The Church and Culture Shock

I recently got to witness a centuries old tradition of the confraternity in Sorrento. A massive procession through the streets, with all the smells and bells. I wish I could say that I had some religious experience, 

or that i heard the voice of some obscure saint bringing me a message from God. But, I didn't. The procession ended as abruptly as it had begun. It was undeniably beautiful, a expression of faith rarely seen elsewhere in the world. A bit of culture denied to American Catholics, though we substitute with our own traditions. But the most striking thing to me was what followed. Very few people entered the Cathedral after the procession had ended, the mass that followed was like any other I had been to. With the exception that it was in Italian. 

This sense of commonality has been pervasive through my short time here. On nearly every street there is some beautiful church or basilica, every corner has a image or statue of some holy and venerable person. And yet, I have been denied confession twice since I arrived here, for not being able to confess in Italian. An event that in the states would be scandal across the diocese, a priest denying confession due to a language barrier. I don't hold it against the priests, this is not my country after all. Different customs and behaviors are to be expected. But for a church that had no line for confession during the scheduled time, in a nation that has a weekly mass attendance rate of only 25%. This is inconceivable to me. I felt betrayed. I felt like an orphan. 

But, in the sparsely populated Cathedral, the priest there heard my confession. After I pleaded through elementary Italian. They had eyes filled with compassion and care. And they tended to my spiritual needs. A comfort that is hard to overstate. 

I must admit was exaggerating when I implied this would not happen in the states, it most certainly does. But, I expected different in Italy I suppose. The idea of Italy in the mind of an American Catholic is highly idealized, polished and clean. So the shock I felt, I can liken only to the feeling one has when he sees his father cry for the first time. The idea of Italy was broken slightly for me in that moment. 

This monument on a hill, the beautiful churches, the ancient practices, and the ever present imagery of the faith. Seemed like a mere facade in that moment. Healed by the kindness of the diocesan priests, but the cracks are still visible. 

My faith does not rely on the actions of priest or bishops, I do not put too much stock in them as individuals. And I recognize that they are just ass broken as I am. But having ones imagination meet reality, in such a uncomfortable and aggravating manner, is never enjoyable. 

I wont let this feeling spoil my experience or the nation as a whole. But, I fear that this trend of imagination meeting reality will continue, and that it will not cease to be painful.