The rain had begun to fall heavily, pounding the roof of the taxi cab, and quickly forming small rushing streams along the roadways of Rome. The taxi driver seemed indifferent to the change in weather as he continued to drive too fast and brake too late. But the confidence that poured out of his dark eyes and benevolent Italian smile in the rear view mirror calmed my fears that we would soon hydroplane off into the street vendors and shops.
"Tre Fontane?" Massimiliano asked again.
"Si, tre fontane, di San Paolo," I said. Three Fountains, the Church of St. Paul.
I had been in Rome for several weeks now, and I had seen many of the glorious churches that make Rome glorious. A friend had suggested this little known church of St. Paul, since it was less ornate and hidden in the woods. I woke up that morning to sunshine and warm weather, and decided to make the trip to see it for myself. But the rains come suddenly in Rome; suddenly like the sword.
The taxi driver made his way through Rome and we soon found ourselves in more of a wooded area. We passed a sign that probably read TRE FONTANE, but with the rain and Massimiliano's speed I couldn't be sure. At the next hidden driveway, familiar to the driver it seems, we quickly veered off the road and up a hill that brought us to a small building. Behind the building and everywhere else trees covered the property. In the distance, about fifty feet away, I saw what looked like a Marian grotto.
Massimiliano mumbled some Italian numbers, and I gave him too much and told him "Grazie!" I am not even sure if I had closed the door before he was again driving down towards the road. I would never see Massimiliano again.
Within seconds, I was drenched. I ran over to the building and went inside. It was a gift shop, but no one was at the counter and no other pilgrims were around. I looked around to find a map of the grounds. When I finally did, I realized that on this side of the main road was the site of a Marian shrine, hence the grotto, but the church of St. Paul that I was looking for was on the other side of the road. I quickly thought that perhaps I could catch Massimiliano, but realized that he was likely back into the heart of Rome by now. I would have to walk.
There were umbrellas in a box with some random price tags. I thought maybe I'd purchase one to make the trek over to the church. I rang a counter bell in order to pay - but no one came, and no one responded. I rang it several times more, but nothing. I decided just to leave some money on the counter with a note that said "Ombrello."
I walked out of the building, glancing towards the grotto where I did in fact see a few people praying. I continued down towards the road. By the time I got to the main road, the rain had subsided. This was my third unnecessary umbrella purchase in as many weeks.
I carefully crossed the road and finally found the church of St. Paul of the Three Fountains. It was a medieval looking church, with a Roman portico at the entrance. With a simple exterior the church was extremely inviting and prayerful. I entered and the sounds of the outdoors faded to memories. The deep resonance of chanting filled the old, sacred building; Trappist monks were chanting midday prayer behind a gated sanctuary. The building smelled like the good earth and in fact much of it had no marble or stone floor, but only the dirt. The walls were mere stone; in the apses of the few windows there were centuries old frescoes, but these served as the only artwork in the church. With the monks chanting, many candles flickering, and the dirt beneath my feet, I was instantly transported into the Bright Ages of the medieval church. Even the musty air seemed to have lingered there for ages, awaiting my own presence and filling my lungs with some ancient spiritual spright.
I sat in a creaky walnut pew. Two, perhaps three other pilgrims prayed there in the church. I asked for the intercession of St. Paul, whose legendary death took place here on these grounds. The sword of a Roman executioner likely relieved St. Paul's body of its head, and our first great Catholic theologian bled the ground red with his witness to the Risen Christ. Three fountains are said to have sprung from the ground where his head rolled - hence the name Three Fountains. I had a sense while praying that day of how much St. Paul contributed to the universal church, the catholic Church. His life and death were not just about these three fountains of water that sprung from the ground at Tre Fontane, but the testimony of his life, freely given for God. It was because St. Paul had drank of that life-giving water that springs from the fountain of Christ, knowing that no other water could satisfy, that he died in the hope of eternal life.
There in that church, that simple, quiet church, two thousand years after St. Paul heard the sword unsheathed, preparing himself to meet Jesus face to face, I asked him to pray on my behalf, that I might remember what it means to drink from the fountain that Christ offers. I prayed that I would be as prepared as he to meet the Lord in the air and to hold on to the hope of God's promises - for I know that in the face of death, God's promises are all I have.
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