During one recent venture I found myself going to Italy in search of my Italian roots. After all, I had to make sense of the fact that I had a reddish beard and a grandfather named Luigi (how can this be?). But, alas, as I didn’t find many light haired or fair skinned Italians while living in Rome, I assumed that my Italian heritage was not to be seen in my physical appearance. The latter I suppose was given to me through a genetic combination of my German and Irish grandparents. Luigi did give me something of himself though. He loved to dance, and I do to. He had wavy, if not completely curly hair as I do (he never “let it grow” as we sometimes do in our youth). And he gave me a curiosity for the Italians which materialized into a long-term excursion to the boot. I spent seven months there, seven delicious months.
But it wasn’t just the food and wine that inveigled my tastes. I think I was on a search for something much deeper. Yes, of course, food and wine were partaken in abundance, but I drank up the culture as well, and I chewed on history, and I am still trying to digest it all. For if I went to Italy to find Italian roots, I returned home having found Roman ones.
I saw churches nearly as old as the Church, many tucked into the labyrinth of peaceful Italian neighborhoods. I continually walked past sunlit facades and small restaurants with tables and chairs politely jutting out into the passageways, inviting one in to relax and enjoy an espresso. And on one occasion as I rounded some corner on some passageway, I found a tiny little church, perhaps Santa Marie, and I entered to pray. The inside of the tiny church was peacefully dark and welcoming. The ceiling and the walls were ornately decorated and every last detail was beautiful. There were some who had taken the time to honor this holy place with the passion and creativity of an artist, and the impression of the quiet place was that of agelessness, especially as I moved toward the sanctuary.
There was a place along the sides of the sanctuary where I could walk behind to the back, and as I did, I noticed that the walls behind the altar and tabernacle area were ancient. A small crumbling stairway led down to the crypt. Here were buried a number of local saints, and on the walls above the tombs were ancient Roman paintings from some early Christian community: small fish, a man carrying a lamb, laurel wreaths, and an assortment of many other pictures and symbols. I closed my eyes and realized that about 1500 years separated me and the artists. And yet, a connection which reached across the ages made me feel like I was near family. And it wasn’t just that I was part Italian. These people were Roman, not just from Rome, but a part of the great Roman Empire. Was this part of my heritage? I felt at once that the answer emerged on two levels. These were Christians, and I believe in their God. These were Romans, and I saw clearly for the first time that who I was and where I came from had so much to do with the Romans. It was part of my ancestry. Their culture and civilization gave birth to my cultural lineage. I had found family in this crypt. I found family tombs. I was Roman.
As I left the church it began to rain a little. I was not deterred. I got on a bus towards the southern part of the city. My destination was a road, an ancient road, the Appia Antica.
The bus left me off about a two mile walk from the first part of the old road. I started walking, the rain began to come down a bit more. A street vendor tried to sell me an umbrella, and it looked like it probably would be a good idea. He said, “dodici” and I said “cinque”. And as it was raining already my bargaining power was limited, so we agreed on “dieci”.
I began my walk down one of the oldest and most well preserved roads from the ancient world. The Romans were famous for building roads, their engineering skills were remarkable. This road led from Rome down to a coastal city where a port could afford you travel on the sea. Today, in its best places, the Appia Antica looks like a stone road, with large well placed stones situated to provide a “flat” surface, and the interstices are filled with mortar. Along some parts, ancient walls still line the road, no doubt a measure of protection against those who might want to disturb travelers going to or leaving Rome.
On these roads traversed soldiers, merchants, noblemen, peasants, and the whole lot of the Roman castes. Amazing, I thought, that I place my foot on the same stone that a Roman might have placed his. This was the ancient world come to life. I knew I was Roman walking along the Appia Antica.
I stepped off the path for a time and explored an open area behind some small hills. I found two crumbling structures. One was some kind of Sybeline temple which doubled as an ancient tomb. It was round and about 30 feet tall, made only of stone. Another structure looked like an ancient house, but it had no roof left, only its crumbling walls.
Temples such as the one here also can be found across Italy, and even in the entire Mediterranean. They are a remembrance of the religious tradition of the Romans, the pantheon and the cult of the gods. Studying and understanding their religion reveals that my Roman ancestors were not unaware of the realm of the divine. The pagans were seeking God, and their religious outlook of the world proves it. Their religion was what unified them. It gave them an understanding of their identity. They knew, without the proofs of science, that the world was more than what they saw and touched. Somehow it was through their seeing and their touching of the natural world that they experienced the divine. Their traditions were not completely lost, for when Christianity entered the Roman world, it adopted many of the rites and rituals of Roman culture. Of course, many other influences shaped Christian tradition, and its theology was deepened into a more rational understanding of the divine, but nevertheless, I can attest now, that when I celebrate my Catholic faith in rites and rituals, when I taste and see my religion, I feel much like a Roman. They have given me, along with many other things, the beginnings of a religious tradition.
The rain started coming down heavy. I got myself to a bus stop and headed off to meet friends at a small restaurant. Time to drink wine and eat pasta, and ponder the newly found but ancient branches on my family tree.
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