 2:5). It is hard to think of a more exalted title to bestow on anyone than “Mother of God,” yet there’s a humility in the title too because by exalting Mary we are first exalting her son.

Mary is a woman of both humility and strength, of contemplation and action, of wisdom and patience, of courage and compassion, and yet her greatness—what makes her the greatest woman to have lived, worthy of the title of today’s feast—is the relationship she has with her son. And there is a lesson here for us, a lesson about the importance of relationships.

A jaunt to Spoleto

The Coronation of the Virgin, Filippo Lippi, Spoleto Cathedral

Compared to the first half of 2023, the past few months back at my day job have kept me mostly at my desk or in the classroom. I can’t complain. My students at the Gregorian University are a source of real encouragement and hope, and, even though preparing new classes is a daunting task, I always learn things in the process. This year’s new courses included penance–the sacrament and the virtue–and a seminar on marriage. The history of penance probably contains more twists and turns than that of any other sacrament, and I’ve particularly enjoyed the discussion in my marriage seminar provoked by Mark Regnerus’s excellent study The Future of Christian Marriage.

Filippo Lippi (self-portrait in the Dormition, Spoleto Cathedral)

Every semester the Jesuits in the Gregorian community also get away for a day trip, which involves a bit of relaxation together and a very big meal. This year’s trip was to the Umbrian hill town of Spoleto, the sort of place where one finds Italy at its most picturesque. Highlights include a fortress that became a papal and then state prison and a 12th century cathedral. The cathedral’s highlight is an apse fresco of the Life of the Virgin Mary (started in 1467) by the Renaissance master Fra Filippo Lippi. I’ve shared some of the frescoes on my Facebook page at Christmas time, but the colorful Coronation seems an apt scene for the Solemnity of Mary Mother of God (January 1). The work also contains a hint of scandal–Lippi, a Carmelite friar, painted himself into the scene along with Lucrezia Buti, a novice in a Florentine convent who became the artist’s model and then his, ahem, mistress. Perhaps they got a pastoral, but not a liturgical, blessing.

The Vatican Nativity scene, 2023

Nativity scene, St. Peter’s Square, 2023

Over the past few weeks, I’ve noted (here and here) that 2023 marks the 800th anniversary of the first Nativity scene set up by St. Francis in the little town of Greccio. The Vatican’s Nativity scene this year also reflects that anniversary.

This year’s scene doesn’t aim for historical accuracy–thus, St. Francis alongside Mary and Joseph and the three friars replacing the three kings. (Oh, and there’s a priest celebrating Mass in the background too.) The fresco on the wall behind them is a replica of the one in the cave in Greccio.

The figures, perhaps, aren’t exquisitely beautiful. (And, come to think of it, the priest in the background seems a tad confused about what he’s supposed to be doing–too much realism?) But at least this year’s Nativity scene isn’t aggressively weird (like the aliens from 2020) or trying too hard to be modern (like… well, there are too many examples).

You’ll notice that the manger itself is empty. As per the tradition, the Baby Jesus doesn’t arrive until Christmas itself. This year he won’t find a perfect Nativity scene, a perfect Church, or a perfect world, but he’ll come nonetheless and we need him all the more because of it.

Rome for the holidays

Advent is one of my favorite times of the year to be in Rome. What they call winter here is nothing to a Minnesotan, and the shortening days are counterbalanced by the city’s delightful display of Christmas lights. These generally don’t start appearing until after the Immaculate Conception (December 8) and they don’t come down until after the Epiphany (January 6).

Rome’s Christmas tree, Piazza del Popolo

The city’s official Christmas tree, like the Vatican Nativity scene, is often the subject of local critique and Roman wit. This year, the tree got a new location due to construction work on Rome’s mythical new subway line–scheduled to open a few years after the Second Coming of Christ. The tree’s usual home, Piazza Venezia, is now a construction site, but its new location in Piazza del Popolo is a calmer setting away from the traffic. The official tree also has some competition from a glitzy counterpart at the Spanish Steps, given to the city by the fashion designer Dior.

I’d also be remiss not to mention what a delightful time of year Advent is to be at the Gregorian University, where the university’s international richness is on full display. Student groups from different countries take turns singing in the atrium between classes. It gives them an excuse to duck out of class early (ahem), but you’d have to be Ebenezer Scrooge not to appreciate the festive atmosphere. The Mexican college usually wins the prize for the best show not only because of their charm and energy but because you just can’t top a piñata. It’s a time to be grateful for our young priests, seminarians, religious, and lay students who are such a source of hope for me and for the Church.

More from Greccio

Chiesa di San Michele Arcangelo, Greccio

Last week, I mentioned my pilgrimage to Greccio, the little town on the edge of Lazio where St. Francis put up the first Nativity scene. I thought I’d share a few more pictures from the (grandly named) Museo Internazionale del Presepio and the Franciscan Sanctuary just outside of town, which was built around the Grotto of the Presepio. Last week I mentioned the series The Chosen and how it demonstrates the same instinct behind the Nativity scene–to use the imagination to draw closer to Jesus in the flesh.

It occurred to me that The Chosen‘s great success–against the odds, without Hollywood backing–shows that the Gospel story remains just as compelling as ever. The commercial success of Mel Gibson’s 2004 The Passion of the Christ showed the same thing. In fact, given the commercial success of such projects, it’s perhaps surprising that the entertainment industry doesn’t try to tap the religious market more often. Then again, Hollywood’s attempts to do religion tend to fall flat because they’re so patently inauthentic–remember Noah (2014)? You didn’t miss much. Martin Scorsese’s 2016 Silence was also a bit of a dud.

Despite these films’ massive budgets, the talent behind them, and slick special effects, they weren’t all that compelling. Perhaps the missing element was simply faith. I suppose it’s something like the difference between a foreigner speaking a language and a native speaker; no matter the foreigner’s wealth or education, he’ll never be as eloquent as a peasant speaking his native tongue. Faith has no substitutes.

The Nativity scene at 800

Santuario Francescano del Presepe, Greccio

A few weeks before Christmas in the year 1223, St. Francis told one of his brothers that he wished to celebrate the holiday in Greccio, a hamlet about halfway between Assisi and Rome. He added something more: that he wanted to see with his own eyes the baby born in Bethlehem and the crude stable where he lay.

The brother went on ahead and arranged everything as the saint had asked in a little grotto just outside the town, a scene now familiar to us–figures of Mary and Joseph, the shepherds, the ox and the ass. The sight drew men and women from around Greccio and delighted Francis, who served as a deacon at Mass that Christmas night. The tradition of the Christmas manger scene was born.

It’s a tradition that thrives all over the world, but especially in Italy. It’s also an example of what is known to theologians as “inculturation,” the way the Gospel enters into different cultures and finds ever-new expression in their traditions. The traditional Nativity scenes of Italy, especially Naples, often include dozens, even hundreds, of figures going about the tasks of daily life–shopkeepers, bakers, fruit vendors, beggars, musicians, servants, housewives, children, farmers, you name it. Dress and architecture in the scenes reflect the daily life of those who create them.

Memento mori

As I noted at the beginning of the month, November is a month dedicated to praying for the dead. It is also a time in which the readings begin to take on a somewhat apocalyptic flare. The theme of the end of things echoes with the changing seasons; at least in the northern hemisphere, this is the time when fall turns into winter.

Sedlec Ossuary, Kutna Hora, Czech Republic

It might seem macabre to dedicate a particular season to considering death, but it doesn’t have to be. In any case, not thinking about death will not prevent it from happening to each one of us. One reason to pray for the dead, as I wrote a few weeks ago, is to help them on their journey through purgatory. Another is to give us the proper attitude toward life. The things in this world are temporary; our relationship with God is eternal. We should plan accordingly.

Our Great American Holiday

As an American abroad, I’ll readily confess to a bit of nostalgia come Thanksgiving time. As a national rite, the holiday is sublime in its simplicity: turkey, family, eating–and an implicit spirituality as unobtrusive and essential as bedrock. I do celebrate here in Rome with other expats, but the Italian interpretation of cranberry sauce, stuffing, and pumpkin pie, while sometimes whimsical and frequently tasty, is never quite the same. Thanksgiving is quintessentially American, expressing what is best about our country–and perhaps also something of what we seem to be losing.

No surprises on judgment day: homily for the thirty-second Sunday of Ordinary Time

Homily for the 32nd Sunday in Ordinary Time (A)

Many years ago, before I became a Jesuit, my parents celebrated their 25^th wedding anniversary with a trip to Italy. I had just finished two years as a Peace Corps volunteer in Kazakhstan, and I decided to meet them in Italy—but I wanted it to be a surprise. So I made up an elaborate story about where I was going—a complete fake itinerary—and I pulled it off. I have never seen my mom’s mouth open so wide as when I showed up and said, “Happy anniversary!”

If you’ve ever pulled off a surprise party—and it’s not easy—you know that both the anticipation and the surprise itself are fun. There’s something about knowing what is going to happen when others don’t, the cleverness it requires, and then the shock, which in the end turns out to be joyful.

Let me be clear about today’s reading. Jesus is NOT trying to surprise us. The arrival of the bridegroom surprises all of the virgins—they all doze off and are awakened by shouting in the night—but for the wise virgins it is a joyful surprise, which brings a wedding feast, and for the foolish virgins, it means darkness. It means remaining outside in the darkness of the night because they did not care for the light that was their responsibility. In the Gospel parable, the foolish virgins are surprised, but Jesus is telling us the parable precisely so that we will not be surprised.