And the Lord said: "...But when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on the earth?"
This question from the Gospel reading of October 17th, and a homily that followed by an elderly—and still remarkably vigorous—priest, set me thinking hard: "Faith is not chosen once and for all in life, but lived and renewed each day"..."if we teach our children to fear everything and everyone, how will they learn to trust, to surrender themselves, to have faith?"..."reason and logic don't help us explain faith, but love brings us closer to understanding it"..."love and prayer are to faith what water and nourishment are to a plant; without them it risks drying up."
As I reflected, I searched my memory for images, for faces...and so many came to mind: Rina, Vittorio, Italia, Antonio, Mariangela, Maria Stella, Maria, Lucia, Palmina. My personal touchstones, my witnesses to something I might otherwise have failed to see. I have thought of them often and thanked them, because without them my fragile little plant called FAITH might well have withered. The parents at Fede e Luce, the faithful friends of its story and community for over forty years, have been my "revelation."
To know how to rejoice, to ask no explanations but simply to live and love, to share fragility with others, to entrust one's fragile children to those you feel will love them, to live with gratitude rather than regret or envy.
Yes, in these corners of abundance, in these small communities wounded yet strong, in these lives open to life itself—"the Son of Man will find his faith on the earth"!
The word FAITH, then, is the first that comes to mind when I think of the many friends and parents—"grown-ups" in every sense—I have met at Fede e Luce. Many other words capture the maturity of these witnesses. In a semi-serious spirit, here's a small sampling:
Tenderness
The train to Lourdes in 2001: chaos in the cars as everyone tries to settle the young people into their bunks for the night. Suddenly, from our compartment comes shouting, crying, a terrible racket. Maria, a girl from San Gregorio, is in the grip of a nervous breakdown—exhaustion perhaps, or worry—and it won't stop.
Several of us try, one after another, to calm her down. Nothing works. Then, with her reassuring smile and tender gaze, her unhurried movements—Mariangela arrives. She takes Maria by the arm and, with gentle but firm energy, leads her away down the corridor. The door closes behind them. They disappear from sight. We listen hard. We hear a sharp, commanding voice—tender, somehow—breaking through Maria's shouts. Sounds like distant thunder or drums, the kind of noises from a Bud Spencer film. Then finally: silence. The corridor door opens. There is Maria, calm and peaceful, followed by Mariangela with her reassuring blue eyes and white hair—a wise, good mother. Everyone sleeps. Tenderness wins every time.
Seriousness
Campo di Penna in Teverina, 2005. There's an evening around the fire. We're listening to tales from a Native American chief and his wise medicine man—stories of men and animals. Everyone tries to imagine themselves as the hero of these tales. We perform rituals and dances to feel connected to the environment and nature. Suddenly, Maria, our senior community member, collapses to the ground. The chief and medicine man rush over, all of us crowd around, worried. She writhes, gasps, shakes, her whole body goes rigid, her face scrapes the earth..."Did you like my version of the lovestruck caterpillar?" she says, getting up while we all stare in amazement.
There's no getting around it: age makes you a serious person.
Self-Control and Composure
Another moment on the Lourdes train teaches us something about the gifts of maturity. After a rough, noisy, chaotic departure from Rome Ostiense, things finally settle down. We organize ourselves in the compartments. We have boxed meals and we share them in joy and fellowship. What excitement! The whole car—maybe the whole train—singing Alleluia, clapping, gesturing along. We eat, we drink, some chat, then it's time for bed. Everyone prepares to sleep in all the compartments except one. We still hear singing, happy voices, laughter. I pull back the curtain and there are Italia and Maria Stella with a small table between them, locked in a fierce card game: "Two and four, seven!"..."One, two, three, jack, queen, king"...and then more laughter. My eyes move to the seats beside these two cheerful pilgrims: one, two, three...no, wait—four...five?! They've collected five wine bottles!
When questioned, the merry travelers declare: "They were just throwing them away. It seemed a shame!"
It's wonderful to learn from mature people how to exercise self-control and live soberly.
Sharing
We all know about the three moments of the Fede e Luce small group gatherings, and the fourth. But above all, the great heart and soul of every community meeting—the anchor stone, the center of gravity—is the parade of spectacular dishes, remarkable both for quality and quantity, that make up the communal meal. Each community tries to organize lunch by dividing appetizers, main courses, bread, and drinks so that everyone gets their share and the meal is truly shared.
Yet this carefully planned organization is inevitably undone by the generosity, creativity, and skill of our mamas in the kitchen—and then the race begins: "Go ahead, eat this pasta, I made it myself with these two hands (not like that other witch who buys hers...)"..."My cake! Where is it? Don't you dare leave any or I'll be offended!" "You tried my frittata, right? How was it? Good, wasn't it?"
So we learn to SHARE the meal: one of the most important and demanding moments for those of us—especially the men—trying to keep up. If you can make it past ten courses without collapsing, you've made an impression, you've earned the gratitude of every single mama (and I do mean every one—slip up and the spirit of sharing cracks) and tomorrow: diet!
All the references here describe things that really happened. All the people named are over sixty-five years old.
Filippo Ascenzi, 2010