“Repenting your sins to some god is creepy to me.”

I looked across the cafeteria table at my professor trying to hide my surprise at hearing the conviction in her voice. She seemed so sure of her decision in rejecting the notion of a God from Who we ask forgiveness. Was she referring to the same God I had not only been brought up to believe in as a child, but had reaffirmed my faith in as an adult? I wanted to clarify what she meant and ask why she felt that way. As a Christian, I know I am called to defend my faith with “gentleness and respect;” however, as a student, I didn’t want to contradict my professor, especially in front of my peers.

I have since thought quite a bit about what would lead to such a strong aversion to a faith. Over the past several weeks, I have crossed the threshold of various Catholic churches. The cool, dark air is a brief reprieve from the hellish Italian summer. Brief, because the sight of the decomposing corpse of the founding priest or a saint resting in the glass case sends me scurrying out. Talk about creepy! By my 3rd week in Italy, I was living by the motto, “If you’ve been in one Italian church, you’ve been in them all!”

The problem with my decision is that some of the most beautiful art is also found in these churches. So it was with a bit of reluctance that I agreed to visit Cagli, home to only 4 priests, but 17 churches. I was seduced by the work that I knew graced the walls and chapels by artists such as, Giovanni Santi, who just happens to be Raphael’s father. I wasn’t disappointed.

Cathedral Basilica

In contrast to the austere churches I had just visited in Pesaro, the soft light from the setting sun that fell through the windows of the Cathedral Basilica was glorious. I dipped my fingers in the holy water and made the sign of the cross before wandering up the passageway on the right slowly, so as to admire the primary colors that genius beyond my understanding had transformed into biblical images. By the time I made it to the altar, my friends had wandered out and I found myself alone. I knelt down in a pew and settled into the quiet, lost in the awe of this magnificent holy building.

Chapel of the Blessed Sacrament

I was startled by the chanting of prayer that echoed out of the left chapel. It was, soft, full, and melodic. The air became still with silence once again, so I pushed my hands against the wood railing to get up as quietly as possible and weaved through the pews slowly, softly (thankful I was wearing my sneakers) to see who was there.

The chapel was lined with two columns of three, short pews filled by a priest and 11 elderly men and women who sat beneath a vibrant painting of The Last Supper.   Still and with heads bowed, they were deep in prayer. It was Saturday, before evening mass. Having been raised Catholic, I knew it was an opportunity for repentance so that parishioners could purify their souls in order to receive communion. Their requests for Grace hung thick and sweet in the air. If I have ever felt the faith of others, it was in that moment. I found nothing creepy about their repentance. On the contrary, it felt like is the unique freedom, liberation and rest that comes with putting your trust in our Lord.