Camera as Icon-Eye into Spiritual Reality

Rome Pilgrimage Formative Reflection
Columbia Theological Seminary Spiritual Formation Certificate
© July 8, 2004 by Norman Stolpe

I wrote in my paper on Elizabeth Canham’s book Heart Whispers: Benedictine Wisdom for Today that I wrestled with what to do about a camera for the pilgrimage. I wanted to be a pilgrim savoring and relishing spirit enriching experiences, not a tourist preoccupied with documenting the sights. For one thing, the density of sights was so intense that even the most avid photo-tourist would have to be selective. I quickly began to see that my camera could be a kind of icon-eye to sharpen my acuity for sacramental images, that is the tangible sights that offered insight into God’s spiritual reality that touched me. I still ended up with about 150 pictures, some of which undoubtedly are touristy. However, I have selected six that I have enlarged for framing to use for a personal prayer center.

Above the stairway leaving the Monastery and Church of St. Benedict in Subiaco is a statue of Benedict with an inscribed blessing for those who visit. I certainly felt the light of God’s blessing as I visited each place on this pilgrimage, which I hope to take with me everywhere I go. Though not a major piece of magnificent sculpture or a central attraction, this became to me an icon of the purpose of this pilgrimage, to purposely bask in Christ’s light.

I was captivated by the smiling expression of Christ in the ceiling mosaic at Santa Croce in Gerusalemme (Church of the Holy Cross) and the ceiling fresco at the Monastery of St. Benedict. I took these as windows to Christ’s smile on me as I yearn to be close to him amid the realities of pastoring a struggling congregation and trying to launch a floundering nineteen year old son into adulthood. It spoke to me of Psalm 147:11, “The Lord takes pleasure in those who fear him.” They allow me to adopt for myself the expression Brennan Manning extracts from the apostle John, “I am the one Jesus loves.”

The cross is the most widespread and readily recognized Christian symbol, and crosses and crucifixes were ubiquitous in Rome. Many were highly ornate, and others were elegant in their simplicity. When our guide pointed out the absence of crosses in the catacombs, I was a little surprised, which helped me attend to and appreciate some of their more common symbols: the Good Shepherd, Chi Rho, birds, people at prayer and worship. But I was enthralled by two crosses. One was on the Pascal Candlestick in St. Paul’s Basilica dating from 1186 CE and reputed to be the first known crucifix depicting Jesus on the cross. Its primitive presentation gives me a sense of immediacy, of entering with the sculptor into the suffering of Jesus. The other cross that fascinated me was the one hanging over the altar in the upper Church of St. Benedict in Subiaco. Its unusual shape and texture seem to be an extension of the rock walls of the cliffs and caves that remain exposed and unadorned, congruent with St. Benedict’s three years in his stone hermitage. With the symbols of the four evangelists on the four arms of the cross and Christ portrayed in resurrection if not ascension glory, this cross conveys to me the hope of the Gospel. Its earthiness and luminescence fuse the realities of my daily living with hope, not just of ultimate redemption but of flashes of present glory.

All over Rome we saw flags proclaiming “pace” (peace). In one of the churches many hundreds of written prayers were tucked in every crevice and heaped in a deep accumulation around the base of a statue, even post-it-notes stuck to the hem of the statue’s robe. A mother was helping a young girl write a prayer and try to get it on to the statue. One prayer open on the base read in Italian “peace in Iraq.” Pagan grave markers were inscribed “D.M.” (to the gods) but in the catacombs and other Christian burial markers read “IN PACEM” (in peace). Our group talked often about our yearnings for peace in the world and in the Church, not just between Protestants and Roman Catholics, but among the people of our congregations. The floor grate in the baptistery of Sts. John Lateran which read “CHRISTUS PAX NOSTRA” (Christ our peace) evokes my longings for peace and centers that longing in Christ. Whether that specific casting is that ancient or not, this site goes back to the time of Constantine, the Fourth Century. Turmoil has plagued the world, the Church and the lives of individual Christians through all these centuries, yet this piece blends my prayers for peace with those of these generations of Christians, and it centers me in Christ so I can be at peace within, even when surrounded by turbulence.

Relics as Icons of the Communion of Saints

As Protestant pilgrims, most of us out of the Reformed tradition, visiting the holy sites around Rome prompted comparisons and examination of how to reverence and be formed by relics and holy sites. I don’t believe any of us climbed the “Santa Scala” (Holy Steps) on our knees, yet I felt comfortable and appropriate genuflecting as we entered each church, before going to see the sights. I made a point of spending some time praying in each church, and where kneelers were provided, I used them. In my own congregation I lift my hands in worship when a hymn directs glory to God and I cross myself when I receive the Lord’s Supper. These are not common among Disciples of Christ, but I feel congruent doing them.

The pilgrimage took me to many graves: St. Paul and St. Peter, the catacombs, Francis and Clare, Ignatius of Loyola, hundreds of Popes in St. Peter’s Basilica. I didn’t fit with either the curious tourists or the pious Roman Catholics, yet I was moved and sensed the blessing of Christ’s light at these places. As I puzzled at my responses, I considered how we in the United States now consider “ground zero” of the World Trade Center in New York City to be a “holy site” and a “shrine.” To build St. Peter’s Basilica over Nero’s Circus makes a “holy site” of this place where Christians died for their faith, perhaps not unlike the Americans who died in a symbol of capitalist faith in New York. It’s more than respect or even reverence, it’s connection and solidarity.

In Chiesa Gesú (Jesus Church) where St. Ignatius of Loyola is interred, a glass case under the altar contains three clearly visible skulls and a number of bones. As best we could tell these were from early Jesuit martyrs, though we were not able to get specific information. Reflecting a bit on church history, I realized they may well have been martyred by Protestants. In the Vatican Museum’s room commemorating the religious wars is a painting of Franciscans being hung by Protestants. The face of the monk awaiting his noose was positively radiant, conveying a powerful sense of the privilege of dying for Christ, much like Stephen in Acts 7:55-60. Accustomed to thinking of Protestants martyred at the hands of Roman Catholics, I grieved the murder of these brothers in Christ and the violent divisions the Church has not escaped. Though I did not know the owners of those skulls, I had somehow connected to three people who, like me, were hungering for and vigorously pursuing spiritual intimacy with Jesus. These tangible relics conveyed to me the personal reality of distinct individuals and their costly devotion of Jesus.

Of all of the holy sites, this sense of connection was strongest for me at the catacombs. As we walked those passages, passing the crypts and niches, I kept saying to myself, “a person, a fellow Christian lived and died and was buried in each of these spots.” The family chapels and tiny crypts for children evoked for me the love and grief that was celebrated and remembered in these tunnels. Certainly my modern, Protestant sensibilities contribute to my appreciation that the artifacts and artwork (relics) left here were those made and used by the Christians of the Second and Third Centuries. Here was no shrine constructed later and out of joint with the origins. Here I was seeing and touching the lives and deaths of my Christian forbearers, with as little between us as possible. Not only was their hope of resurrection almost palpable, but so was their joy of living as Christ’s people in a time before Christianity was popular, when it was at times even dangerous. When one of the women in our group began singing “For All the Saints,” I hoped we would swell into it, but the practicalities of going single file through twisting tunnels, without a song leader or words, precluded a rousing chorus. But here, of all the holy sites of Rome, I most felt surrounded by the great cloud of witnesses of Hebrews 12:1.

Though I think Benedict and Francis would probably be appalled, or at least surprised and dismissive, to see what has been built in their places, I did have a certain sense of congruence in Subiaco and Assisi. The subdued, restrained frescos seemed to fit their emphases on humility and simplicity far more than the gilding and coronation in the churches of Rome. My prayers in the chapels of the Monastery of St. Benedict and the nave of the Basilicas of St. Francis and St. Clare were warmly satisfying. I found it especially powerful to pray at Francis’ tomb. The accruements of the shrine could not distract from the direct simplicity of his rough stone sarcophagus. By contrast, the hardest church for me to pray in was St. Peter’s Basilica. It was not that the artwork offended my Protestant sensibilities. Actually, much of it was beautiful and moving. It was not even the constant flow of people with their chatter and camera flashes. Rather the sheer abundance of beautiful, wonderful and significant things made focusing difficult. I did spend a positive half-hour in the Chapel of the Holy Sacrament which was set aside specifically for prayer. But even there, the density of visual stimuli made anything like centering prayer impossible for me. However, a nun who was praying there seemed totally absorbed in her prayers, unperturbed by all the distractions.

Fellow Pilgrims as Icons of the Communion of Saints

The advanced readings about St. Benedict and St. Francis were wonderful preparation for visiting Subiaco and Assisi. It was not just a question of being knowledgeable, but of connecting and relating to them as partners in the Communion of Saints and as fellow pilgrims following Jesus. Especially in the cave of the shepherds (I found the sculptures in Benedict’s cave just too overwhelming), I felt I was sitting with Benedict looking out over the valley and listening as he taught not just shepherds but me, especially about being gentle with myself and others as we make the Christian pilgrimage together. Perhaps more than anything I saw in Assisi, the fresco portrait of Francis in St. Gregory’s Chapel in Subiaco was like a magnet, pulling me toward this saint. As I gazed at his face, I said, “Here is someone I want for a friend. Here is someone I can trust.” Since we know more about Francis from what others said and wrote about him than from his own words, it was harder to get a sense of listening to him teach. But perhaps that’s how he’d rather have it. “Live like this,” he’d say, rather than a lot of words. Perhaps more than anything, I felt Francis’ joy.

My youngest son attended Jesuit College Preparatory School in Dallas, I use a Jesuit retreat center close to Dallas for personal silent retreats, and I have used Ignatius’s Spiritual Exercises for my own spiritual formation as well as to help others who have sought my spiritual guidance. So inadvertently discovering Ignatius’ tomb at Chiesa Gesú was serendipitous. It seemed to me to make a complete set: Benedict and community life, Francis and exuberant faith in action, Ignatius examen of conscience for spiritual formation.

While the ancient saints folded me into the Communion of Saints (Peter, Paul, the Christians of the catacombs, Benedict and Scholastica, Francis and Clare, Ignatius) my fellow pilgrims were essential to experiencing the Communion of Saints afresh. Discovering that Rebecca Cole-Turner had been at Wheaton College as an undergrad while I was there in grad school made for an instant bond. As we talked and discovered we both had young adult children struggling to get their lives underway and directed, made us prayer partners on the same parenting pilgrimage. When Bob Anderson shared the flounderings and need for unified vision of the congregation he pastors, I immediately felt encouraged. The similar needs of the congregation I pastor were neither exceptional nor hopeless. Mike Fitze and I might seem to be at opposite ends of the contemplative-activist spectrum, but his exuberance, blending with that of St. Francis, energized and buoyed me every day.

Pilgrimage as Icon for My Personal Journey

The pursuit of this Certificate in Spiritual Formation has been something of a pilgrimage in and of itself. As much as I have enjoyed and appreciated it, I am glad it is coming to a conclusion, not because I am tired of it, but because of feeling the approaching satisfaction of completion of a goal pursued over time. During these seven years, I have journeyed from an associate ministry, largely in Christian education, to serving as a solo pastor, from the Presbyterian Church (USA) through a non-denominational congregation into the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ), from a Yankee to a Texan.

First Presbyterian Church of Mt. Holly, New Jersey, where I served as Minister of Nurture for seventeen years, had a staff of three pastors, a music director, an administrator and two lay ministers. For the most part we were a good team, and I was comfortable as a team player. With the enthusiastic blessing of the leadership of that church, I went to MorningStar Christian Church in Milwaukee, Wisconsin with the expectation of a pastoral role as shepherd and coach. Not long after arrival, a small but vocal and powerful group called for me to be a CEO-executive director pastor, which just did not fit me. Moving on was painful for the church as well as for me and my family. Central Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) where I have been the pastor since 2000 has also struggled to find a future oriented vision and direction. Old disputes erupted in January of 2004 and people on both sides departed, along with some who just didn’t want to hang around in a contentious atmosphere. While all of the substantive and relational issues are not totally resolved, there is now a sense of wanting to stick together and move forward. However, no clear unifying vision or mission is rising from the congregation or its lay leadership. In contrast with our experience in Milwaukee and some of the history of this congregation, the leaders and most of the congregation have determined that the solution is not another pastor. Instead they have not only said they want me to continue, they want me to point the way to the future.

After some prayerful soul-searching and intentional steps of discernment, my wife (and our son) and I are convinced God has called us to serve this congregation at this time, and we have committed ourselves to God and the church for this end. This brings me to the realization of a new phase of my pilgrimage. After having been a collaborative team member, God has put me in a place beyond my comfort zone, but I do not believe it is beyond what God has called and gifted me to fulfill. That is to be an initiating, visionary leader without becoming an autocratic CEO kind of pastor.

As I read about the Abbot in the Rule of St. Benedict in advance of this pilgrimage, I was challenged and instructed. On the pilgrimage I tried to pay particular attention to the leadership of Benedict and Francis. In my prayer and contemplation times each day on the pilgrimage I gave attention to how God might be shaping me for this new challenge for my leadership.

In my times of lectio divina on the pilgrimage, one of the passages I worked with was 2 Kings 2:1-14 (one of the lectionary readings for that Sunday we were in Rome), which is the account of Elijah being taken up to heaven. I identified a lot with Elisha. He was to become “the man of God” in a hostile and threatening time as the successor to one of Israel’s most powerful figures. Just as he asked for a double portion of Elijah’s spirit, I prayed for the filling and equipping of God’s Spirit. As Elijah is taken from him, Elisha cries out “My father! My father!” articulating the human loneliness of his new responsibilities. I, too, feel alone in a way different than I have felt before as I sense the leaders of this congregation watching me to discover where to follow. Elisha receives the sacramental sign that God is with him when he not only sees Elijah taken from him but receives his mantle, the tangible tool by which God’s power was exercised. When he heads back across the Jordan River, Elisha cries out, “Where is the Lord God of Elijah?” As I looked through the icons of each day of this pilgrimage, I also asked, “Where is the Lord God of Elijah?”

I saw the blessing of light from St. Benedict and the smiles of Christ. I saw the centrality of the rhythm of the cross: crucifixion and glory. I saw the peace of being centered in Christ. I saw myself welcomed in the Communion of Saints, with the same access to the same God that Peter and Paul, the Christians of the catacombs, Benedict and Scholastica, Francis and Clare, Ignatius and Calvin all trusted and loved and found sufficient for their challenges. In answer to the lonely cry of Elisha, I heard the encouragement of the other pilgrims in our group as well as even the cheers of the leaders of the congregation I am serving.

After Elisha asks, “Where is the Lord God of Elijah?” he strikes the river with Elijah’s mantle and it opens ahead of him. The Lord God of Elijah is present and working with him. The point of an icon is to be a sort of spiritual spectacles through which the spiritual reality of God may be perceived. These icons, whether the ones I selected to photograph or the holy sites and relics I saw or the people past and present who are the Communion of Saints, were truly windows through which I could see the God who will be with me on this next stage of my pilgrimage.