“What’s with all the dead guys?”
I’ve thought those very words about a hundred times this semester. It started in Vienna and Salzburg and continued to plague me all the way to Rome and Assisi.
You’d think that out of ten days of pure splendor I would dwell on anything but dead guys. However, how can I sum up ten days of glorious art, pasta, and prayer into a single blog post? I dwell on this grave subject (pun totally intended) because the calories from the pasta will leave me and the facts I stored up about the art will pass from my recollection. However, the impact of these so-called “dead guys” upon my life will not.
Such a close proximity to the dead, especially the very long dead made me really uncomfortable. I couldn’t figure out why they would want to celebrate the Eucharist so close to a dead, though holy, person.
I’ll never forget praying at the Infant Jesus of Prague Shrine. There I knelt, hands clasped, eyes shut, praying earnestly. I crossed myself when I was done and peacefully opened my eyes. I immediately noticed the corpse I had previously overlooked. The black skeleton covered in jewels looked, quite frankly, like something out of the Pirates of the Caribbean. Naturally, I gasped and stood up quickly.
This was my mistake. I didn’t take time to think about or even wonder whose skeleton it was or why they were given eternal rest in a shrine. I didn’t question. I only dismissed.
Months later, as we church hopped in Rome like Americans at closing sales in a mall, the presence of the “dead guys” did not leave me. There were dead guys in every single church. However, the more I reflected on just who these dead were to our faith, I realized that their continuing presence enriched the Church.
At the Papal audience, I was overjoyed to be in such close proximity to the Pope as he spoke to each of us in our own language. Later, at the tomb of John Paul II it dawned on me. I can’t just be excited about the living. Things like martyrdom, holiness, self-sacrifice and love do not become any less significant with death. These extraordinary people are kept so that common people like me will one day continue to believe and strive for that same holiness. These dead are concrete examples of the transforming power of Christ, who is the ultimate “dead guy” because He’s not dead anymore.
Though it seemed that we were running from one basilica to another in search of the next holy spectacle, it became clear to me that we weren’t just hunting relics or racing from place to place aimlessly. We were chasing the opportunity to be closer to the tangible, the closest remains of the reason we call ourselves Catholic and Franciscan. We were searching for bits of ourselves.
However, in the midst of a whirlwind of activity, I felt overwhelmed. By the end of Rome, I was on overload and could not process anymore.
When we arrived in Assisi, I lost myself and wandered aimlessly alone for hours. I withdrew. Now my frantic search was not in the streets of a city but within myself. I sat on a wall overlooking Assisi and wrote for hours. I wrote searching for the reason that such incredible experiences hollowed me out. I was not in ecstasy after climbing the same steps Jesus climbed to Pilate. I didn’t think I was any different after being in the same places that so many saints walked. It all seemed so complicated. The art in St. Peters and the mountains of marble sculpture seemed too complex to really reach me.
Then, as I sat alone in quaint Assisi, a city that could be defined by its simplicity and is remembered by a simple man, I came to understand what all the dead guys, marble, elaborate art, and overall ruckus we make over our faith. So, I continued to write:
“It seems that the sun itself gets joy from looking at Assisi. It’s not like the Texas sun that is so intense you boil in seconds or like the Steubenville sun that is non-existent at this time of year. No, it’s a soft warmth that kisses you hello and holds you as long as you’ll stay. It holds you without smothering you but never leaves you, never loses touch. I’ve found Him and I don’t want to move. I want to sit here, rooted until the sun goes down. But I won’t wither in this sun like grapes. No, I will bask.”
God is as simple as the sun. It’s really not that complicated. It shouldn’t be, for us. It wasn’t for all the “dead guys” and it certainly wasn’t for Christ. They had one goal, one focus, and it had nothing to do with where they would be laid post mortem. They lived. They focused on life and how to really be alive. They focused on the only person who does not pass. They lived simply and they lived for love.
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