Faith + Reason = Truth

The student becomes the teacher, and the teacher the student. It is so utterly rewarding to plant a seed, then enjoy the fruits of it years down the road!

Five and half years ago, a family decision was unanimously agreed upon regarding the education of our son. He would leave the public school system, where his older sister happily remained, and enter a Catholic all boys school for seventh grade. Then, if all went as hoped, he would continue on through his high school graduation. There were a number of good reasons for this, one of which was the attainment of a more classical education that delved deeply into the foundations of Western Civilization. In order to better understand where we are, it is terrifically useful to know where we started, and what transpired in between. It is not enough to learn that “Texas” began with the Alamo and 180 brave Americans, or that America commenced in July 1776. There is more to the story. Much more.

Over the next few years, he would become steeped in Latin and religion, along with the standard school subjects. All students followed the same rigorous curriculum. After some years of Latin, they would choose to concentrate on either Spanish or French, and he chose French, just like his old man before him. But for his junior year elective, a precious commodity that each student is allowed one per semester, he chose yet again to study a language, and this time it was Ancient Greek. For both semesters. The language instructors at the school are truly amazing, and the Cistercian monk who taught the Ancient Greek elective to my son and one other brave soul was no exception.

With all of this as the backdrop, fast forward to a conversation between my son and me a few days ago. One of us had brought up the Meditations by Marcus Aurelius, noted Roman emperor from around 160 to 180AD. I believe I made some reference to it, wondering if they had gone over any of it back in the days of studying Latin during his first few years at the school, or if he had merely discovered the great Stoic for himself as I eventually had (although my discovery did not occur until my mid-late 30’s, and I never took Latin). The boy, or should I say young man, respectfully corrected me. If one can even consider it as such; looking back, it was more of a pointing out of something I obviously had not known, rather than a correction. There is a subtle difference, and he has mastered the art of informing without requiring the other party to feel that they were “wrong” in a way that most teens and far too few adults can pull off. Sometimes, one simply does not know a thing, has not learned it, and has formed an assumption based on what he or she actually does know. And that assumption is thus not fully informed, subject to further enlightenment through additional information.

The thing I did not know is that Marcus Aurelius, one of the more magnificent emperors of Rome and a follower of the Stoic path (there were already plenty of Christians in the empire, but Marcus did not count himself as one), wrote not in Latin but in Greek. As, it turns out, the highly educated people of the empire did at that time. As one who has always prided himself on an above-average knowledge of classical and medieval history, that is a fact that had escaped me. I knew the New Testament was written in Greek, not Hebrew, and eventually translated into Latin. But I had not carried that knowledge over to the composition of the Meditations, and assumed that Roman Emperor = Latin writer. Wrong. Countless books and articles, hundreds and hundreds of hours spent on my own extracurricular education, and here before me stood my 17-year old son pointing out something that I had never known. This is a different sensation than, say, calculus or chemistry, where a thing may have been once learned but then eventually forgotten due to lack of further pursuit or interest. This was a thing that I was passionate about, a passion that had been passed on to my son, for which I had considered it important enough to alter his very educational path to do something different than almost everyone does. Now, at age 48.9, I myself was the benefactor of a tiny sliver of that education. The takeaway from this experience is simply to keep planting those seeds, no matter how old or young one is.

In planning the writing of this piece, I went back and perused some of the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius (in English, as my bedside copy is). Every time I do so, I am dumbfounded by the universality of his thoughts. Here are a few:

Book 5, 16    Such as are thy habitual thoughts, such also will be the character of thy mind; for the soul is dyed by the thoughts.

Book 4, 36    Observe constantly that all things take place by change, and accustom thyself to consider that the nature of the Universe loves nothing so much as to change the things which are and to make new things like them. For everything that exists is in a manner the seed of that which will be.

Book 8, 36    Do not disturb thyself by thinking of the whole of thy life. Let not thy thoughts at once embrace all the various troubles which thou mayest expect to befall thee:  but on every occasion ask thyself, What is there in this which is intolerable and past bearing? For thou wilt be ashamed to confess.

Pope Saint John Paul II lived an incredible life of faith, hope, and love. We all know how beloved he was, and many of us know he was Polish. A great number also realize the absolutely critical role he played in the fall of Communism in Eastern Europe, although there were others who received more credit than the Pope. The fact is, it likely would not have happened at all, were it not for John Paul II; if it did, it certainly would not have done so as suddenly as it did. Ironic indeed, as the Soviets themselves were almost certainly behind the assassination attempt on the Pope early in his papacy. They obviously realized the grave threat posed by the unarmed leader with no military at his command. All he had was his unwavering faith in God, his love for all people, and an unyielding hope that history would play out as intended. A hope that, taken at face value, seems almost as absurd today looking back as it did at the time, before the events unfolded.

In my mind, there is none greater at telling this fascinating tale than papal biographer George Weigel. He has written a number of books on Karol Wojtyla, the Pope's given name, and I have read them all (audiobooks, but that still counts - in fact, I contend that the audio versions have a distinct advantage for non-Polish speakers, as the narrators of these books pronounce the names of the people and places in Polish, and one would never guess how those names actually sound merely by looking at letters on a page). I am so familiar with the Polish pronunciations after listening to the works of Weigel that I instinctively hear "Krakov" every time I see "Krakow" in print or on a screen, and I wonder if I were to say it aloud, should I use the "American" or the "Polish" pronunciation? No matter. I am here today to simply extoll the wonder of a beautiful life story as told by a master storyteller who is clearly as in awe of and in love with his subject as one could be. So am I, thanks to Weigel.

The first two treatments of Pope Saint John Paul II by George Weigel were Witness to Hope and The End and the Beginning. The third, which I am just finishing, is Lessons In Hope, a finely detailed recounting of the process behind the production of the other works. Weigel has gone back through his decades-old copious notes and shares them with us, everything from people and places and dates to the thinking behind why he spoke to specific individuals. Some were helpful, while others tried their best not to be; in the end, all were seen for what they were, even if nothing more than being generous with their time. But insights can be gleaned even by attempts to thwart progress, and Weigel seems to have successfully turned many or most such attempts towards the ultimate goal of producing as deep an understanding of his subject as possible.

The shorter days and colder, darker nights of winter still lay stretched out before us. Times like these, calling into question the values of our leaders and fellow citizens, are when the soul longs for something personal, though it may not be sure exactly what. Perhaps it is the simple wondering of "what can I DO?" Jesus of Nazareth, the Way, the Truth, and the Life, is the answer to every question. Sometimes that may not be the answer we would like to have, partially because of how obvious and straightforward it is. Though simple, it is by no means easy, and Jesus came to personally show us that the Way can be unpleasant in human terms. But that is the point. There is more to our existence than just the self-centric side of the equation. If making things more difficult for ourselves leads to making them better for someone else, as Jesus did, we are probably on the right track. Pope Saint John Paul II was an inspiring, compelling, extraordinary embodiment of that kind of selfless, "others first" existence, and there is simply no better guide for a journey through that life than George Weigel.

The double espresso shot was strong and over quickly, as expected. The kids enjoyed their gelatti, with my wife opting for a cappuccino. Then, a text from Natalia - finally! She explained that she had six different properties checking out and then in this morning, and she apologized for her non-responsiveness. No matter the circumstance, an apology is always appreciated. And I never lost sight of the fact that she had been trying to accommodate us by allowing us to get into the apartment several hours earlier than her normal check-in time so that we could drop our bags and get to exploring Rome. It was about an hour later than we had initially discussed, and the apprehension of being in Europe for the first time while being unable to get a response from our only local contact, piled on top of so much sleeplessness with a long, full day of Roman sightseeing ahead of us had taken a toll, but it was time to regroup and get rolling!

Keeping an eye out for "Phyllis," Natalia's representative, I noted a hopeful-looking, smallish man of possibly Filipino descent making his way toward us on the narrow cobblestone street outside of Don Nino. Definitely not what I would be expecting to be a Phyllis. In fact, when I stepped toward him, prompting him to say "Mr. Worth?" to which I responded, "Phyllis?" I could feel my family thinking me a clueless idiot. Much to their surprise, however, came his enthusiastic '"Yes!" followed by an offer to grab some of our bags and follow him through a locked door on the street that was directly in front of us. Time for the first of many old, dimly lit staircases, coming as no surprise to any of us. Universally, a thing Americans notice about European travel is the lack of elevators and abundance of steps. Our expectations were duly met over the course of the following two weeks.

The place was ridiculously more spacious than a hotel would have been, which we already knew from the many pictures on the airbnb site. That's one of the great things about airbnb. You could theoretically run into some fraudulent image posting and find yourself in a place decorated completely differently than the pictures show (which never happened to us at any of our six apartments), but the place is the place, and you know what to expect when you walk in. Still, it felt more magical than I had anticipated, being in the home of someone who actually lived in Rome by the Pantheon (or at least had at one time, before deciding to go full airbnb with it and turn it into a rental property). We looked out the bedroom windows down onto the street a couple of stories below, a smattering of people walking and talking. It was still early, too early for the crowds we would see later on and especially into the night. Now, it was time to leave most of our belongings in a Roman apartment with a man we had just met a few minutes earlier, with no way to know who he actually was if we returned later to find some or all of it missing. After getting our keys from him and checking that we could get through the various doors between the street and our home for the next three nights, we were on our way.

First up was the Pantheon. I don't believe any of us were ready for how massive and awe-inspiring it would be inside. This was a sensation that would be repeated on numerous occasions over the coming thirteen days:  "wow, I knew this would be amazing, but not THIS amazing!" And there seemed to always be some little thing that could easily be missed or taken for granted, but if you noticed it, proved to be yet another incredible find. First up on this list was something none of us knew about the Pantheon, which was that Raphael is there. When he died at just 37 years old, he had already accomplished so much (including the magnificent fresco "The School of Athens," which has been the cover image of this very blog for many years) that his request to be buried at the Pantheon was honored. So there he lies, as he has for the past 500 years.

Next was the National Monument to Victor Emmanuel II ("Il Vittoriano"), an enormous marble complex which looks ancient and spectacularly classical but is actually barely a hundred years old. It's a commemoration of Italy becoming a unified country under its first king, Victor Emmanuel. Again, this only happened in the late 1800's. The Kingdom of Italy.

I didn't take any pictures of the monumental building and steps, but here's one from the top of it. Really great vantage point from here, even better than from the top of the dome of St. Peter's. That's why we stopped there and spent more time than we had planned (yet another recurring theme of the trip).

It was getting hot and we needed food. A stroll down the length of the ruins of Trajan Forum's below street level (wide and spacious, while set much lower than the present day street level) and the Column of Trajan brought us to a shaded outdoor eatery for our first taste of pizza, pasta, and expensive bottled mineral water to accompany the meals. But with the Colosseum beckoning, we instead headed back to the apartment to regroup, freshen up (which we still had not been able to do since leaving America), and hit the trail refreshed and reinvigorated.

Upon our return, after our first Roman bus experience using our Roma Passes that we had purchased at a tobacco shop by the Pantheon for cash (which prompted our second ATM stop, the first one being the one in the airport), the place looked even better than before, with all of our belongings as we had left them. No worries! There was bottled water for us in the fridge, fresh fruit on the table, and after taking turns with the two bathrooms in the apartment (we already knew what a prized commodity that any free, i.e. non-pay, restroom in Rome was), it was back to the Colosseum.