The Sacred Meal
I grew up in a family that ate SpaghettiOs from saucepans and ham and cheese sandwiches on the run. That is until I joined a community in the 70s called New Jerusalem. Any given Friday night, hundreds of young people gathered for Mass in the gym of an all-girls school. From beginning to end we would be there three, sometimes four hours. By the time Eucharist was served, hunger became a physical thing.
The celebrant would plate round discs that had been stacked on the offertory table and brought to the altar, along with carafes of wine. The procession more like a parade. Think Jesus Christ Superstar. During the consecration, sitting on a gym floor, I worried whether there would be enough for everyone. I watched how much was being doled out and hoped for a larger amount of the bread. I was sixteen.
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I joined a pilgrimage team in 2013 that leads people to Rome and Assisi in Umbria. We delve into church history and trace the steps of Saint Francis of Assisi and one of his devoted ‘brothers,’ Saint Clare. Our leader, Father John, shares insights that bring the experience of the two saints and our religion to life.
While in Rome, we visit Saint Peter’s Basilica. Mass is usually celebrated at the tomb of Pope John XXIII who convened the Second Vatican Council. As a result of that council, Mass was said in the language of the people hearing it, and priests turned to the congregation to celebrate. From 1963 to 2001, Pope John XXIII, had been buried in the undercroft below the naïve of the basilica. Too many pilgrims sought his tomb for prayer in the narrow passageways. In 2001, his body was exhumed. Much to the surprise of Cardinal Virgilio Noe, as well as others in attendance, his body, or at least his face was found to be uncorrupted.
With each visit, I am struck, not by the size of the corpse, the purple slippers, the sheen of the beanie, but by the placid smile, etched in a waxy coating that was meant to preserve the features discovered on that day in 2001. They are the same features on a Life Magazine I possess from 1963, of the man who was nicknamed “The Good Pope.” A generous and benevolent smile reflects from the lighted tomb.
In 2015, the celebration of Mass took on deeper meaning when two strangers were able to pass the guard at the velvet rope and join our group. They stood in line and received the flat wafer of the Host and stayed with us while we waited for Father John to join us after returning the vestments to the shared sacristy.
The couple’s accent was Australian. They’d attempted to receive the sacrament of penance at one of the many confessionals along the perimeter of the Basilica. The woman had been told by the priest who heard her confession that she could not receive communion because she did not practice her faith appropriately. As they were leaving, they heard Father John and were drawn to our celebration. Some of our pilgrims invited them in. The looks are their faces reminded me of the faces I’d seen so long ago at those Friday night celebrations.
Pope John XXIII had opened the doors of the church in 1963. In the 70s we celebrated our Catholicism as if we all were welcome at the table. It fed us in quite the same way as this Aussie couple were fed by the inclusivity of our celebration.
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In the Rieti Valley a small town is nestled in a hillside called Greccio. Saint Francis of Assisi, the person best known for the blessing of the animals that takes place October 4th in modern churches, had a deep desire to connect with people. Our current pope has taken the name of Francis of Assisi because Saint Francis rebuilt a church that had suffered a deep schism.
Greccio is our connecting point between Rome and Assisi. We celebrate Mass. View the thousands of Nativity sets from around the world. Imagine ourselves in the austere conditions that Saint Francis sought in a cave on the hillside. A shrine and altar surrounds the place said to be the site of the recreation of the birth of Jesus, loved by a mother and father.
From the grotto, we emerge into the sunlight gracing the valley. Donkeys still bray on distant hillsides. Bells call farmers to pranzo, (dinner). And it is easy to feel hungry at the sound of a chicken clucking somewhere close, under the cover of trees. That’s when we head into the small village and dine like kings and queens at one of the restaurants.
The restaurant owner is a typical Italian mother. A towel over her shoulder serves as sweat wipe, potholder and flag. Her family stands at attention, listens to her and follows through on her orders. We sit at a long table. Wine flows. Plate after plate of delicious food comes. We Americans have not learned the diet, the pacing, that pasta is just the secondo, or second course. It is more sacred than any meal we’ve had thus far. It will be talked about for years to come.
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My first trip to Italy was secular. I tagged along with my son’s high school Latin group led by their teacher. In 2003, war had been declared on Iraq. Reports of 100,000 Italians storming the American embassy in Rome did not deter us. In Rome, a protest that the students happened to join was populated by dog-walking, wine-drinking people who appeared to be out for a stroll.
After several days in Rome, we headed out of toward Naples. We would be early to our next destination so our guide, Franco, called his parents in Benevento. Could we visit? His parents raided their kitchen, laid out strawberries, crackers, fizzy drinks and bread and opened their clothing store in the Franco’s sleepy home town. We ate. We shopped. And when we left, waved goodbye like they might have been distant relatives to all of us.
Back on the bus, Franco unwrapped something his mother had passed to him just before we left Benevento. He hovered over it, his eyes alight with expectation. A burst of sweet-smelling cinnamon filled my nose. Franco broke off a piece of the yellow mass inside the foil. He said, “Would you like a little bite.” I nodded. I hadn’t eaten much of the food his parents had set out. Cinnamon, egg, rice, a taste as ancient as the Roman Empire and as modern as Marcella Hazen’s frittata. I handed it back and he motioned to send it around the bus. I did. And when it made its way back to him, he pinched a morsel, put it to his mouth and looked longingly out the window as the Amalfi coast sped by.
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Last year, we took pilgrims to Assisi. This time, I left our pensione, a home converted to a hotel of sorts, late one night. My mission? To retrace the steps of Saint Clare of Assisi, who left her home on Palm Sunday when she was just 17, the same age I’d been when I joined New Jerusalem Community. On that day, Clare, dressed in fine silks, attended Mass at Santa Maria Maggiore with her family, dined with them and late at night left by a side door. With each step through the cobblestone streets, through the gate of Janus and down to the hermitage at the Porziuncula, her conviction grew to join Saint Francis and a life of poverty and obedience.
I’d like to think that I could be like Clare, strong, faithful, obedient. At first, she was called ‘brother’ by Saint Francis, tonsured, which means to have your hair cut in a severe manor denoting that you were a friar. But to the protests of the other brothers, she was sent eventually to San Damiano where she lived out her days, writing her own rule, and battling with pope after pope for acceptance.
She slept in a room the size of some living rooms of modern times in America with 49 other women who followed her guidance and cloistered with her. She relied on faith and on the brothers to bring donations of food and supplies. I am a child of saucepans, SpaghettiOs and sometimes not enough to eat. I am in awe of her faith, that which fed her spiritually and physically.
We renewed our Baptismal promise at the font where Clare and Francis were said to have been baptized at the Cathedral of San Rufino last year. The evening was clear. Sounds of dogs barking, children laughing filled the ancient city. Our group meandered in a disjointed fashion back to Casa Papa Giovanni, a place named after Pope John XXIII. Father John and I stopped for fruit, meats and cheeses at places around the piazza communae, the main square, described as a living room for the community.
With bags in hand, we climbed the stairs to the rooftop garden at Casa Papa Giovanni to find the pilgrims sipping wine, watching as a wall of blush and lavender colored clouds march over the Azur blue sky of dusk. Candles burned on the tables and we dined once more like kings and queens. As night descended and conversation waned one of our pilgrims began to sing “Amazing Grace” and we all joined in.
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Today, Easter Sunday, our gatherings around the things that feed us are so very different than anything we’ve ever known. Pope Francis models social distancing in a chamber hollowed by the absence of others, but holy in the connections of a virtual world. Our families may be just a few miles away and yet we are asked not to join them in person. I hold sacred the thought that in the middle of our world we celebrate Mass and meal in similar fashions if not in person. And now, more than ever, we know that the only thing constant in life is change.
