For more than a year now, I've been responsible for the Santa Silvia community in Rome.
I won't pretend I wasn't taken aback when elected. It wasn't the best moment for me. I had commitments stacked on top of commitments; I was already living an 8-to-midnight schedule away from home. Finding the time and willingness to do what I thought a leader should do seemed impossible: more meetings, more phone calls, closer attention to everyone, organizing the "little houses," and everything else that goes with it.
What made me say yes?
I looked around and saw that the only other potential leaders faced the same pressures I did. And I felt—deeply felt—that the community believed it had to be me, despite all my denials and careful explanations about why I wasn't suited for the job. That feeling, I assure you, is no small thing. Then came the question from Cristina, our regional coordinator: "The community has chosen you as the next leader. Do you feel able to do this?"
In life, you have to say yes to beautiful things. And so I gave a clear, full, demanding yes. That same day, and especially in the months that followed, I found myself looking at everyone—friends, the young people, parents, the community—in a new way. It was as if I'd suddenly been given a pair of sophisticated glasses that let me see both near and far, everything about Santa Silvia.
I had always been active in the team that had lived through a very difficult time a few years earlier. Like all groups, we'd gone through a generational change, but with a serious problem: the new generation was just two or three people approaching thirty, already overwhelmed with other commitments. Add to that the absence of a spiritual assistant, and the fact that our community is one of Rome's oldest—founded in 1974—and has lived through so many defining moments of Faith and Light: the beginning, the first camps, the first pilgrimage to Lourdes, so many historic "firsts." All of it haunted by nostalgia, weighted down by the heaviness that comes when things once thrilling and new become routine and burdensome. Some years back, we reached a point of real questioning: "Does it even make sense to keep meeting?"
Another beautiful yes was needed to open a new chapter.
The young people were the first to say yes, as they always are, responding with undiminished enthusiasm to all our proposals—however scattered or poorly organized. Then the parents said yes. Though tired, less active than before, they bore witness with contagious strength to the importance of Faith and Light in their lives, to the value of simply gathering sometimes, eating together, reading and reflecting on Scripture, or even dressing up, playing games, and sharing the spirit of people who belong to each other. Finally, we friends—the most hesitant—said yes too. We took to the road again, slowly this time, carefully, with many stops. But we found our way back to joy.
An image comes to mind from a formation session some time ago. They compared a Faith and Light community leader to a bus driver carrying many different passengers—some getting on, some getting off. Our Santa Silvia bus needed to stop. It needed to take roll call, see who was still aboard, open the doors to let in fresh air, and check if anyone wanted to board or leave. In that phase, the leader—first Valentina, now me, and truly the whole team—had to do more than drive. Using those special glasses I mentioned, we became ticket collectors, entertainers, nurses, flight attendants. The point was to see who our passengers were, where they wanted to go, how they were doing—more important than pushing forward on a route that had become exhausting. So we created all sorts of initiatives: cooking competitions, tours of Rome, repeating mime sketches, dance contests, games, meals together, day trips. During that pause, the journey became a pleasure outing where the destination mattered less than the togetherness. Our work—and it remains my work—has been to draw out the desire in each person to be together, to share, to pray, to have fun. Thankfully, everyone still had that inside. The challenge was honoring the hopes of Italia, our eldest, and Daniele, our youngest, and Maria and Francesca, the two girls who always brighten the atmosphere with their light.
Now, as I said, the Santa Silvia bus is moving again. Slowly, but sound and strong and reliable. And it has picked up new passengers—maybe because the driver isn't me. I don't know the route that well, and neither do the other friends or parents who might know it better but lack the strength or will to drive. The true driver is the one who has always held us together, who asked us to travel with him, who showed us the joy of life in community. All we have to do is sit in the seats, look out the windows, and know when to pause or change course. Our real and only important task is to catch our breath, fill our lungs, and say with force and together: Yes! Yes! Yes!—to whatever questions our journey still holds.
- Filippo Ascenzi - 2003