Italian Families and Faith

 

Our son graduated from college last spring.

After college he moved back in with us and took an humble job, not wanting to go back to school yet (what do you do with a bachelor in philosophy?). You probably think it’s amazing that our son is still willing to spend time with his parents, but you have to consider the fact that we are a typical Italian family, so by definition we have a hard time letting go of each other. We moved to the United States when he was ten and he truly feels in his  element here. In Italy children generally live with their parents until they get married, because it’s really difficult to find a place to rent and college campuses don‘t even exist. Italy is beautiful, but also very expensive and crowded.

 I considered myself an emancipated woman until I came to America and watched the Italian-American family of “Everybody loves Raymond” on TV. Unfortunately, I must admit that there are aspects of my motherhood that resemble Raymond’s mum behavior: I can’t stay away from my son for too long and I’m constantly trying to feed him. In my defense, I can say that he’s as skinny as a mosquito.

 On a different level though, we are a very atypical family.  Our son often arrives home all worked up, ready to engage in very intense debates with the two of us. My husband teaches philosophy to college students, and our sun shares his interest in the subject. Of course they agree on almost nothing, and sometimes they get so animated that I worry the neighbors might get tired of listening to these loud Italian men yelling at each other in their native language. I wonder what they think those two are fighting about. Alcohol? School
grades ? They would never guess.

After they have exhausted their argument for the day, it’s my turn to argue with our son. He wants to talk about religion. Here in the States religion is a hot topic. Creationists against evolutionists, a diversified society of people of different beliefs, and many branches of Christianity. In Italy, instead, everybody is Catholic, not many go to church regularly and they keep quiet about faith. I wasn’t interested either until five years, when I suddenly fell in love with Jesus. By then my son was already listening to debates between famous contemporary atheists and their religious opponents on the Internet, and he thought that the atheists sounded a lot smarter.

“No wonder,” I told him. “It’s too easy to make fun of people because they can’t put on the table any scientific proof of their belief. It’s empirical evidence against mystical experience.”

“That’s exactly the point,” he said. “Religious people don’t have an argument. One can have the best day of his life feeling one with the universe and call this a mystical experience, but the conclusions one derives from it are a construction of the mind. You people are afraid! Afraid of the nothingness after death, or of the emptiness of your lives without faith!”

“Again, it’s very easy to attribute faith to psychological deficiencies,”  I answered. “Your understanding of reality is very limited. The world is a mysterious place. There are so many things that we can‘t explain, and it’s fascinating to investigate them, to wonder about them.”   

“It’s just a waste of time,” he said. “You can wonder as much as you want, but you’ll never know the answer. You can only speculate.”

 We had this conversation over and over and sometimes we got mad at each other, but it never lasted more than a second. One of us would immediately say: “I love you anyway!”,  which is our formula to get past our problems. 
I remember the only time when I stayed mad at him for a few days over some proclamation of teenager indisputable rights. It made me feel terrible.

Luckily the teen years are almost over. These debates about religion have helped us to learn to communicate again after a time when, because he was living “those years”, he didn’t have much to say to his mother.

Two Memories

                                   

I was born in a coastal city in southern Italy. When I was a little girl my mother and I often walked by the shore, looking at the fishermen patiently unraveling their nets. The silvery fish were spread for sale on the wooden tables along the beach. My mother told me that fishermen go  out on their boats at night. They row their way out to the open sea careful not to make any noise,  for the fish would swim away if they heard them coming. Silently they cast their nets into the water, attracting their preys with a small light and a bunch of succulent worms. Then they sit, smoking cigarettes and eating tune, waiting. 

I came to look at those men with respect, as if they were the depositary of ancient secrets. Some of them looked very old, their skin shriveled by the sun. Darkness, starry nights, deep seas and troublesome waves were their universe, night after night, year after year. When someone asked me the usual question, namely “What do you  want to be when you grow up?” , I would answer:

 “I want to be a fisherman.”

 To me, they were the bravest people in the world.

A few decades have passed in the blink of an eye, and now I live with my second husband far away from our beloved Mediterranean Sea. Every Christmas, out of nostalgia, we build a typical Neapolitan Nativity village on the sideboard in our living-room. I remember last December. Against the night sky full of stars I had already painted high mountains dotted with small houses. Bruno was making papier-mache hills, a lake and of course the barn where, according to the tradition, Mary gave birth to Jesus. Dipping brown paper in a bucket full of glue, I asked him:

 “Did you leave enough space for the pizzeria?” 

 It might seem awkward to you, but the Neapolitan Nativity, which in Italy is called “Presepe”, always includes a restaurant complete with chunks of prosciutto and mozzarella hung from the ceiling. We brought our hand-made terracotta figures from our country, and besides the classic Nativity characters we have two little terracotta tables with people sitting around them, happily  having dinner. Jesus, as you probably know, loved to share good meals with his disciples, so the  pizzeria is not so out of place after all.

  

Etna, our son, was comfortably sitting in his armchair, watching us struggling with a piece of aluminum foil that was supposed to look like a stream. 

 “You know, “ I said, “this is the first Christmas in my life that actually has a meaning for me.”

Etna had watched us building the Nativity every Christmas for nineteen years, in good and in bad times, and we have certainly had both. When he was a child, it was his privilege to put the  baby Jesus in the manger at midnight on Christmas Eve. But of course when he became a teenager the care for this detail fell back on me. We kept building the Nativity because it’s our custom; it carries memories of our hometown and of our childhood. But this time there was more in it for me, namely the consciousness that we were getting ready to celebrate the birth of the Savior, the one who died to show us the way.

 Etna, on the other hand, was willing to keep the tradition going, but didn’t share my brand new view of Jesus.

“This year,” I went on, “I’m going to go to the Midnight Mass. Would you two like to come?”

 “Don’t even think about it,” was Etna’s answer.

“I’ll probably pass too,” said Bruno.

Belief in the Supernatural

My coming close to Christianity was not a conversion, in fact I was raised Catholic. It was not an epiphany, for I wasn’t struck by a sudden perception of universal truth. It was an assent and a relationship. It had its moments of adrenaline running through my blood when I thought that I had finally grasped something important. It was so pervasive that I had to put down notes, then entire pages. Should I jump to the conclusion that my interest deprived me of any objectivity? My enthusiasm wasn’t typical of my personality: I had never felt so passionate about anything before. Do I have to assume that this passion has impaired my

judgment? Or would it be more reasonable to take my feelings into consideration as the factor that allowed me to direct my cognitive energy in the proper way?

                 

I had been reading about Jesus for some time when one night I woke up sensing an imminent danger, an unusual occurrence for me. I hesitate telling you what happened next, for I’m fully aware of how silly it sounds. I haven’t felt so stupid since I was nineteen and I had to sleep with my mother for a week after having seen the movie The Exorcist.

I felt a strong pressure on my chest and between my shoulders, as if someone was squishing my body with both hands. I registered the peculiarity of that sensation, but at the same time I felt so tired that I fell asleep again. Several times during that night I found myself half-awake, experiencing that pressure in a sort of stupor. The following morning I wondered what had happened  and I got scared. I must admit that the thought of an evil presence crossed my mind. When night came again I didn’t dare to turn off the lights around the apartment. Luckily I didn’t have to be ashamed to tell my husband that I was afraid and why, because I knew he would understand in spite of his professed  rationality.

A day later I run to church. I almost couldn’t bring myself to talk to the priest, although I knew that if anybody in the world would believe my evil perception, it would be precisely a priest. Nevertheless, I was embarrassed. I quickly asked him if he could give me something, anything to make me feel safe at night. He offered me a Bible and a cross that doesn’t look much like a cross, being a reproduction of an Irish one from the 8^th century. Had it looked more like what it was, I wouldn’t have had the courage of hanging it on the bed. A crucifix in my room? It was just too weird.      

For several nights I was still afraid, although I did believe that the cross was protecting me. I don’t know what I experienced and I don’t feel the need to investigate it. But if that was the Devil trying to get a hold of me, he obtained the opposite result, for I started reading the Bible all over again, this time the English version that the priest gave to me

Having failed his attempts to corrupt Jesus, in the Gospel of Luke Satan “departed from him for a time”. The Devil will give it another try, as he always does. In the Garden of Gethsemane Jesus was tempted not to embrace his cross, but he carried it to the very end. That was his victory over evil.. Instead, we limited human beings are not even aware that Satan is ruling our lives. Those moments in time when he wins us over are often the moments when we feel his domaine less than ever. I was not aware of his presence until I become aware of God’s presence. Initially I thought that the reason for this combination was quite banal, that is: Once you start believing in the supernatural you start believing in all sort of things. But later I understood that this is just a  simplification of a larger problem. I concluded that there is more than a simple belief in the

supernatural to the simultaneous perception of good and evil powers. They are both deeply rooted in our psyche and, if we start listening to our soul, they come to the surface at the same time. Evil involves our sense, whereas God speaks to our hearts. The latter brings a spiritual dimension to our lives. The first brings deception.

During his forty days as an ascetic Jesus fasted. It’s hard to imagine how fasting for a day might feel, let alone for a long period of time. I’ve read that while the body weakens the spirit is strengthened. Freed from the daily attachment to flavors, the will acquires power. The mind becomes sharper, more detached. Initially the craving is hard to suppress, but then it vanishes.The conscience is enlightened, but at the same time subjected to the risk of believing in its omnipotence. It was at that moment that Jesus was tempted. The allure of infinite power was before him, but he chose the humble ways of a wandering preacher. He wasn’t going to be a

warrior and he wasn’t going to free his people by the sword. Instead, he would be the Lamb of God and our Lord.

                                                                                                                                           

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Falling in Love with Jesus

                                                                                                                                    

 

When our son went to college, my husband and I left our suburban home and moved into a city apartment to be close to him. (How many American parents would do that? I’m not bragging about it, on the contrary I think that we Italians have a problem: For us, our children remain young  forever). In front of our new home a church played the bells every hour from morning to night, pretty much like it happens in Italy. I became nostalgic and went to visit after forty years of almost uninterrupted absence. 

The next day I decided to go to Mass, but I couldn’t concentrate. I spent that Sunday afternoon hour watching the faithful pray. I wondered: Did they believe what they were reciting or were they mindlessly moving their lips? Did they live a pious life? 

During his sermon, the priest said something that sounded very true to me, namely that people believe what they can wrap their mind around. I realized that if I wanted to  find faith I had to do it on my own terms, and at that moment I knew that I wasn’t as indifferent to religion as I had been in the past. Something was happening inside me. 

I used to think of myself as too sophisticated to believe in Jesus. I used to tell people that I was a Buddhist

because it was fashionable, but Buddhism never captured my heart. In the end I had to admit that I was tired of worshiping rationality and trends. I couldn’t get anything else out of my life, but I was longing for more.

So one day I decided to read the gospels.

I had been baptized at birth, but I didn’t know much about my religion. Night after night I read the gospels in bed, feeling curious but detached. I was very judgmental. The poor writing bothered me and I was definitely skeptical about the miracles. It was like reading a fairy-tale whose ending I already knew. 

When I turned the last page I felt puzzled, I wasn’t sure what to do next.I thought I had done my homework, so I went back to my novels.

I’ve been a compulsive reader since I was a teenager, enjoying anything from science fiction to theater scripts and marveling at the ability of authors like Kafka or Marquez to rapture the reader into their metaphysical world. But all of a sudden I couldn’t read novels anymore, I was utterly bored. I was getting nervous, for I couldn’t fall asleep at night without reading. My trips to the library became a laughing matter. I would grab three books at a time, give them a try and bring them back the morning after. I tried erotic novels. I had never found them boring before, but sure enough I couldn’t concentrate on the subject. I started wondering what was wrong with me. 

At the library once again, I decided to approach the essay section. My eyes fell on a couple of books about religion, but I picked something else and browsed through the pages. My attention span was shorter than ever. Suddenly I realized that I was going against my will, resisting my impulse. I had changed and Iwouldn’t acknowledge it. Reading the gospels had put something in motion in my mind and I needed to know more. Just thinking about it I felt the anticipation and the excitement, so I rushed back towards the essay section and chose a few books about Jesus.        

That day and for many days to come I read about him, because I wanted to know who he was, why he died and how Christianity was born. My journey of faith started with this compelling, enthusiastic interest in the person of Jesus of Nazareth. There was no revelation at first, but the study of early Christianity brought me to believe in his resurrection. Something earth-shaking had happened after his death. It took me months of tireless reading to form this opinion, and it was only then that I started to perceive Jesus as someone well known, someone who was present  in my life. The risen Christ had called me, breaking down the barrier of time. Unintentionally I did with him what I had never done before with any living creature: Lowering my defenses I let myself go in a process of identification with whatever it was that his presence implied.

Jesus simply grew on me. I figured out why religious people say that they are in love with him, an idea that sounded so pathetic to me before. I couldn’t think of anything else but him. Jesus was subversive, radical, hermetic. He was merciful with the outsiders and pitiless with the establishment. He was enigmatic, ironic, loving but not sentimental. He died in the most humiliating way to show how much he loved us, so that we could love him back.

In A Marginal Jew, the scholar John P. Meier writes:

“In Roman eyes, Jesus died the ghastly death of slaves and rebels; in Jewish eyes, he fell under the stricture of Deuteronomy: ‘The one hanged (on a tree) is accursed by God.’ To both groups Jesus trial and execution made him marginal in a terrifying and disgusting way. Jesus was a Jew living in a Jewish Palestine directly or indirectly controlled by Romans. In one sense, he belonged to both worlds; in the end, he was ejected from both.”

Yet, two thousand years later, Christianity has spread in many continents and, with over two billions followers, is the largest religion on earth. On average, four books every day are published in the world about Jesus, and no other character in history is the subject of so many interpretations. Popular books come up with imaginative theories that are, nonetheless, based on facts, although these facts may have nothing to do with the real Jesus. Of course they engender a different kind of publication, designed to contradict their points of view. Pretty much the same thing happens among scholars, who constantly argue against each other, of course at a much higher level and about more reliable sources. However, if one reads these reconstructions one after the other, one realizes that many of them are nothing but works of fantasy, on which the authors project their own beliefs. My curiosity about the birth of the Church prompted me to read a lot about the subject, and my faith started to take form.

First Steps into the Faith

                                                         

                 

Not long ago I received a telephone call from an old friend of mine. We hadn’t seen each othersince I left Italy to come to America twelve years ago. We were both in our early forties back then, and our hair was starting to turn gray. To exorcise the looming old age we used to give each other advices on the hair-color that would look best with our complexions. I’ve been a brunette, a red-head and a blond, but when I lived in Italy I never considered the possibility of letting my beautiful locks grow white. So my friend wouldn’t believe me when I told her that lately I’ve made precisely that choice.

°Are you serious?” she exclaimed, “Why on earth would you do something so drastic?”

“Actually I think that I look better this way,” I answered. “However, I don’t obsess about my age anymore.”

“Good for you,” she said. “But I still think it’s important for a woman to try to look younger.”

“Well, now I have other priorities. I’ve become more spiritual.”

“Oh! Are you into Buddhism again?”

“No, that’s way in the past. I’m a Christian.”

“Really?”  I never thought that you were the religious type.”

My friend was right, I certainly was not. I tried Zen meditation in my twenties but that remained an isolated attempt, although it lasted for about two years. Unfortunately it didn’t get me anywhere close to enlightenment. I lived most of my life as an agnostic, harboring a certain condescendence for religious practices. My upbringing had left me with a very poor image of the Church and everything related to it. The religiosity to which I was exposed as a teen-ager was only a parody of true Christianity. I wasn’t very lucky, in fact today I know that growing up in a Christian family and attending a Catholic institution can be a rewarding experience.

I was the youngest child in the family. My brother and sister were much older than me and professing skepticism toward religion. I remember the house where we lived. It was the perfect arena for my imaginary adventures. I used to climb on top of furniture or hide inside them, pretending that I was a pirate on a ship or a princess in a castle. The dining-room was crowded with sea-monsters and mermaids carved in dark walnut, whereas in the living-room knights and damsels were riding and dancing within golden frames on every wall. But the place of honor had been given to a porcelain statue of the Buddha, happily crouched down between two huge Chinese vases. Like the majority of Italian families we were Catholics, but images of Jesus or Mary were nowhere in sight except for in my parent’s bedroom. Apparently my mother didn’t

find them appropriate for a fancy interior decoration. 
She used to tell me the story of her conversion. Her father was an atheist and, opposing his wife’s will, he refused to have their six children baptized. But at the age of twelve my mother decided to receive the Sacraments afterseeing the Devil materializing in the hallway, purple red and equipped with horns and tail.

“Come on, mom!” I would say, “That can’t be true! Someone must have put on a costume to scare you!”

“You’re wrong,” she would answer. “It was real. So real that it prompted me to convert.”

My mother sent me to Catholic school, but I have no pleasant memories of those years. The Catechism classes that I attended concentrated mostly on sin. The most important thing to learn was how to avoid God’s wrath. No one talked to me about Jesus or the New Testament. All I knew was that the sweet baby that we put in the manger on Christmas evening grew up to meet a gruesome death. He was the man covered in blood and hanging on the cross inside the church. I tried not to look at that crucifix because it scared me. It was life-size and a bit too realistic.

The nuns made us wear ugly uniforms and go to Mass every morning. I was bored and planning rebellion. I deeply disliked that school. And so, from the age of fourteen on, I did not give another thought to Jesus. For me he was an historical figure that, for unfathomable reasons, had become the center of a religion. Nothing more than that.

I was fifty years old when I read the Gospels for the first time. Caught by the desire to understand I read them again and again. Slowly but steadily a real person emerged from those pages and become a tangible presence in my life. His personality had many faces. He was at the same time incredibly human and out-of-the world. Human in his loneliness, anger and fear; supra-natural in his all-embracing love, goodness and courage. Human in the way he fit as a prophet in his historical context; divine in his mysterious message. “The Kingdom of God is at hand”, he said. This is true for each of us. We can enter the Kingdom by taking Jesus’ hand. Elaborated techniques of meditation are unnecessary. All we need is to absorb his teachings into

our heart. It came natural to me and I was healed.