My myshtick
In February of 1978 I was 25, backpacking around Europe and at that moment happened to be in Rome. I was staying at a cheap pension where a lot of other young backpackers were hanging out. There was an American guy there named Chris who was also a lapsed Catholic and said priests keep coming up to him in churches and it was kinda freaking him out. He also said one priest told him there was a brother or a monk in a nearby town who was a living saint and that Chris should go and see him. He wanted to know if anyone wanted to go with and I and another guy named Dan (he had never been Catholic) signed up. I don't know what I was expecting but my attitude towards the Roman Catholic Church was pretty negative about then (I've never gotten over not being allowed to be an altarboy and in the early '70s I had dressed up in a FABULOUS homemade Virgin Mary costume for Halloween once, something you can probably only get away with in Madison) so I was ready to make fun of this guy. We amble onto the bus at the bus station and then the "believers" start to get on. They are NOT coming to make fun of this guy and are carrying pictures, rosaries, crosses and all manner of personal and religious articles. I sit in the back of the bus and start feeling a bit wary.
We get to this tiny town and everyone piles off the bus and we follow the crowd to this little church in the middle of nowhere. Everyone stands around outside apparently waiting. So we wait too having no idea what is going on. Then this French couple comes over to the three of us. We probably looked pretty out of place and suspect as well. In a mix of English and French (I spoke some French back then) they asked us what we knew about Brother Gino. We professed our ignorance so they clued us in. He had the Stigmata and had already performed some miracles (I don't remember the details). He could look through your eyes into your soul and if he saw non-belief he would turn away as if to condemn you. (Being a lapsed Catholic, this actually scared me.) He could be in two places at once. Some people were already calling him a saint! He is too humble to be a priest so he does not give Mass, but assists. Well, hmm, all very weird and a bit scarey. It was also really clear they COMPLETELY believed this stuff. Next the church bells ring and the whole group files into the church. Chris, the other lapsed Catholic, and I found seats together and Dan-the-heathen was behind us. We sat and instantly the chanting started. Loud, really INTENSE, scarey, creepy, chanting sort of came automatically from the "believers". Belief was bouncing off the walls and I was starting to freak out. Feeling bad for my disrespect in the face of all this belief or maybe just scared, I kneel down. And Chris kneels down. So much for making fun of the "saint". It was too much. I was starting to sweat. I was actually scared saint/brother would somehow find me out and was quietly getting hysterical. I didn't know what to do. At that second Chris leads over and says, "Look, I used to be Catholic and this is too much for me. I'm getting out of here. " I say, "I'm with you!" and we both start to simultaneously rise off the kneeler and turn to leave as the GIANT church doors close with a CLUNK. Oh shit. We're stuck. Let's see if I live through this. So Mass starts along with what was the longest hour of my life. The guy helping the priest has his hands bandaged. Damn, the Stigmata. I look everwhere except at him so he can't look into my eyes and kill me. By now, Chris and I have refound our Catholic roots. I sweat in fear, cross myself, mumble prayers, stand, sit, kneel at all the right times. Anything not to call attention to myself. Chris is doing EXACTLY the same thing. We are walking the Catholic walk for all our bravado. Finally, it ends. Thank God, it ends. And we leave the church and head to the farthest reaches of the grounds to wait for the bus to take us back to reality. We are saved. Chris and I are taking deep breaths and mumbling stuff like, "that was intense" and "glad we made it out of there". Heathen boy Dan had no idea what we were talking about. Oh, the freedom of a non-religious upbringing!
As we stand there trying to stop hyperventilating, I notice the nice, concerned French pilgrims dragging saint man with the bandaged hands over to us. OH MY GOD WHY HATH THOU FORSAKEN ME! We had escaped, and now this. I am literally like a deer in headlights. I was frozen with fear. Brother Gino leans to us and says, loudly and clearly in English, "Have you SEEN Brother Gino?" My mind says to me "WHAT IS HE TALKING ABOUT IT IS A TRICK QUESTION YOU ARE BROTHER GINO WHAT IS THE RIGHT ANSWER HELP" but outside of my mind I stand there with my mouth hanging open and completely frozen. Frustrated, he repeats the question. I'm thinking "MAYBE HE MEANS SEEN IN SOME KIND OF METAPHYSICAL SENSE PLEASE SOMEONE SAVE ME" when Chris revives and says, "No, we haven't seen Brother Gino." And the guy with the bandaged hands says, "Too bad he is in Rome today, you should come back tomorrow when he'll be here." EXCUSSE MEEEE? WWHHATT WAS THAAAT? Turns out the guy with the bandages was a French priest who was accompanying the pilgrims and had arthritis in his hands. (You bet I asked.) The French couple we spoke to before Mass had not known that Brother Gino was not there. And we certainly did NOT return the next day since we barely survived the place when saint man wasn't even there.
Months or maybe years later I tell this story to my cousin John Arden and he says it must have been Padre Pio. I tell him I remember it as Gino, but who knows.
More than 20 years later I hear that Padre Pio has become Saint Pio. Now the internet is available. So I check and it sounds just like the guy I've affectionately come to think of as "my" saint. The only problem is Padre Pio died in 1968, about 10 years before I was there. Hmm. Were the French people joshing us? Was he a LOT farther away than Rome? Why would they do that? They seemed so sincere in telling us he would be there tomorrow.
So for the last few years, I occasionally check on Padre (now Saint) Pio on the internet. A few days ago I'm scanning entries about him when I see something about Gino someone. Scan, read, scan Father Gino Burresi who had a church in San Vittorino (YES! BELL!) has essentially been defrocked by Pope Benedict. What! A Padre Pio wannabe, he copied Padre Pio's "gifts" and had quite a following in the 70s and 80s until the charges of sexual abuse of seminarians and other issues (not keeping confessions secrets and threatening some with death, for example) surfaced. It turns out my mystic is an insane sonofabitch. Sounds like one nasty piece of work. Oddly enough, my first impulse to disrespect him was correct after all. I find it simultaneously rather disturbing and appealingly ironic. His name comes up as both Burresi and Buressi if you want to check it out. Today I finally double checked the diary I have from my trip back then and it verifies the name and the San Vittorino location. Why I didn't check it out earlier, I'm not sure. Oh, and the Saint Pio guy apparently had some issues of his own.
One lesson I get from all this is that it is impossible to ever escape the influence of a rigorous Catholic education. The other is to never, ever trust a saint.
If you have actually read this whole thing I give you my blessing. In the name of the Father...
We get to this tiny town and everyone piles off the bus and we follow the crowd to this little church in the middle of nowhere. Everyone stands around outside apparently waiting. So we wait too having no idea what is going on. Then this French couple comes over to the three of us. We probably looked pretty out of place and suspect as well. In a mix of English and French (I spoke some French back then) they asked us what we knew about Brother Gino. We professed our ignorance so they clued us in. He had the Stigmata and had already performed some miracles (I don't remember the details). He could look through your eyes into your soul and if he saw non-belief he would turn away as if to condemn you. (Being a lapsed Catholic, this actually scared me.) He could be in two places at once. Some people were already calling him a saint! He is too humble to be a priest so he does not give Mass, but assists. Well, hmm, all very weird and a bit scarey. It was also really clear they COMPLETELY believed this stuff. Next the church bells ring and the whole group files into the church. Chris, the other lapsed Catholic, and I found seats together and Dan-the-heathen was behind us. We sat and instantly the chanting started. Loud, really INTENSE, scarey, creepy, chanting sort of came automatically from the "believers". Belief was bouncing off the walls and I was starting to freak out. Feeling bad for my disrespect in the face of all this belief or maybe just scared, I kneel down. And Chris kneels down. So much for making fun of the "saint". It was too much. I was starting to sweat. I was actually scared saint/brother would somehow find me out and was quietly getting hysterical. I didn't know what to do. At that second Chris leads over and says, "Look, I used to be Catholic and this is too much for me. I'm getting out of here. " I say, "I'm with you!" and we both start to simultaneously rise off the kneeler and turn to leave as the GIANT church doors close with a CLUNK. Oh shit. We're stuck. Let's see if I live through this. So Mass starts along with what was the longest hour of my life. The guy helping the priest has his hands bandaged. Damn, the Stigmata. I look everwhere except at him so he can't look into my eyes and kill me. By now, Chris and I have refound our Catholic roots. I sweat in fear, cross myself, mumble prayers, stand, sit, kneel at all the right times. Anything not to call attention to myself. Chris is doing EXACTLY the same thing. We are walking the Catholic walk for all our bravado. Finally, it ends. Thank God, it ends. And we leave the church and head to the farthest reaches of the grounds to wait for the bus to take us back to reality. We are saved. Chris and I are taking deep breaths and mumbling stuff like, "that was intense" and "glad we made it out of there". Heathen boy Dan had no idea what we were talking about. Oh, the freedom of a non-religious upbringing!
As we stand there trying to stop hyperventilating, I notice the nice, concerned French pilgrims dragging saint man with the bandaged hands over to us. OH MY GOD WHY HATH THOU FORSAKEN ME! We had escaped, and now this. I am literally like a deer in headlights. I was frozen with fear. Brother Gino leans to us and says, loudly and clearly in English, "Have you SEEN Brother Gino?" My mind says to me "WHAT IS HE TALKING ABOUT IT IS A TRICK QUESTION YOU ARE BROTHER GINO WHAT IS THE RIGHT ANSWER HELP" but outside of my mind I stand there with my mouth hanging open and completely frozen. Frustrated, he repeats the question. I'm thinking "MAYBE HE MEANS SEEN IN SOME KIND OF METAPHYSICAL SENSE PLEASE SOMEONE SAVE ME" when Chris revives and says, "No, we haven't seen Brother Gino." And the guy with the bandaged hands says, "Too bad he is in Rome today, you should come back tomorrow when he'll be here." EXCUSSE MEEEE? WWHHATT WAS THAAAT? Turns out the guy with the bandages was a French priest who was accompanying the pilgrims and had arthritis in his hands. (You bet I asked.) The French couple we spoke to before Mass had not known that Brother Gino was not there. And we certainly did NOT return the next day since we barely survived the place when saint man wasn't even there.
Months or maybe years later I tell this story to my cousin John Arden and he says it must have been Padre Pio. I tell him I remember it as Gino, but who knows.
More than 20 years later I hear that Padre Pio has become Saint Pio. Now the internet is available. So I check and it sounds just like the guy I've affectionately come to think of as "my" saint. The only problem is Padre Pio died in 1968, about 10 years before I was there. Hmm. Were the French people joshing us? Was he a LOT farther away than Rome? Why would they do that? They seemed so sincere in telling us he would be there tomorrow.
So for the last few years, I occasionally check on Padre (now Saint) Pio on the internet. A few days ago I'm scanning entries about him when I see something about Gino someone. Scan, read, scan Father Gino Burresi who had a church in San Vittorino (YES! BELL!) has essentially been defrocked by Pope Benedict. What! A Padre Pio wannabe, he copied Padre Pio's "gifts" and had quite a following in the 70s and 80s until the charges of sexual abuse of seminarians and other issues (not keeping confessions secrets and threatening some with death, for example) surfaced. It turns out my mystic is an insane sonofabitch. Sounds like one nasty piece of work. Oddly enough, my first impulse to disrespect him was correct after all. I find it simultaneously rather disturbing and appealingly ironic. His name comes up as both Burresi and Buressi if you want to check it out. Today I finally double checked the diary I have from my trip back then and it verifies the name and the San Vittorino location. Why I didn't check it out earlier, I'm not sure. Oh, and the Saint Pio guy apparently had some issues of his own.
One lesson I get from all this is that it is impossible to ever escape the influence of a rigorous Catholic education. The other is to never, ever trust a saint.
If you have actually read this whole thing I give you my blessing. In the name of the Father...
posted by Terry at 12:53 PM
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