The God of All Consolation
Plus, a programming note.
This morning I had intended to publish a short essay on Christian Wiman’s recent book, Zero at the Bone: Fifty Entries Against Despair, but decided that I needed a bit more time—and access to my library. That’s right, I’m flying back to New York City this morning, and wanted to get home, catch my breath, gather my thoughts, and then finish the piece. So that’s what I’ll do—we’ll pick up this coming Monday with my next “Personal Archives” post, and then the Wiman essay will arrive next Thursday, a week from today.
It was, perhaps, overly ambitious to start Friends and Enemies during my last days in Rome, but my time there has been very well spent—I probably wouldn’t have started this new project without the calm and clarity the eternal city brought me. It’s my favorite city in the world, the place that’s very special to me; I expect to write about why in the near future. So, before I leave Rome, I wanted to leave you with part of a letter that a wise and dear friend wrote to me the first time I was here—it’s about the ceiling of the Chiesa di Sant'Ignazio di Loyola, seen in the photo above:
You found the spot. Many moons ago, I went to a Jesuit confessor who had written a little book I have never been able to find again; I lent my copy to someone and never got it back. It was called something like The God of All Consolation. And he made the point that we only really turn to God when we are at our wits' end, that so long as we are relying on our own powers, we are mouthing the words of our prayers, but that the word of God only comes alive when we are desperate. He said that contemplation of our sins is what puts us in that place at which, when we turn to the Scripture, it comes alive, really alive. And, he compared it to the ceiling of the Sant’Ignazio, how if you stand in 99 percent of the places in that church, the painting on the ceiling is beautiful, but only if you stand at the very center does the perspective come into focus, and it looks as if the ceiling opens up into the very heavens. You found the spot.
My favorite church in Rome is the Gesu--just stepping in there for a few moments in February brought tears to my eyes. Recently, while I was in Rome leading students, I found myself praying every night at St. Ignatius church, both because of its proximity to our hotel, and because it seems to be one of the few churches in Rome that is open fairly late (to about 11:30 PM if memory serves). I also appreciate it still uses actual candles.
What a terrific photo. Thanks for posting it.