Most days I forget about the fact that I lived in Italy,
actually lived in an entirely
different culture for four months of my life. As I trudged through my first full summer day of class, work
and homework, the Italian days of long lunches, conversations over cappuccinos
and hours each afternoon to complete a single assignment already seemed part of
a distant past. Two months later I was back on Gordon’s campus, a place that
even though it had been nine months, immediately felt like home again. Each
time I’m asked the infamous question, “How was Italy?” I’m forced to reach back
to the memories I’ve tucked away and placed in a category I don’t quite know
what to do with. How do you explain a town that most closely resembled a Disney
movie? How do you explain the equal frustration and excitement of encountering
art in ways I never have before? How do you explain a community that became so
strong, but was still so temporary? And how do you explain the fact that
despite the luxury of Italian life, I faced a whole new set of stressors as I
confronted parts of myself I thought I’d left behind and learned to live in a
community of people and in a culture extremely different from myself? I may not
have time to deal with these questions in short passing conversations, but in
the little moments I have to breathe, in conversations over coffee or in forced
reflections such as this, I begin to intentionally piece together all that I
learned while abroad. One of the biggest, and most unexpected, pieces of myself
that was challenged and changed was my idea of church and faith.
One
of our first authentically Italian experiences as a program was attending
Catholic mass at a local church. Not only did the language create a barrier,
but the tradition and liturgy of the service was entirely new for me as well.
In the middle of the service I was beckoned by one of the Italian women to
participate in the service by bringing a flower to the communion table. I was
terrified to approach the priest, but was assured that this was a way the town
was welcoming us confused protestant students into their community, despite
different religious backgrounds. Throughout the semester I continued to
encounter the catholic liturgy and fight against my preconceived notions of what
faith is. I learned to listen for God’s voice in an environment I didn’t
understand and to appreciate the beauty and faithfulness in the continual
sit-down-stand-up routine throughout a service. I experienced a celebration of
Holy Week with more emphasis on the crucifixion than the resurrection. Even the
weather mirrored the mood of our hearts on Maundy Thursday, Good Friday and
Sunday morning as ominous clouds enveloped the sky as we thought about Christ’s
preparation for sacrifice and readied our hearts for the wonder of an
uncertain, foggy Easter morning that slowly broke out into a rainbow and
sun-filled afternoon of celebration.
My
most vivid encounter with Catholicism was the overwhelming moment when I walked
into St. Peter’s Basilica. I felt as though I had been smacked in the face with
ornamentation and couldn’t tell what was beautiful and what was blasphemous.
How could one building so equally mirror the glory of God and the selfish greed
of our Heavenly father? My eyes settled on Mary’s marble face in the Pieta, and
I was reminded of who my Savior is and reassured that though my faith was being
challenged and broadened, I could find assurance in Christ’s death on the
cross. Back on campus today, I am still wrestling with the emotions and questions
this afternoon in St. Peter’s stirred through a poetry assignment in one of my
classes.
In
the fourth month of Orvieto, my Art &
Liturgy class learned about Catholicism through participating in four of
the seven daily hours practiced by nuns and monks. We prayed the opening and
closing hours (Lauds and Compline) on our own, held a morning Terce service as
a class and went to an evening Vespers service at a local convent.
Simultaneously we were studying the art of the Catholic Church and creating our
own prayer books. This entire month was a beautiful intersection of the rich
Italian catholic tradition and our own modern protestant customs. One pivotal
experience for me was a conversation with a local cloistered nun (graciously
translated by our Professor). As she explained to us how she felt called to be
confined to the convent so that she could work and pray for the world, my own
notions of vocation and service were seriously challenged. Though I am not
called to physically dedicate my life in the same way this Catholic nun did, I
was forced to think about how different my life might look if I took the
scriptures as seriously as she does. What does my life of comfort say about how
strongly I depend on the Lord for not only my physical needs, but my emotional
and spiritual needs as well? I am still working to figure out how I can make
prayer as prevalent a part of my life as it was during those four weeks.
Outside
of the catholic tradition, my idea of expressing faith was expanded by the
paintings that I encountered. I have seen a lot of art in my life, but have
never been as challenged by the strokes in front of me as I was in Rome. Caravaggio’s
biblical depictions of the humanness of Christ and seriousness of the battle
between light and dark kept me thinking about the paintings for weeks after I
had seen them. Michelangelo’s depiction of the stories of the bible throughout
the Sistine Chapel both captivated and overwhelmed me as I tried in vain to
take it all in. As I made my way toward the chapel, the halls were filled with
hundreds of crucifixion paintings, a testament to how differently God speaks to
us all. One abstract painting of
the embrace between the prodigal son and his father unexpectedly caught my
attention, and when I took my Dad back to the Vatican two months later, made
him pause as well. The power of
these paintings has forever deepened my understanding of the truth of the
gospel. However, what do I do with the fact that many of these artists had
seriously troubled pasts, and perhaps some wouldn’t have even called themselves
followers of Christ?
I
know that I am not likely to express my faith through a painting or join a
local convent. I may never step foot in another Catholic church again; in fact,
I’m not sure how many people I will have the opportunity to share all my
insights about faith with. But these experiences still touched me and, even if
I haven’t totally figured out what to do with them, they are still very much a
part of my life. I hope that I don’t continue to forget that I lived in Italy.
I hope, instead, that when I stray away from the Lord, I remember that he will
always embrace me like a loving father when I choose to come back. I hope that
when I forget about the seriousness of the gospel, I will think of the dark
reminders of Christ’s death and the beautiful hope in his resurrection. I hope
that even if I can’t paint these things, I will struggle to write them, to
express them in the best way I know how. And I hope that when I must remind myself
to work with all my heart, as if serving
the Lord, and not man I will remember the sister in Orvieto who is also
sacrificing herself in a life of service.
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