Italy – Tony Lusvardi, S.J.

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.

IHSes and resigning popes

Last month the Gregorian Jesuits took our spring community outing to L’Aquila, capital of the Abruzzo region. L’Aquila was most recently in the news for a 2009 earthquake that tragically killed over 300 people. Most buildings in the city have been restored, though construction still abounds.

Highlights of the trip were two churches. The first, the Basilica of St. Bernardino of Siena, is dedicated to the Franciscan preacher (1380-1444) with a great devotion to the name of Jesus. In fact, in images of St. Bernardino one frequently sees the IHS Christogram–using the Greek letters for the name of Jesus. The “IHS” was later taken up, of course, by the Society of Jesus. The IHS sunburst with the three nails of Christ’s passion is prominently displayed all over the Basilica of San Bernardino. The saint died in L’Aquila and is buried in the basilica.

L’Aquila’s other iconic church is Santa Maria di Collemaggio, burial place of Pope Celestine V (1215-1296). It is known as the Church of Pardon because of the plenary indulgence Celestine attached to the church–what locals refer to as an annual Jubilee. Celestine’s papacy, however, could hardly be considered a success, and he resigned after only a few months in office. He was a holy hermit, perhaps never really cut out to be pope.

Cagliari cathedral

A few weeks ago, I mentioned the time I spent in Maracalagonis, Sardinia during Holy Week this year. I thought I’d follow up with a few pictures of Cagliari’s Cathedral, certainly one of the city’s highlights. The building is well kept up and contains a number of artistic gems. Among these are the two sides of what was once a single pulpit, which now flank the main door. These were sculpted by Guglielmo of Pisa around 1160 and later sent to Cagliari when the city was ruled by that merchant city-state.

Popular piety and tradition in Sardinia

I was fortunate this year to have spent Holy Week and Easter in Maracalagonis, Sardinia, a small town about a 20 minute drive from the center of Cagliari. It was a good break from the classroom and a wonderful taste of parish life.

Chiesa della Santa Vergine degli Angeli, Maracalagonis, Sardinia

The religious atmosphere I experienced was both warm and traditional. Masses were full; I heard confessions all week long; I met deeply committed Catholic families. I was especially impressed by the enthusiasm for traditional popular devotions. Teams of parishioners take responsibility for organizing different devotions throughout the year. Of particular note during Holy Week were the su Scravamentu, in which the nails are removed from the Lord’s hands and feet and he is taken down from the Cross after the Good Friday liturgy, and the many processions through the town streets–Stations of the Cross, Palm Sunday, Holy Thursday, the Sorrows of Mary on Good Friday, and then the S’Incontru on Easter morning.

Saint Emilianus of Trevi

St. Emilianus of Trevi is perhaps destined to be overshadowed by St. Thomas Aquinas with whom he shares a feast day, January 28. He was one of the many bishops martyred during Roman persecution who provided inspiration and strength to their local communities but today are little know, the details of their biographies mingled with legend.

From the Martyrdom of St. Emilianus of Trevi, 12th century, Spoleto

I came across a striking set of 12th century carvings depicting the martyrdom of the saint in Spoleto last year and was taken by their vividness. St. Emilianus hailed originally from Armenia and came to Italy in the third century, where he was made the first bishop of Trevi. He was martyred during the persecution under Emperor Diocletian in 304, and his relics are preserved in Spoleto Cathedral.

He was condemned to die by a Roman proconsul for his refusal to sacrifice to the gods, but–as the panels from Spoleto recount–the first attempts to put him to death failed. The wild beasts sent to kill him instead bowed before him, and when he was tied up to be burnt the torches of his would be executioners fizzled out as they approached him. Finally, he was beheaded. The last panel of the work depicts Christ enthroned in heaven welcoming the martyr.

Martyrdom of St. Emilianus of Trevi, 12th century, Spoleto

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.

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.