“Rome will change a man,” said my friend Father John. It sure changed me.
At first, I didn’t want to go. Whether for a night or a week, leaving home never appeals to me. When I go somewhere, my wife has to do my job as well as hers. Managing a five-ring circus is hard enough with a partner. Doing it alone is Herculean.
But a generous benefactor called and said, “Come to Rome for a pilgrimage and we’ll pay for it.” That’s not the kind of thing that happens every day.
So I went.
Day One consisted of the transcendent splendor of St. Peter’s Basilica, surely the most magnificent structure ever built by man. Michelangelo’s famous Pietà draws the crowds, but it’s far from the only jaw-dropping work of art in St. Peter’s. The magnificent sculpted baldachin above the high altar is by Bernini, as are many of the awe-inspiring marble statues of popes and saints.
I’m a middle-aged slob from New Jersey. My ancestors picked potatoes. In any other era of history I’d have been cannon fodder in the army of an ambitious monarch. In no fantasy version of my life did I ever imagine myself strolling the grounds of the Vatican or standing before the throne of St. Peter.
The Lord has done great things for me.
The papal tombs in particular knocked me out. It was humbling to pray before the relics of heroic martyrs, including those of the rock upon whom Jesus built his church. The scale of St. Peter’s is overwhelming. It’s sort of like the Grand Canyon. Words aren’t really up to the task of describing it.
Things only got better. Successive days were spent touring the major basilicas. I gazed in wonder. More splendor. More grandeur. More Bernini. It reminded me of the title of a book I read recently about the radical American Catholic Dorothy Day: “The World Will Be Saved by Beauty.”
The churches of Rome are very beautiful.
At the Basilica of St. Augustine, before the tomb of St. Monica, I asked God to round up his lost sheep. I gave him the names of a few who are particularly important to me.
At the tomb of St. Agnes I prayed that my three little girls would become beacons of belief. At the tomb of St. Ignatius I prayed that my two young sons would grow courageous in the faith. In the catacombs of St. Callixtus prayed for persecuted Christians around the world.
At every stop I prayed that my wife was having an easy time in my absence.
The weather wasn’t particularly Roman. I expected heat and sun, but it was mostly cold and raining. No matter—I like it that way. Those are good conditions for a fast-paced walking tour of a dense and cobblestoned city. One afternoon we hit 15 churches in 14 minutes.
I was with a small group of Catholic journalists. We attended the weekly papal audience in St. Peter’s square. The throngs there were assembled from the four corners of the earth, waving flags and speaking in tongues. As James Joyce so rightly noted, Catholic means “here comes everybody.”
Our guide, a most impressive American priest, translated the Holy Father’s welcome to us in real time. Throughout the week he generously translated Church history, architecture, doctrine and tradition, not to mention many restaurant menus. If our Church is to survive its current crises it will be because she is served by men like Fr. Roger.
A side note: Americans have a tendency to forget how young we are. Our country is still in the peach-fuzz stage. In Rome I saw many things crafted by human hands 1,300 years before Washington crossed the Delaware. A timely reminder: The dramas occupying us are not eternal. They will fade.
When in Rome, of course, one does more than pray. The food we ate was Grand Canyonesque, too. Wine-soaked lunches of antipasti and grilled branzino. Dinners of buffalo mozzarella and carbonara, washed down with more wine. Tiramisu, tiny wild strawberries, ice cream doused with Grand Marnier. And then a little wine, some coffee, and perhaps a limoncello.
Mamma mia! Rome blew out my prayer life and my waistline in equal measure. I ain’t even mad.
All roads lead to Rome, but generous benefactors don’t grow on trees. I know how lucky I am. Should you ever have the chance to visit the City of the Seven Hills, don’t hesitate for a moment. Go.
It will change you.
From the July-August 2019 issue of Fairfield County Catholic.
Matthew Hennessey 