Nothing was left, but the tongue.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Understandably enough, as there’s once again not too much to be said about the walking. From Rovigo to Monselice, the stage proved to be among the least interesting and enjoyable walking of the trip. It’s difficult; I certainly don’t blame the route designers for their choices. With so many rivers and canals slicing through this region, one has to orient around bridges. In between, large agricultural fields chew up the terrain, often limiting the available options to roads with car traffic. Maybe it would be more charming if I hadn’t already spent months walking across the American Midwest. In any case, today’s winding road had the advantage of passing through a handful of small towns, all of which had open churches, and the final approach to Monselice–and its adorable little hill, complete with a small fortress on top, like the cherry on a sundae–was suitably encouraging. And maybe I’m just too harsh a critic; after all, Ralph Waldo Emerson raved about this area: “What a lovely walk, and what a wonderful, wide panorama.”
As with so many towns along this walk, Monselice changed hands repeatedly over the years. Setting aside the ancient settlements in this area, the town has Byzantine origins, though it quickly passed to the Lombards. The most dramatic changes, though, came with Venetian rule in 1405, which led to the arrival of waves of Venetian nobles who sought to establish their own villas and palaces. Two centuries later, those same Venetian nobles, envious of the indulgences available to pilgrims who completed the circuit of seven pilgrimage churches in Rome received a special concession from Pope Paul V to establish their own parallel sanctuary of seven churches in Monselice. Those very small chapels remain, halfway up the hill overlooking town, culminating in a larger shrine with an amphitheater overlooking it.
The most interesting story from Monselice that I encountered occurred even later, during World War II. Living under German occupation, 15-year-old Ida Brunelli Lenti had been employed by a Hungarian Jewish family in Castiglion Fiorentino. However, the father died after being called to military service in Hungary, and then the mother died from illness two years later, in 1944. Suddenly, Ida was the lone caregiver for three Jewish children. She decided to bring them home to Monselice, keeping their identity hidden all the while. Only when the war finally concluded did she coordinate their transportation to Palestine. Decades later, Ida was honored as one of the Righteous Among the Nations.
All of that happened after Saint Anthony’s time, and that’s where our attention needs to turn now, as it’s in this three-day sequence, visiting Monselice, Padova, and Camposampiero, that I moved to the center of his story. His fingerprints are lighter on Monselice, but even here there’s a miracle attributed to his influence. A woman, despondent over her failure to convert her husband to Christianity, tossed herself into the Bisatto canal. However, thanks to Anthony’s influence, she wasn’t just saved, but she also emerged completely dry.
Again, though, we’re rushing ahead. It took Anthony a long time to make it here.
Heck, it took a while for him to become Anthony of Padua; when he was born in 1195, he was neither. Instead, he was Fernando Martins de Bulhões of Lisbon. His early religious education, beginning with his service as a canon regular in 1210, was shaped by Saint Augustine’s method, and the earnestness of Anthony’s devotion could be seen in his request to be moved from Lisbon to Coimbra, because he was being distracted by too many visits from friends and family. While in Coimbra in 1220, Anthony happened to witness a group of five Franciscan missionaries pass through town, en route to Morocco to convert Muslims. It didn’t go well. When he next saw their faces, they were detached from their bodies; all five had been beheaded early in their efforts. For Anthony, though, this proved to be a decisive moment, as he decided that his future lay in the Franciscan branch of the church, putting his life on the line as those men had in order to best serve God. This is also the moment at which he changed his name to Anthony. Already at that point, though, it was easy to see the foundation of the force Anthony would become, defined by his Augustinian dedication to Bible study and his Franciscan devotion to prayer and preaching.
Anthony couldn’t wait to follow those men to Morocco, and he set forth as a missionary not long after his conversion. Unfortunately, he fell seriously ill, and was eventually persuaded by his colleagues to return to Coimbra. The misfortune multiplined, as his ship was thrown off course by a storm and after months adrift it finally crashed onto the Sicilian shore. When the bedraggled young friar made his way to a Franciscan community, he learned that a general chapter gathering of the Franciscans was scheduled to take place soon in Assisi, and with that, thoughts of a return to Coimbra were immediately supplanted. Anthony would walk to Assisi.
Incidentally, while I only joined the Cammino di Sant’Antonio relatively recently, when I split from the Via di Francesco in La Verna/Camaldoli, the organizers behind this Cammino are ambitious, and some have already slapped “Cammino di Sant’Antonio” waymark stickers much further south, with an ultimate vision of reestablishing Anthony’s path in full, from Sicily to Gemona.
In any case, Anthony reached Assisi to discover a Franciscan Order already fraying at the seams, with a division forming between the “Laxists” and the “Spiritualists. The latter sought to hold true to Francis’s ideological purity, while the latter thought the whole “absolute poverty” thing was a wee bit extreme. When the gathering concluded and the friars dispersed, Anthony was left awkwardly behind, with no assignment or particular direction to carry him onward. Finally, he was assigned to Montepaolo, near Dovadola, which I passed through about a week ago now, where he spent the better part of ten months in seclusion, praying in a grotto.
Anthony’s life changed a year later, when he accompanied a group of Franciscans to a spiritual conference in nearby Forli. The bishop in charge of the event asked the friars for a volunteer to set the tone, delivering a powerful speech to welcome the new priests and inspire them to do their best work. Not a single one of the experienced friars agreed to do this; they argued that they couldn’t spontaneously deliver such a performance. And so, as is stated in the Assidua, “The superior became impatient and, turning to Anthony, ordered him to put aside all shyness or modesty and to announce to those gathered whatever the Spirit suggested to him. The latter had to obey, despite himself, and ‘His tongue, moved by the Holy Spirit , began to reason on many subjects with thoughtfulness, in a clear and concise manner.’” And just like that, Anthony was a made man, a preacher sent to spread the word throughout the region.
Such a role was particularly important at the time, because–we are told–of the growing threat of Cathars and other heretical movements. That interjection exists due to the work of contemporary historians who are challenging what they call the Cathar legend, suggesting that no such singular, cohesive movement operated in Europe. Nonetheless, what’s true enough is that challenges were percolating against the authority of the Catholic Church, and that’s part of what made Francis’s own efforts delicate, dicey maneuvers, lest he be lumped in with those other movements. The key distinction is that Francis always sought to pursue his reformist agenda from within the Church, seeking papal approval as he moved through his work, as opposed to critics who saw the Church as fatally flawed and at the heart of the problems they were looking to solve.
So Anthony went to work, becoming known as the “hammer of heretics” for his efforts first in Northern Italy and later France. This immediately put me on guard; in an era in which ample measures of violence were dispensed towards accused heretics–it’s from the Albigensian Crusade, after all, that we get the quaint phrase, “kill them all, let God sort them out”–getting characterized as the foremost bludgeoning implement hardly sits well with a modern audience. And really, the label was as misleading as it was off-putting. As the Frenchman Giovanni Rigauldt put it, Anthony “calibrated his speech according to the person, so that the errant abandoned the wrong path, the sinner felt repentant and changed, the good was stimulated to improve, in short, no one went away dissatisfied.” Anthony stressed that eloquence must be combined with consistency: “The example of life must be the weapon of persuasion; only he who lives according to what he teaches can successfully cast the net.” Less a hammer, then, and more of a multi-tool.
His biggest target was a group he called “mute dogs,” by which he meant the powerful people who refused to criticize worrying, harmful, or immoral trends, merely because it might compromise their economic standing. In his Sermons, Anthony later wrote, “Truth breeds hatred; for this reason some, in order not to incur the hatred of their listeners, cover their mouths with the cloak of silence. If they were to preach the truth, as truth itself demands and as divine Scripture openly commands, they would incur the hatred of worldly people, who would end up excluding them from their circles. But since they walk according to the mentality of worldly people, they fear to scandalize them, whereas one should never fail to observe the truth, not even at the cost of scandal.” For Anthony, it was this prioritization of the mundane over the sacred, the material over the spiritual, that was most offensive.
One of Anthony’s most famous miracles occurred early in his anti-heretic campaign, when he visited the town of Rimini, known at the time as a Cathar stronghold. Far from welcomed, Anthony was ignored; few townsfolk turned out to listen to him speak. Instead, Anthony walked to the Marecchia River and declared, “Come, ye senseless fishes of the deep, and by your attention to the word of your God and mine, put to shame these men, who in their blindness and hardness of heart refuse to hear it.” And come they did, flocking in large numbers and taking in his message unblinkingly.
After Francis died, Anthony moved into a new role, installed as the provincial minister for Northern Italy–the second-most important post in the young Franciscan order. It was at this point that he established himself in Padova, making the university town his base of operations. I have to believe that Anthony’s journey there looked quite different from mine, which almost exclusively followed a canal track in a straight line northward from Monselice. The canal wouldn’t have been there; the highway on the other side of it certainly wouldn’t have been. The Basilica of Santa Giustina, the first monumental sight I encountered in the city, was centuries away from being built, and Anthony’s own basilica wouldn’t emerge until his death. Frankly, it’s hard to know what, if anything, would have looked similar in 1227!
Anthony was only 32 at this point, but we are already in the later years of his life. As the Franciscan order unsteadily navigated its first years in the aftermath of its founder’s departure, dissent continued to fester. When an intermediary was required–someone who could work with both sides, while also holding the pope’s respect–Anthony was summoned. The impression that he made in Rome in 1228, in particular, secured his legacy, as pope and cardinals alike were moved by his erudite and captivating preaching. All of that travel and advocacy, though, wore down a man who was never in good health to begin with. He stepped down from his role as provincial minister so that he might focus on his writing, but he also attended to matters of immediate concern in Padova. He persuaded municipal officials there to change the debt laws, to better protect the poor. In Anthony’s words, “Nature creates us poor, naked we come into the world, naked we die. It was malice that created the rich, and he who desires to become rich stumbles into the trap set by the devil.”
Unfortunately, the reduction in workload did not bring about improved health. In June 1231, Anthony stayed in Camposampiero, a small town roughly 20km north of Padova. I passed through there this morning, once again following a canal track almost due north in order to arrive. This was a market day, so the piazzas were filled with discounted clothing, shoes, and produce. Bicyclists were out in force, making me wonder if Italians are once again milking the upcoming holiday. Only after I finally navigated through all of that did I reach Anthony, in a large sanctuary devoted to him. (And also pilgrims–they actually had a sitting area with coffee available!)
June 1231 wasn’t Anthony’s first visit to Camposampiero. Count Tiso Borghese, a long-time friend and supporter, had long welcomed him here, setting aside a small cell that Anthony valued for prayer and rest. On one visit, Tiso noticed a small shaft of light emanating from Anthony’s room. The snoop proceeded to look through the keyhole, spying Anthony holding a baby. Not just any baby, though! This was the Christ child, appearing in his very hands. When Tiso asked him about this later, Anthony begged him not to breathe a word of it to anyone–a wish Tiso respected until after Anthony’s death.
His return visit, though, would not end on such an uplifting note. Instead of the cell, Anthony spent time in a walnut tree, where Tiso had built him a hut. Who doesn’t love a good tree fort? Alas, fun as they are, they offer little in the realm of healing powers, and Anthony knew that his end was near. He asked Tiso to have him taken back to Padova, as he hoped to be there for his death, and so he was loaded into a cart pulled by oxen.
Nearing Padova, Anthony reached the monastery of Arcella, which was my first stop this morning, just a few kilometers into the walk, but an essential point for second coffee. (The first coffee was broken; it didn’t work at all.) The monks carefully removed the ailing Anthony from the cart, laid him on the ground, and performed the anointing of the sick. Anthony would make it no farther. The monks sang a hymn, culminating in Anthony declaring, “I see my Lord,” at which point he died, just 36 years old.
The body was still warm when the scramble for relics began. The monastery of Arcella was located at the time in Capodiponte, and its leaders came promptly, declaring “He died here and here he remains.” A day later, friars arrived from Padova, only to be confronted by armed men from Capodiponte, unwilling to give an inch–or a finger. Eventually, the bishop was called in, and having heard that Anthony’s last wish was to die in Padova, he ordered the translation of Anthony’s body. The mayor of Capodiponte grudgingly conceded. Pope Gregory IX, meanwhile, wasted no time at all, canonizing Anthony less than one year after his death–just 352 days–the fastest in the history of the Church.
And at long last, we return to the tongue. Thirty-two years after Anthony died, an inspection of his remains took place, during which it was discovered that, while most of the body was in an appropriate state of decomposition, his tongue remained intact–”flexible, alive and red, as if it were not dead.” Situated in its reliquary in the basilica today, I can’t say that I’d characterize it in any of those terms. Now, relic hunters are thorough, so they ultimately found more to preserve from Anthony’s tomb, including his vocal cords, his right index finger (the one he would use to gesture when preaching), and his lower jaw. All of those are also on display; the latter still has all of the teeth intact.
Anthony is the patron saint of many different groups: sailors, American Indians, pregnant women, barren women, elderly, fishermen, and travelers. Most universally relevant, though, is his role as the patron saint of lost items. Early in his preaching career, his psalter (a book containing the psalms, among other things) disappeared. No teacher can stand the loss of a teaching text, filled with years’ worth of annotations and observations, and Anthony was thus duly aggrieved. As it happens, a young brother in the monastery had decided to bail, fed up with the lifestyle, and for some reason he decided to take Anthony’s psalter with him as a parting gift. Anthony prayed for the boy and also for the return of his psalter. And man, Anthony’s prayers got results: the young man was confronted with a horrifying apparition that threatened him with death if he didn’t bring the book back to Anthony. Terror is not the primary tool of Anthony when invoked, of course. Centuries later, a Capuchin priest saw the string snap on his rosary and one of the beads disappeared. He prayed for Anthony’s intervention, and before long a tiny ant crawled forth from the wall, the bead on his back.
From Camposampiero, I continued northward, and while the canal track continued unabated, a gentle breeze caused the tall grass around me to ripple pleasantly, and with each step the Alps loomed ever larger. Castelfranco Veneto, a walled town, with even its moat still in place, made for a delightful destination, thanks in part to its long-standing pilgrim accommodation. (This stretch, from Monselice to here, overlaps with the Via Romea and Romea Strata, so there’s a little more pilgrim traffic than on other parts of the Antonio.) Of the titular saints encountered across my Italian Cammini, it was Anthony about whom I knew the least, and it’s for that reason I spent so much time trying to reconstruct his life here. It’s hard not to identify, at least in part, with a man who divided so much of his time between silent study and public teaching. As for the lost items, I haven’t yet needed to seek out Anthony’s good will, as–two-and-a-half months in–I haven’t yet lost anything. Or maybe that has just been Anthony’s influence all along.
