Travel – Tony Lusvardi, S.J.

Buildings that speak to us: Homily for the dedication of the Lateran Basilica

Homily for the Feast of the Dedication of the Lateran Basilica (2023).

From the cloister of St. John Lateran, Rome

The feast we celebrate today is particularly special for us in Rome. We celebrate the dedication of our cathedral. It is a magnificent building, and probably all of us have been there to appreciate the beauty of this splendid and ancient church.

The anniversaries of church dedications are important in the Church calendar because churches are the places where we gather to celebrate the Christian liturgy, the holy mysteries of salvation. Here in Rome, however, we live in an unusual situation because there are many beautiful and ancient churches–but when we enter them, often we find few of the faithful.

We should not be discouraged; instead we should remember the faithful who still speak to us through these monuments of their faith. The churches they built and left us are not mere buildings; they are their testimony. There is a message in these buildings that the saints of past times wanted to convey to us.

But more than a message, there is still a presence. When we celebrate the liturgy, we are not alone; we enter into the presence of the saints. They are with us. On November 1, we entered the season in which we remember the saints. Churches–from St. John Lateran to this little chapel–are more than museums where we learn from the past; they are places where we encounter the saints, where eternity becomes the present.

(Original: Italian)

Readings: Ez 47:1-2, 8-9, 12; 1 Cor 3:9c-11, 16-17; John 2:13-22

Gregorian University Chapel

November 9, 2023

Lessons from Slovakia

With classes starting up again this week at the Greg, I’ve been looking back with gratitude on a full summer. Among the highlights was a unexpected trip to Slovakia to accompany the Free Society Seminar organized by the Faith & Reason Institute and the Kolégium Antona Neuwirtha. It was a delight to meet a diverse group of curious and insightful young people from Slovakia, Poland, and the States, all of them committed in one way or another to serving their societies and the common good. The faculty was equally a joy to be with.

In addition to chaplain duties, I was able to lead a seminar on the theme of “civil religion,” taking an article I wrote for The Catholic Thing last year “Rites (and Wrongs) of Democracy” and Robert Bellah’s 1967 article “Civil Religion in America” as jumping off points. Another article I wrote about public apologies and how we deal with historical wrongs, “Confessing Other People’s Sins,” produced an even livelier discussion, enriched by the diverse eastern European perspectives.

Slovakia is a country of castles, idyllic landscapes, and beautiful churches, but one of the trips’s most haunting memories has to do with the legacy of communism. We visited the Victims of Communism Museum in Košice, which seeks to keep the history of that dark time alive. The geography of Slovakia also provided a vivid reminder of the desperation that system produced. The ancient and strategically placed Devín Castle overlooks the Danube, with Austria–and during the Cold War, freedom–just on the other side. Displays detail the brutal lengths to which the border guards went to prevent Czechoslovak citizens from escaping. Some tried to swim the Danube at the narrow point by Devín. Thousands were imprisoned for illegally trying to cross the Czechoslovak-Austria frontier, and 42 people lost their lives.

Italy’s largest monastery and a few surprises in the Cilento

Certosa di San Lorenzo, seen from Padula

A few weeks ago, I mentioned stumbling across the Certosa of San Martino while visiting Naples with my parents earlier this spring. I was fortunate enough to catch up with them for a few more days in southern Italy, this time in the Cilento region. Like all of Italy’s regions, the Cilento overflows with layers of history to discover. We found this paleo-Christian baptistry almost by coincidence and yet another — even more monumental — “Certosa” or Charterhouse, a Carthusian monastery.

The Certosa di San Lorenzo, just outside of Padula, in fact, is the largest monastery in Italy. Founded in 1306, like the Certosa of San Martino, it was redone in the 18th century in baroque style. Carthusian monasteries are divided into a public-facing outer courtyard, around which the lay brothers lived, engaging in the practical work of the place, and an inner cloister in which the Carthusian priests lived in hermetic seclusion.

Certosa di San Lorenzo, Padula in the background

The Carthusian way of life is quite distinct, with the monks spending most of their time in near total isolation in their cells. These cells, in fact, are fairly spacious to accommodate all of the monks’ activities — each one is like a mini-monastery — including a garden, where they grow their own food, a small chapel, a study, and a place set aside for engaging in small industry, such as book-repair. While quite austere, the Carthusian life is nonetheless not inhuman. St. Bruno’s rule designates a certain time each week for conversation, which takes place as the monks walk together around their cloister. At San Lorenzo, a covered second story was added over the monks’ cells so that this time of conversation could occur even in inclement weather.

Build back baptistries! A trip to the Baptistry of San Giovanni in Fonte

An unexpected discovery on my recent trip to Italy’s Cilento was the Baptistry of San Giovanni in Fonte, just outside of Padula. Also known as the Battistero Marcelliano, after Pope Marcellus, it dates from the fourth century, putting it among the oldest Christian structures in the world. A letter from Cassiodorus in AD 527 mentions a miracle occurring at the baptistry, its water level rising unexpectedly while a priest was pronouncing the prayer over the baptismal waters on the vigil of the feast of St. Cyprian.

Battistero di San Giovanni in Fonte, Paula, Italy

The structure itself sits on the site of a natural spring, so the baptismal font was a pool of “living” water. The baptistry was built on the ruins of an earlier pagan structure and underwent several renovations and expansions throughout history. Hints of a fresco, dating from the 11th century when the structure was converted into a chapel, remain on the wall. The remains of still earlier frescoes from the 6th and 7th centuries were removed and taken to a local museum.

Rising water levels caused the chapel to be abandoned in the 19th century, though the site of the remains and spring, down a winding country road, are quite a pleasant spot today.

This reminder of baptism from Christianity’s earliest days is worth reflecting on during the Easter season. I discuss some of the theological and practical consequences of the shift away from the patristic catechumenate and toward near-universal infant baptism in the Christian cultures of the Middle Ages in Baptism of Desire and Christian Salvation, but the subject is worth more reflection than what I’m able to give it there.

Reflecting on early Christian baptismal practices is important because we are moving into a new phase in Christian history that in some ways will more closely resemble the Church of the Fathers — in which Christianity was a minority — than medieval Christendom. Some of our sacramental practices, I am convinced, will have to shift to respond to this new reality. This may not be entirely a bad thing. When it comes to baptism, for example, too often the sacrament, celebrated in a minimalistic way, has become a mere formality with little connection new life in Christ.

The Certosa di San Martino and the Neapolitan baroque

Inside the choir of the Certosa di San Martino (Naples)

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about the connection between the baroque style, the Jesuits, and the city of Rome. It’s hard to find a city that can outdo Rome in baroqueness, though Naples gives the Eternal City a run for its money. I took a day trip down to Naples in mid-March to meet up with my parents who were vacationing there and was reminded what a treasure trove of marvels that city is.

We got in to visit one of the sights I’ve been wanting to see for a long time, Giuseppe Sanmartino’s Veiled Christ (1753). I had seen pictures before of this virtuoso use of marble–carved as if a thin, almost translucent, shroud had been draped over the figure of the dead Christ. What makes the sculpture so moving, however–something I hadn’t appreciated until seeing it in person–is the liquid quality the shroud creates. The way it clings to the flesh below, with the wounds visible through it, and pools around the edge of the body almost makes you feel the life draining from the corpse. The rest of the chapel is chockfull of allegorical figures, though photography is prohibited inside, so you’ll just have to go to Naples to see for yourself!

One of the visit’s surprises was to discover the Certosa di San Martino, a Carthusian Monastery, now a museum, tucked under imposing walls of the Castle of Sant’Elmo overlooking the city. We went up for the view from the Vomero hill and just happened into the Certosa, founded in 1368 but redone in extravagant baroque in 1623.

Guercino, Rome, and the Jesuit baroque

One is always discovering new artists in Rome, and earlier this year, thanks to a special exhibit at the Scuderie del Quirinale and the recommendation of a friend, I discovered Guercino (1591-1666). Born Giovanni Francesco Barbieri in Cento (Emilia-Romagna), he worked in Rome when baroque art was at its zenith.

The exhibit was of particular interest to me because Guercino’s time in Rome corresponded to the period when the Jesuits were also at their zenith. The pope who proved to be Guercino’s great patron, Gregory XV (Alessandro Ludovisi), also favored the Society of Jesus, especially in its mission of spreading Catholicism around the globe.

The Jesuits have often been associated with the baroque because it was the artistic style in vogue around the time of our founding, so our great Roman churches, the Gesù and Sant’Ignazio — and all the other Jesuit churches around the world built to imitate them — are classic examples of baroque architecture.

Guercino, St. Peter Raising Tabitha, 1618

“Icons of Hope” in Rome

Last week I mentioned the Church of Sant’ Agnese in Agone, one of Rome’s architectural gems and a monument to the city’s martyrs.

The last time I visited Sant’Agnese, I found that the Church was hosting a special display for the Jubilee (until February 16) dedicated to the theme “Icons of Hope.” The display brings together a number of icons from the Vatican Museum.

Virgin Hodegetria, Ukrainian, 17th-18th century

The most moving piece in the exhibition had to be the Ukrainian Virgin Hodegetria (17th/18th century). The engraved silver on a wood panel has been damaged over time, but the icon is all the more hauntingly beautiful. The Virgin’s face is still clearly visible, her eyes clear and sad, the expression that of someone who has known suffering but lost none of her dignity.

It is, of course, impossible to view the icon and not see in it the image of the suffering of the Ukrainian people as the Russian assault on their country every day grows more cruel and barbaric. Last week I wrote about the courage of the martyrs. Ukraine’s defense of its freedom and right to exist as a country has perhaps stung the conscience of the world because, in a self-indulgent age, the country’s display of genuine courage is bracing. And as George Weigel has pointed out, “Ukraine is fighting for all of us.”

The display also contains icons from other eastern European countries–a sampling below.

The Church of Sant’Agnese in Agone

This week’s liturgical calendar includes two prominent–and very different– Roman martyrs. The first, St. Sebastian, a third century soldier originally from Milan, was sentenced to death after converting to Christianity. Tied to a column, he was shot through with arrows but miraculously survived and was nursed back to health by a Roman matron named Irene. He went right back to preaching and, after warning the Emperor Diocletian to repent–a gutsy move if there ever was one–was beaten to death and thrown into Rome’s sewers.

No less courageous, St. Agnes sought to dedicate her life entirely to God while very young. This meant refusing the advances of several powerful suitors, who were enraged by the rejection. Agnes’s pagan father sided with the suitors. She was humiliated, even dragged naked through the streets of Rome, burnt at the stake and when that failed–as with the first attempt to kill St. Sebastian–eventually beheaded.

The courage of such martyrs–one a solider, the other a mere girl, barely a teenager–is fundamental, I think, to appreciating the full significance of Christian faith in eternal life. At least some of the ennui that one can perceive in the Church over the past several decades perhaps comes from deemphasizing the witness of the martyrs just when we need it most.

The Vatican Nativity Scene, 2024

Merry Christmas to all! I am spending Christmas at the church of the Santa Vergine degli Angeli in Maracalagonis, Sardinia, where I was fortunate to spend Holy Week earlier this year.

Before I left Rome, I was able to check out this year’s Nativity scene in St. Peter’s Square, always a source of discussion (and sometimes critique) among Romans. (For comparison, here are pictures of the Vatican Nativity scenes from the past two years: 2022 and 2023.) Last year was the 800th anniversary of this tradition, attributed to St. Francis–more about its origins in the town of Greccio here and here.

This year’s Vatican scene has a river theme, with the three kings making an aquatic landing in Bethlehem. As I noted last year, the point of such popular devotions, like Ignatian contemplation, is not to recreate history–or geography–but to help us find ourselves in the story. To that end, I found this year’s Nativity attractive and I especially liked the ducks in the foreground!

Wishing everyone many blessings and much happiness this Christmas!

The urnas of Bohol

Among 2024’s highlights was my first trip to the Philippines, where I attended a meeting of Jesuit liturgists, caught up with some Jesuit friends, did my annual 8-day retreat, and had a chance to explore a bit of that wonderful country, without doubt one of the most devout in the world.

One of my discoveries when visiting the island of Bohol, home to the iconic Chocolate Hills, was a particular local devotional tradition, the “urnas,” which are small shrines made for homes during the colonial period. The urnas first caught my attention in the museum of the Church of St. Augustine in Manila (below), but it was only when I arrived in Bohol that someone explained the tradition. The urnas typically contain a saint and are beautifully carved and painted.

Some of the saints depicted reflect the missionary orders that evangelized the areas, and others give a window into the local piety of the time. Note for example, the statue of St. Roch (with his dog), a saint often invoked against plague. St. Vincent Ferrer also seems to have been particularly popular. This depiction of the Holy Family seems appropriate as Christmas approaches: