San Pietro

Thirteen years of Catholic school is bound to have a profound effect, I suppose. For nine of those years, I was never in a classroom that did not have a portrait of the Pope hanging prominently on the wall. Mass was at least once a week; baptisms, confessions, confirmations - all were simply granted features of life and their importance was considered assumed, like police protection or air.

Things got more complicated in high school, but the assumptions were still there. How many students of the 1251 were not Catholic? Few indeed. At any given time I was surrounded by hundreds of people who were raised in an almost identical environment, living in similar places, going to similar schools, experiencing similar lives. We argued about the things the Church said, to be sure, but il Papa was still sacred; his teachings given weight and merit by even the most steadfast skeptics. To see the Pope was to see God, or very nearly - he was after all, a direct decendent of St. Peter, following in an unbroken line of worldly pontiffs guiding and caring for His earthly pilgrims.

After a couple years of college - living and learning in a starkly areligious environment while being taught to challenge EVERYTHING, to find the flaws in EVERY argument, to attack ALL assumptions - I no longer believe what I once did. I consider this an improvement of course, and am perfectly happy with my current worldview (though of course it is always expanding and evolving). That dome, though...

Every day crossing from Trastevere on the Tiber's east bank to the old city of Rome, I look to the north and see it, rising up like a mountain, as natural as the river itself. San Pietro in all it's glory, singing its siren song to me, drawing me nearer. The dome and the church and the square and the Pope all whispering softly in my ear to come near, to be welcomed by the loving arms of Mother Church.

I'm trying hard to RESIST. Someone should tie me to the mast.