You may find an version of this article in Italian by clicking here.
How does an evangelical—not joined with the Church in Rome, but committed to one holy, catholic, and apostolic church—live and worship in pervasively Catholic Italy?
Almost nineteen years ago, my wife, Victoria, and I moved to Cortona, a small but historically important town in Tuscany. From its Etruscan walls, residents watched as Hannibal destroyed Rome’s army at nearby Lake Trasimeno in 217 b.c. The city eventually allied itself with Rome and, in time, built its cathedral over the foundation of a temple. As the Pax Romana faded, Cortona fortified and raised its walls and, like other Tuscan towns, became a city-state dominated by nobles and clergy. St. Francis had three extended stays in Cortona, the final one, when he was ill and bearing the stigmata, in spring 1226. From Cortona he was carried to Assisi to meet “sister death.” The undecayed body of Margaret of Cortona (d. 1297), patron of the city and of Franciscan tertiaries, rests over the altar in her named basilica. Margaret was the driving force behind our first hospital, and the nearby modern facility bears her name. Art treasures honor faith and the church, including works by Pietro Lorenzetti (d. 1348), Beato Angelico (d. 1455), Luca Signorelli (d. 1523), Pietro Berrettini da Cortona (d. 1669), and Gino Severini (d. 1966). Everything we see was either built or rebuilt by Catholics.
Conversion to Roman Catholicism from other forms of Christianity is a minor but consistent theme at First Things. Patricia Snow, as a recent example, contributed a series (2019–22) on her movement from pentecostal Christianity to Rome, concluding that “the fidelity I had looked for in vain in Protestantism I found in the end in the Church, whose unbroken record of obedience is understandable only as a response to an uninterrupted availability of Jesus Christ.” (She also demonstrates that her gift of personal expression is not informed by an unbroken record of church history.)
Better known is Richard John Neuhaus’s conversion. In “How I Became the Catholic I Was” (2002), this magazine’s founder emphasized the continuity of Jesus’s church over the centuries, avowing that as a Lutheran pastor he had always considered himself part of the ancient movement, viewing even the sixteenth-century split as “tragic.” During the pontificate of John Paul II, Neuhaus concluded that the Roman church had responded to Luther’s concerns. He found that, when asked why he was not a Roman Catholic, he “ran out of answers.” So, he became confirmed in the Catholic faith. In an interview at that time, and consistently for the remainder of his too-short life, Neuhaus affirmed his belief that “the Roman Catholic Church is the fullest expression of the church of Christ through time.”
Outside the First Things circle, I observe more Christians moving away from Rome than toward it. In America, typical independent evangelical congregations include many “recovering Catholics.” Or consider Brazil, just one example of a trend among formerly Catholic-governed regions, where the evangelical-pentecostal movement has attracted about 30 percent of the population, up from almost no one fifty years ago.
Catholics and evangelicals share a good deal, of course. We are Trinitarian, and we celebrate Jesus as the means by which, enabled by the Spirit, we are privileged to address and beseech God as Abba-Father. We share sacred texts, affirm the traditional confessions, and hold that there is but one church. Evangelical emphases include the exposition and authority of Scripture, the active presence of the Holy Spirit, and particular concern for individual conversion, commitment, and formation. These emphases do not contradict Catholic doctrine.
With all this in mind, living in Italy and valuing church unity, I considered crossing the Tiber. After careful reflection, however, I could not get past several of our many differences. Rome has not, in my judgment, met anything close to a reasonable burden of proof in support of petrine succession and papal authority, or its doctrine and devotional practices involving Mary and the saints, or its eucharistic theology and practice. (In these doubts I am, apparently, joined by the majority of surveyed Catholics—but that is another story.) Evangelicals are obviously not without problems, but I choose to remain where I was called and converted.
But Victoria and I still faced the question: Where to worship? In Cortona, there are fourteen active Roman Catholic churches, chapels, and monasteries, and no convenient Protestant alternative.
At first, we chose the cathedral, in part because it is easy to remain anonymous in a large space. We listened carefully as the priest shared the Gospel and assumed we would be in agreement as our Italian improved. We sang, even more poorly than the rest of the congregation since the songs were new to us. We joined in prayer for the global community and exchanged wishes for peace with our neighbors. When invited for the Eucharist, however, we remained in our seats. We were not offended, instead viewing it as an opportunity for Catholics to recall that there are believers whom they do not welcome to their table—that it was their choice, not ours.
After we had been worshipping at the cathedral for a few months, Don Ottorino, the presiding priest, surprised us with an invitation to un servizio ecumenico on Saturday evening. We attended and found that, in our town, an “ecumenical service” is the Mass in Latin.
After some time, we moved from worshipping at the cathedral to gathering with Capuchin brothers at their friary, Le Celle, built around the cave that housed Francis of Assisi in Cortona. The chapel is small, so it is impossible to remain anonymous, and the priest often carries the wafer to congregants. We stood, crossed our arms, and received his blessing. In time, I began also to bless the priest, replying softly and gratefully, “E anche te” (and also you). In this small congregation, we have had the privilege of getting to know the brothers and some congregants, to value them and their commitment and service, and count them as friends.
Capuchins are assigned three-year terms. A couple years ago, Brother Hayden arrived from Malta. He is a gifted preacher, uncommonly so in my experience of Catholicism. One crowded Sunday, he chose to have people come forward to receive the Eucharist, rather than carrying it to congregants. We remained in our seats. Afterward, outside the small chapel, Hayden called to us, in English: “You did not come forward for a blessing. I missed you.” That led to a long lunch and a great conversation.
Over pasta ciuschio (a harvest specialty), roasted vegetables, and a glass of Sangiovese, we talked about life in Cortona, Malta, and Chicago. During the conversation, Victoria and I expressed our admiration for the brothers, including the value we place on their blessing. We explained that we view our not taking the Eucharist as a reminder to our neighbors that the church is bigger than the one based in Rome. Hayden paused, then took the discussion a step further: “We share far more than that which divides us. We are friends and fellow believers, so in communion. Not sharing the Eucharist is an exception to our otherwise deeply shared fellowship.” He concluded: “Please let me bless you, and bless me—and let everyone see. It is important for all of us.” His view was expansive and embracing. By comparison, our perspective had been too limited, even a rationalization.
Last Easter at Le Celle, Hayden invited all the congregants to come forward, whether for the Eucharist or for a blessing. He smiled as I approached, crossing my arms to welcome his blessing, and he touched my head as he blessed me. I replied, arms still crossed, “Anche te, mio fratello.” Then, in English, he insisted, “No, please bless me.” I reached for his head and touched him. “Ti benedico, fratello mio.”
