Jesuit spirituality – Tony Lusvardi, S.J.

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.

A poem and a prayer for Australia (and Jesuits!)

St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Melbourne, Australia

After a very blessed time of tertianship–the final formal part of Jesuit formation–and travel afterwards, I arrived back in Rome this week to begin preparing for the semester ahead. For me, this new beginning is also a time to look back with gratitude at my time in Australia’s tertianship program. I thought I’d share this poem from Australian poet James McAuley (1917-1976), a prayer for his remarkable country that could just as easily be a prayer for us Jesuits.

The poem is a part of a fountain outside of Melbourne’s cathedral that runs from the doors of the church out toward the city–evoking Ezekiel’s image of the waters of life flowing from the temple. The sculpture includes quotations from both the Old and New Testaments (John 4:14, Ps 23:2-3). It is inspired by the words of Revelation: “Then [the angel] showed me the river of the water of life, bright as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb through the middle of the street of the city; also, on either side of the river, the tree of life […] and the leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations” (Rv 22:1-2).

Here’s McAuley’s poem:

Incarnate Word,

in whom all nature lives,

cast flame upon the earth:

raise up contemplatives

among us, men who walk within the fire

of ceaseless prayer,

impetuous desire.

Set pools of silence in this thirsty land.
James McAuley (1917-1976), Australian poet

Sacred Heart of Jesus homily

Sometimes certain people get on my nerves, and it’s hard to love them. Sometimes people behave badly toward others, and it’s hard to love them, too. Sometimes people have hurt me; it’s hard enough to forgive them and even harder to love them.

The first letter of John tells us that God is love, and remaining in his love means loving others as he does. In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus commands us to love our enemies, just as our heavenly Father loves them. From the cross, he even prays for the forgiveness of those who crucified him.

But it’s hard to love those who irritate me or who’ve hurt me or who behave obnoxiously or cruelly. With effort, I succeed in being kind and fair to them maybe 75% of the time, though that percentage falls quickly if I’m tired or hungry or disappointed. Sometimes I want to say to Jesus, “This yoke doesn’t seem easy to me.”