As a convert to Catholicism, I’d deliberately delayed my inaugural visit to Rome. I was aware of the impact such a trip to the “Eternal City” has had on countless souls before me and so wanted to make it when I was truly ready, with appropriate company and in the right vein. I had furthermore been apprehensive, warned by fellow Catholics that the city is not as it once was.
Yet what I discovered is that Rome is not nearly as Italian as it is Catholic. Something that only going there could reveal. I genuinely expected a typical administrational capital city, full of the identical corporate-consumer garbage you find in all major cities.
But what I found was profoundly different: the global centre of the true religion. Of course it was so. The city has been the territory of the papacy for far, far longer than it has been part of the nation-state Italy. The actual city plan was designed by a pope (Sixtus V) and the marks of the Catholic Faith are everywhere.
I spent the entire nine days there with a friend who, when he was eighteen, worked in Rome during the summer giving tours of the ancient Christian catacombs: something he was enchanted by, and which gave him invaluable expertise that didn’t go amiss on our trip. On the plane over, my friend handed me Eamon Duffy’s book on the papacy, <em>Saints and Sinners</em>, and showed me the author’s account of the hard evidence that both Ss Peter and Paul died and were interred in Rome, and that from as early as records begin Rome was referred to as the “Apostolic See” in the Early Church.
The first day was much like the rest of the trip. Busy, saturated, glorious, rich and full of grace. The first time I beheld St Peter’s, the dark morning mist obscuring the dome was quickly clearing. It was appropriately majestic. Though not quite as majestic as the low Tridentine (Latin) Mass we were soon treated to in its crypt.
Quiet. Focussed. Contemplative. Intimate. It was everything it should be. And the surroundings, crowned with an eighth-century Madonna and child fresco, lent itself to the heavenly reality being made present and piously consumed.
Afterwards, my friend and I spoke with the young Argentine priest who celebrated it, along with two students from Oregon we’d met. This was our first foretaste of the encompassing internationality of this capital of the Catholic world, as well as of the friendship and sense of camaraderie that the city engenders among fellow Catholics there.
We sped off shortly thereafter to the San Calisto catacombs, just outside the southern rim of the city. I urge any reader to go if they haven’t already. There is something deeply, deeply moving and powerful about those caverns. Typically, rocky subterranean tunnels can feel claustrophobic or sinister, but these do not.
Adorned with countless, nearly two-millennia old markings and frescoes indicating Christian belief (you may find an anchor, a chi-rho, a fish, funeral banquet, a priest or consecrated virgin praying in the orans position), the catacombs feel womb-like, peaceful and comforting. Sensing the activity of the early Christian communities all around you down there is no difficult feat.
The following morning, we once again inaugurated our day with the Low Mass in St Peter’s. Beforehand I went to Confession with a Portuguese priest, under the golden dome and immortal words <em>Tu Es Petrus</em>. Afterwards we made our way to St Peter’s grave and marvelled at the various artworks and tombs. The sun poured the through the upper windows of the building and illuminated it all in radiant gold. We were, as Charles Ryder says in Waugh’s <em>Brideshead</em>, “drowning in honey”.
Next was the Basilica of St Paul’s Outside the Walls. Taking in the elegance and power of the place from the front, we knelt and prayed a decade of the Rosary before entering. As we knelt at St Paul’s tomb, the German company beside us broke into song: the <em>Großer Gott, wir loben dich</em>, a beautiful translation of the <em>Te Deum</em>, which fittingly echoed around the great temple above us.
The rest of the day was spent visiting the Catacombs of San Sebastiano (similarly evocative and mystical in atmosphere) with their early Christian etchings, dated by the University of Oxford to the third century: <em>Petrus, Paulus…petite pro Victore</em>. “Peter, Paul...pray for Victor.”
The following day, Sunday, involved various compromises with my companion and other people we had by this stage met and befriended about where to attend Mass. The end result involved going to a sung Tridentine Mass, just over the bridge from the historic fortress Castel Sant’Angelo, as well as to a Flemish Mass, presided over by Mgr Gabriel Quicke, a family friend of my companion. Then it was off to the FSSP’s (Fraternità Sacerdotale San Pietro) grand <em>Santa Trinità</em> Church for a spectacular liturgy.
In the aftermath, we came across Eduard Habsburg (Hungarian ambassador to the Holy See and member of the famous dynasty), who recalled fondly his <a href="https://catholicherald.co.uk/podcasts/?swcfpc=1"><mark style="background-color:rgba(0, 0, 0, 0)" class="has-inline-color has-vivid-cyan-blue-color">conversation with Gavin Ashenden and the<em> Catholic Herald</em></mark></a>.
I have picked up a habit of when I see a cassocked priest out in the wild, approaching to potentially receive a blessing. I had done so the night before, and am glad I did, for afterward we became close from then on with this priest. He had been flanked by a towering young man, razor sharp and immaculately dressed, whom we were subsequently introduced to as an off-duty Swiss Guard. He too became a friend.
From the steps of <em>Santa Trinità</em>, following a raucous <em>Regina Caeli </em>in the packed church, our sacerdotal friend took us for lunch. Over excellent pasta, he recounted to us how he is one of three brothers from Sardinia, another of whom is also a priest, and that while he studies in Rome he is friends with many of the Swiss Guard.
After touring beautiful and ancient sites too many to write of, we made our way to a restaurant heart-warmingly run by French-speaking nuns named <em>L’Eau Vive</em>. Various people joined us and we crowned the evening with singing the Lourdes form of the <em>Ave Maria</em> and a slightly inebriated <em>Jerusalem</em>.
The following day we met with Mgr Quicke at the hostel he runs for Belgian pilgrims. A beautiful location in the heart of Rome, he has, almost singlehandedly, renovated and revived it. Astounding work, into which he has clearly poured his heart, and worthy of praise. If any Belgians are reading this, I encourage them to visit. He pulled out the stops for us and fed us well with food and drink as we learned of his background, studying Augustinian theology at the University of Ghent. <br><br>We repaid the complement by taking him to <em>L’Eau Vive </em>for another wonderful meal<em>. </em>The French-speaking, mostly Philippine and Vietnamese nuns, remembered us – including informing me that they’d been praying for an intention I’d mentioned.
After visiting St Bartholomew’s island-monastery on the Tiber – mystically linked to St Bartholomew’s Hospital in London, which was similarly miraculous until the Protestant Reformation, when all the miracles abruptly ceased – and the extravagantly golden Byzantine-esque Santa Maria in Trastevere, we made a luncheon pitstop at the <em>La Trattoria de Gli Amici, </em>a restaurant run by the Catholic Community of Sant’ Egidio, which supports and gives jobs to disabled people. A truly Christian initiative (with five-star carbonara).
The rest of our time was spent touring the Vatican Museums. The paintings were sublime – far too much nectar to digest in one sitting. Reaching the Sistine Chapel…well, I won’t be hyperbolic. There are few words able to do it justice. Amid the hum-drum of the crowds – people of varying levels of reverence – I had the sense that even the most cynical drawn there were at least a little moved by what was most evidently larger and greater than themselves.
I took to my knees and began my Rosary, while apologetic folk nearly tripped over my calves as they crept around me. Staring at Michelangelo’s <em>Last Judgement</em>, reflecting on such final matters, I turned from the course of the decades to other paintings on the walls such as Perugino’s <em>Delivery of the Keys. </em>Before leaving, we asked for a blessing from a young, bearded American priest. Now able to sentimentally boast that I’ve prayed a Rosary and been blessed in the Sistine Chapel (alongside receiving two sacraments in nearby St Peter’s) – I left both pleased and grateful.
Our final day was spent touring the monastery of <em>San Gregorio al Celio</em>. The monastery has moving and mysteriously deep roots connecting it to the faith of the Anglo-Saxons and the English, about which I cannot give an adequate account here. Go, and find out for yourself.
Finally, we met again with our priest friend. He gifted us both silver pocket crucifixes to carry around with us and remind us of the Passion on our travels. We said farewell to him at his apartments where St John Henry Newman had also once stayed.
To round the trip off, our new Swiss Guard friend gave us an exclusive tour of his barracks while the newest recruits were rehearsing their swearing in ceremony. “<em>Hier, Hochmeister!</em>” was heard echoing around us at full volume as impressive halberds clashed on the ground.
At one point of the trip, we passed the Italian Parliament – a forgettable and barely noticeable building in a city of seizing beauty. Wherever you looked, a priest, brother or nun, from countries all over the globe, was likely within eyesight.
This city, which lies above the tombs of the Apostle upon whom Christ built His Church and the Apostle that He sent to the gentiles, is arguably only incidentally and superficially Italian – a “veneer”, as described by a priest I know, presented since the 19th century.
It is the capital of the Christian world.
<em>Photo: A Swiss Guard stands in front of St Peter's basilica during the Easter Mass in the Vatican, Rome. (Photo by FILIPPO MONTEFORTE/AFP via Getty Images.)</em>
