When the earth gives out beneath you, when the certainty you once took for granted–solidity, predictability, consistency–crumbles into ruin, what can you do? Where can you turn? More to the point, maybe: who will you be?
Benedict’s birth place, Norcia, held out longer than his burial ground, Montecassino. The latter’s destruction came from above in 1944; the former saw death come from below in 2016. The earthquake that ravaged this corner of Italy, one of many such tremors over who knows how many centuries, made international news. A tragedy, for sure. But nine years have passed. Surely the earthquake’s impact is now firmly buried in its past, isn’t it? Naively, that had been my thought as I marched through these last two days on the Cammino di San Benedetto, preparing myself for a glorious arrival in Norcia.
It all began with the most significant ascent of the trip, an almost constant climb from the moment I stepped out the door in Poggio Bustone until I topped the pass five kilometers later, emerging above the clouds at a hair over 1500m. I’ve been straddling the border between winter and spring for these past six weeks, and on this morning Italy finally celebrated the end of daylight savings, springing ahead an hour. Despite that, it felt on this morning like I had skipped directly to autumn, with crumbling, orange leaves finally losing the battle to cling to barren branches overhead as a fierce wind ripped into me. A fresh dusting of snow coated the surrounding peaks. All of that encouraged me to maintain a quick pace, launching into the descent almost immediately after cresting the top.
On this Sunday morning, I was pushing hard to Leonessa, the lone town of any size on the walk, in order to reach a grocery store before they all shut down for the day. Even still, upon reaching the cheery town’s broad piazza, groups of locals milling around before mass, I spared the time to pop into the church. There are many images one is accustomed to seeing upon entering a Catholic church, but a swastika is not one of them. I halted, rigidly, and then took in the rest of the scene: a painting that depicted a scene in which Nazi soldiers prepared an execution of several religious men. One of them tugged at his shirt, exposing part of his chest, as if to say: “here’s the spot to aim for, you bastards.”
This was the Strage di Leonessa, the “massacre.” Between March 29 and April 7, 1944, the Nazi forces sought to gather up opposition forces. The Rieti valley had been a hotbed of partisan opposition, and their efforts had resulted in a fair degree of autonomous rule, while limiting German bloodshed. With the Allied threat ever looming, Germany suddenly found itself to be destabilized, shaken, and responded with force to firm up control. Leonessa was occupied and roughly 100 locals, all identified as anti-fascist activists, were rounded up. Executions followed. Six on April 2. Thirteen on April 5. Despicably, a local woman, Rosina Cesaretti, took the lead in identifying targets for that second wave, including her brother and sister-in-law, as an opportunity to settle old grievances. What drove her to that? Did the traumatic nature of the preceding years warp her sense of morality? Does it matter? While she yielded to the darkest aspects of her nature, people like Don Concezio Chiaretti, the young priest, risked his life throughout the occupation, and ultimately lost it in the last round of executions on April 7. He could have kept a lower profile and survived; plenty of priests did, after all. What compelled him to resist, when the world was turned upside down?
I drank a coffee. Bought some pasta. The mountains were behind me now, leaving an easy stroll through mostly flat countryside, leading eventually to the village of Ruscio. It just launched a new pilgrim hostel, Ostello 499, and I happened to be Pilgrim 1. When I arrived in the village, I thought I had found the hostel, so I sat and hoped something good would happen. This is my strategy when I don’t have immediate access to my accommodation. A few minutes later, a woman came out of the house across the street and initiated a conversation. She advised me to go speak with a man down the corner. I buzzed at his gate and he advised me that the hostel was back the way I came, over the bridge and on the left, and that the man who could provide access lived across the street. I backtracked and found the hostel easily enough; however, there were five different doors on the other side, none of which featured the name I had been told to look for. Fortunately, a couple were sitting outside of a nearby house, so I approached them, and they were happy to call the dude–Guido–and he promptly came over to get me settled. This is how it goes, day after day. It would be easier with a phone, but it’s more affirming without one.
On the whole, it’s to my benefit that the clocks have changed. I’m happy to have more light later in the day. That’s a game-changer for getting my clothes dried. The following morning, though, the shift was unfortunate. The lone pilgrim accommodation in Norcia happened to be full–that was a shocker, given how empty the trails have been–so I tried a bunch of different options, and ultimately decided to just travel into Rome at day’s end. My plan had been to make the trip in the morning, but I liked the idea of having a full day there. The trick was that the bus from Norcia departed at 3:40pm and I had 38km to walk. In order to preserve enough time to properly see the town, I needed to get out early and hold a good pace. All of that added up to a dark climb from Ruscio to Monteleone di Spoleto, the conditions made even more challenging by this happening to be the wettest morning of the trip thus far, with two full hours of steady rain.
Just as the storm abated, I was astonished by the sight that took shape before me. Nestled into a snug little valley was a perfect little shrine, with a basilica at the center, a hermitage sitting high atop a narrow peak, and a large cross situated in a grotto on the cliff-face opposite me. I descended into Roccaporena, the birth place of Saint Rita of Cascia, a nun who was canonized in 1900, after a 274-year wait following her beatification. Like Padre Pio, Rita experienced stigmata over an extended time period. While I was awed by the external view, the interior of the new basilica left me underwhelmed; I admit that I found the adornment within to be almost amateurish. Admittedly, any comparison to the Renaissance greats is a tough competition. Later, though, I read about the basilica’s origins. The local community rallied to fund the effort, raising money through a newsletter devoted to Rita. They had big plans, but the available funding fell well short of the more ambitious vision. That’s too bad. But a basilica exists; it provides space for the many pilgrims to Rita’s shrine to gather in worship. Such a thing shouldn’t be scorned; it’s a credit to the devotion of so many in this proud community to stand firmly upon their shared belief, to build something lasting upon that common ground. She is one of the patron saints of lost causes, after all, along with Jude.
The walk from Roccaporena to Cascia was a lovely little stroll, following a narrow footpath through a gorge, a small river snaking along below. For the most part, walking the Benedetto in reverse has worked out just fine. The waymarking is inconsistent; sometimes it’s equally solid in both directions, but others it neglects the reverse walker. That’s what gps tracks are for. All of that said, this approach does a disservice to Cascia. The route bypasses the heart of town, and coming in from the back, as I did, one is blind to this situation. By the time I realized I had missed it, it was almost too late to do anything about it–especially given my timeline on this particular day. Looking back at the pretty skyline, I realized that every, single church was covered in scaffolding. “Huh,” I thought. “They must have pulled off a really good grant, or something.”
Eventually, I put the pieces together. Leaving Cascia, I passed several rows of generic housing–single-story flats, all strung together, all identical. Later, when I approached Norcia, there were even more of these–row upon row upon row of cookie-cutter accommodations. My brain finally activated. These weren’t an architectural trend; this was emergency housing, stemming from the 2016 earthquake. Almost a decade later, they have fully shifted from temporary to permanent. Families have settled in. The playground equipment is already entering the final stages of its lifespan. Another row of similar structures sits outside the medieval gate leading into Norcia, with a big sign announcing that these are businesses displaced by the earthquake.
I could have paused and done the math, trying to grapple with what it means for the historic center of so many people and businesses remain in semi-permanent exile, but instead I powered right into old Norcia, still convinced that I would be able to proceed right into the church at the heart of Benedict’s birth place and pay my regards. Instead, many of the religious buildings remain in ruin; the basilica has received the most attention, and the external structure is taking shape, but the whole thing remains fenced off. Scaffolding brackets many of the buildings in the center. Businesses are trying to endure; it’s a popular place for wild boar, truffles, and all manner of pork products, as well as Norcia-style biscuits. And yet, it’s hard to escape the feeling of walking through a ghost town. Nine years have passed, but I don’t know that another nine will even be enough. It’s not the first time that Norcia and Cascia have been hit by an earthquake; the process of rebuilding is hardly new. Locals seem determined to stick it out. I was reminded, as I sat waiting for the bus, that a study done years after 9/11 found that Americans outside of New York City actually carried more lasting trauma than many who endured the attacks within the city. The former spent the next year on their couches, watching replay after replay, mourning the permanence of the loss; the latter watched the rebuilding process unfold, however gradually, and thus had some sense of things moving forward. It’s easier, often, to demonstrate resilience when you can first stare the monster in the face.
As I traveled towards Rome, I spent the hours with Benedict, reading the Benedictine Rule in its entirety. I was surprised by what I found, though that probably says more about me than Benedict. He had grown up during a wildly topsy-turvy time of his own, immediately after the fall of the Western Roman Empire, and his efforts are widely regarded as the key stabilizing factor in the western half of the Christian Church, formalizing monastic practices from Italy to Ireland. He is often celebrated for his emphasis on striking a balance between labor and prayer, a balance that is often hailed as crucial and worth emulating.
Coming at the Benedictine Rule from the vantage point of a 21st-century American, I found it… infantilizing? To say that Benedict was getting into the weeds is underselling it; the man was cultivating weeds, immersed in a jungle of weeds. One example will suffice. He calls for the Psalms to be read at regular parts of the day. Easy enough. But no, it’s not so easy. He wants specific Psalms to be read at precise points. Here is one paragraph on this account; I’ll spare you the other three: “For Terce, Sext and None on Monday are to be said the nine remaining parts of the hundred and eighteenth psalm, three such parts at each of those hours. The hundred and eighteenth being thus exhausted in two days, namely, the Lord’s day and Monday, let there be sung on Tuesday three psalms apiece for Terce, Sext and None, from the hundred and nineteenth to the hundred and twenty-seventh, that is to say nine psalms. And let these psalms be repeated always in this way at these hours until the Lord’s day, a uniform arrangement of hymns, lessons and versicles being likewise observed on all days, in such wise, that is to say, that always on the Lord’s day a beginning will be made with the hundred and eighteenth.”
Some of the chapters are certainly instructive. “What kind of man an abbot ought to be” clearly comes from the perspective of a man who has strived to be an effective leader and has some wisdom to impart. The discussion of humility is the most extensive part of the rule and similarly conveys substantial reflection. Some of the practical guidelines make sense; it helps to have a general structure for monastic life to follow.
But it often feels excessively rigid. These are monks, theoretically the most learned and dedicated men of the Middle Ages. And yet, it is as though Benedict is setting rules for children: “If any brother be found to be contumacious or disobedient or proud or murmuring or in any other way out of harmony with the holy rule and despising the precepts of his seniors, let such an one be admonished, in accordance with our Lord’s precept, once and again privately by his seniors. If he amend not, let him be publicly rebuked before all. But if even so he be not amended let him be subjected to excommunication, if he understand the nature of that penalty; but if he be obdurate, let him undergo corporal punishment.” And again, “If anyone shall have made a mistake in psalm, responsory, or antiphon or lection and unless he shall have there and then humbly made satisfaction before all, let him be subjected to severe punishment as one who was unwilling to correct by humility what by negligence he had done amiss. But in the case of the children, let them, for the like fault, be whipped.” Admittedly, indeed, there were some children involved; some were submitted to monastic life at an early age. Ultimately, though, it reads more like Benedict is running a boarding school than a group of dedicated Men of God: “And above all let one or two seniors be deputed to go round the monastery and keep observation during reading hours lest by chance any brother be found morose and idle, or chatting instead of intent upon his reading; and therefore be not only useless to himself but also a distraction to others.”
For all that, Benedict was a revolutionary figure, his Rule functioning like scaffolding on the crumbling Church, holding it intact as it survived a period of intense vulnerability. Facing chaos, he brought order, clarity, stability–a confident way of organizing life that eliminated ambiguity, doubt, and choice. Fear and uncertainty can make such things very appealing.
It’s tempting to sum it up there, leaving Benedict behind like a proto-authoritarian figure, albeit one of the benevolent variety, clearly dedicated to exercising his power with restraint, wisdom, and care. The corollary to that conclusion is the implication that the embrace of such structure is an individual and social failing, the yielding to fear at the expense of liberty. It’s a hazard many of us raised in the West have been warned about throughout the entirety of our lives.
It’s funny, though; as a teacher, I take it as a matter of course that we should impose structure on students. We make them take a broad set of subjects, because how can you make an informed choice about what you like, what you’re good at, and what you want to pursue if you haven’t been exposed to a representative sampling of what’s out there? We make them do a significant amount of work to build skills; we assess that work in order to compel them to demonstrate capacity. Students inevitably chafe against many of the restrictions; they aspire to greater freedom, personal choice, the ability to pursue their greatest interests sooner, and also the opportunity to avoid the stuff they hate. After school, the kinds of structure that we live within change depending upon the life we pursue, the roles we take on, our socioeconomic status. For many of us, though, our lives never again have the same kind of rigid scaffolding that they do in childhood. I doubt many of us would change that if given the option; most of us aren’t signing up for PE in middle age. But would our lives be better with more structure? An external push to try new things? Disruptions to bad habits? Intellectual discourse, in person, with people sharing different viewpoints? I don’t know; like I said, I recoiled in disdain when reading through the Benedictine Rule. I wouldn’t want to be a monk in his monastery. But I’m not persuaded that unbridled freedom has elevated us to unprecedented levels of happiness and fulfillment today, either.
