Here, Priests Run Everything

All over Rome you’ll find the letters “SPQR” emblazoned on everything from taxis to trashcans, drinking fountains to sewer covers. It’s an abbreviation for Senatus Populusque Romanus (“The Senate and People of Rome”) and seems to originate in imperial Roman coinage and inscriptions. Sarah Bond has an essential piece about the polyvalence of “SPQR” through the centuries, including its appropriation by modern white supremacists.

What I’m thinking about today, in light of the state of the Catholic Church as an institution, is the sonnet entitled, “SPQR” by the Roman poet Giuseppe Gioachino Belli (1791-1863; full text and translation at the end of this post). Belli lived in Rome when the Church was also the ruling authority in the city. He wrote scores of sonnets in the vivid Roman dialect (I’ve blogged about him already) and he was not afraid to use his poems to challenge ecclesiastical abuse and hypocrisy.

One such poem is, “SPQR.” Here, Belli “remembers” his schoolboy days, where he would see the letters everywhere in Rome and wonder what they stood for. So, like any good Catholic, he asks his teacher/priest (Fr. Fulgentius). The priest rather brusquely tells the boy:

Ste lettre vonno dì, ssor zomarone,
Soli preti qui rreggneno: e ssilenzio
.

These letters mean, you giant dumbass,
“Here the priests run everything.” Now shut up.

Soli Preti Qui Reggneno”—SPQR—literally, “Here only priests rule.” This is the world Belli lived in, but it’s also part of the world that Catholics have grown up in. Clericalism—the idea that “Father knows best,” that priests are inherently or supernaturally holier/better than laypeople, that they are above the rules and accountability that govern the rest of us— is ingrained into many Catholics since childhood, especially those from immigrant communities in the United States. And many priests believe it too, carrying themselves as if they were better than their lay brothers and sisters. This is what lies at the heart of the sexual abuse crisis in the Church, because sexual violence is fundamentally about power. Clerical power has been fed by the privilege and deference given to clergy by lay Catholics, and is the cause of obfuscation and silence embraced by the clergy to protect their status, no matter the harm done to the laity. I’m not alone in thinking this. 

As Belli’s sonnet makes clear (and as I learned from my mother, herself an immigrant to the US from Rome), laypeople have long known that hypocrisy exists among the clergy. But we are at a moment now in the life of the US Catholic Church in which many Catholics will no longer put up with it,  because now we see how clericalism has permitted and subsequently hidden irreparable harm done to children.

The question facing those Catholics contemplating their ongoing participation in the institutional Church is whether the Tradition—the Christian faith and its practices that have been handed down through the centuries—can continue to exist and be passed on in an institution that is so clearly rotten from the inside out.

When the Roman Emperor Constantine built the great basilicas of St. Peter’s and St. Paul’s in Rome, he destroyed two large cemeteries in order to create a foundation for these new buildings. Metaphorically, the clerical nature of the institutional Church is a cemetery: a city of the dead that needs to be razed in order for a new building, a new place of worship, to rise in its place. Whether any of us in the Church have the will to undertake that vast labor is what will define Catholicism from this moment forward.

******
SPQR
Quell’esse, pe, ccu, erre, inarberate
Sur portone de guasi oggni palazzo,
Quelle sò cquattro lettere der cazzo,
Che nun vonno dì ggnente, compitate.
M’aricordo però cche dda regazzo,
Cuanno leggevo a fforza de frustate,
Me le trovavo sempre appiccicate
Drent’in dell’abbeccé ttutte in un mazzo.
Un giorno arfine me te venne l’estro
De dimannanne un po’ la spiegazzione
A ddon Furgenzio ch’era er mi’ maestro.
Ecco che mm’arispose don Furgenzio:
“Ste lettre vonno dì, ssor zomarone,
Soli preti qui rreggneno: e ssilenzio.”

Roma, 4 maggio 1833

That SPQR on the door
Of almost every building,
Those letters aren’t worth shit.
They don’t spell anything.
But I remember when I was a boy,
And had to read or get thrashed,
I always found them together, like the ABC’s.
Finally, one day the desire came over me
To ask Don Fulgentius, my teacher, for an explanation.
Here’s the answer Don Fulgentius gave me,
“These letters mean, you giant dumbass,
‘Here the priests run everything.’ Now shut up.”

Rome, May 4, 1833

Praying With Yogi Berra (Sort Of)

“Baseball is like church. Many attend, few understand.” ~attributed to Leo Durocher

It was one of those air travel nightmares you hear about but hope you are never in: In October 2009, I was on an international flight from Philadelphia to Tel Aviv en route to Jerusalem for an academic conference. After a rigorous and time-consuming security screening (enhanced for all travel to Israel) we were boarded on the plane only to wait on the tarmac for seven hours due to a mechanical issue. Tempers grew short and airport security were brought on the plane after some passengers began shouting at the flight crew. By the time I landed in Tel Aviv, and made it through Israeli passport control, the car ride to Jerusalem, and arrival at my destination, I was exhausted.

I awoke sometime in the middle of the night, my body’s clock completely out of whack with my surroundings. With nothing else to do, I began channel-surfing. Late-night TV is bad no matter where you are, and Israeli TV is no exception. I mindlessly flipped through eastern European soap operas and 1960’s footage of Israeli folk dancers until, miraculously it seemed, I came across the live broadcast of Game 1 of the World Series. The Phillies were at Yankee Stadium. The Bronx Bombers had won 102 games that year on their way to the AL Pennant. On the mound for the Phillies was Cliff Lee, picked up from Cleveland that year right before the trade deadline. Lee had pitched an eight-inning no-hitter against St. Louis in June on his way to a complete game. Here, on the biggest stage in baseball, in one of the game’s iconic parks, Lee was magnificent: throwing 80 strikes out of 122 total pitches as part of a complete game, eight-inning shutout in the Phillies 6-1 victory.   

Unlike Cliff Lee, I didn’t make it to the end of the game, but those first few innings I watched from Jerusalem were a delight I will not soon forget, thanks to his record-setting performance: the first pitcher in a World Series start with ten strikeouts, no walks, and no earned runs. The next morning, I drank my coffee in sight of the Temple Mount and walked into the Old City to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, where the site believed to be the tomb of Christ has been venerated for over sixteen centuries. In another happy coincidence, I arrived just as Mass in front of the tomb was beginning for an American tour group. I quietly joined the back of the group and slid comfortably into the vocal and physical rhythms of the rite that has been with me my entire life.

The Aedicule, built over the traditional tomb of Jesus, Holy Sepulcher Church, Jerusalem. By Daniel Case from Wikimedia Commons.

My experiences of the World Series game in the House that Ruth Built and the Mass at the Holy Sepulcher both involved a powerful combination of memory, history, ritual, and emotion. A baseball game is liturgical after all: a public, communal, ritual event, within which individual and group dramas are acted out in larger structure of order and rules. Both baseball and the liturgy are global phenomena, with distinct cultural elements depending on where in the world they are, not to mention the role that some ballparks play as pilgrimage sites of sorts or the gallery of saints and sinners in the history of the game. And of course, like liturgy, baseball’s adherents argue passionately about any changes to the rubrics–at times even more passionately than Christians to about worship.

I don’t want to press these similarities too far, and I’m not about to argue that there is some innate religious component in human nature or in everything that we do (but there is quite a bit of literature out there on religion and baseball). But I can’t deny that these two unexpected encounters within the space of a few hours were for me more than just a reminder of “home” in a foreign country. The ballgame gave me a deeper understanding of the worship service. Together both brought me face to face with the embodied nature of religious worship, its necessary binding to place and to group.

Shamblesuk at the English Wikipedia from Wikimedia Commons.