Join Cecilia González-Andrieu, a Catholic theologian and professor of theological studies in the LMU Bellarmine College of Liberal Arts, on a transformative journey to Rome. She shares “Dispatches from Rome,” reflecting on the Synod on Synodality and the urgent call for women’s leadership in the Church. She is part of a rich tapestry of voices gathered from diverse backgrounds, united in their mission to serve marginalized communities and engage in discussions on women deacons and Church representation. All in the spirit of hope and collaboration in this pivotal moment for the Church.
Coming home from a trip abroad is never straightforward—but returning after Rome, where history and the present collide in challenging ways, is even more complex. In my case there was also the difficulty of a long unplanned delay.
On my last day in Rome, rather than attending the rosary with Pope Francis and Synod delegates as planned, I was in bed sick with Covid. I had avoided the coronavirus for the entirety of the pandemic, and yet, here I was, struck down and miserable. When I saw my positive test my first thought was fear that Pope Francis would also be sick. It’s difficult to describe the acute panic I felt at the thought that I could have carried the virus to him. But I reasoned, it had been nine days since we had met. On that day I had given him the handwritten notes of “dreams” from my students, held his hand, and stood close by his side translating for our English-speaking delegation. That was a lot of contact! I checked the news and felt deep gratitude to read that Pope Francis was perfectly fine. I was quite conscious that Rome is steeped in tragic pandemic resonances, yet, walking through Rome, I found no traces of this recent tragedy, a stark reminder of how quickly we cover over our collective wounds. As I isolated in a retreat house waiting to be well enough to travel, I felt the weight of a painful history and also how hard we work to avoid it.
As the isolation allowed me to reflect, I kept coming back to the clash of times and places I felt so acutely. Everywhere we heard references to Rome as the “eternal city,” a place where layers of time lay one upon the other; the ancient often in ruins or buried underfoot. Or conversely, burnished up in ostentatious displays of power (and tourism) like the Coliseum. Being there was destabilizing, with multiple realities vying for attention and loyalties. Sitting at a fountain by a small church, I noticed the pieces of marble from which it was made. Some had markings, and I recognized names carved in Latin, likely from graves repurposed long ago. We humans want to be remembered and to memorialize what we value, but we’re selective; it is often the powerful who determine what will remain. Perhaps part of the strategy of power is also to forget some things as quickly as possible: pandemics, wars, 9/11. We’re encouraged to rush to cover these over with shiny foil and move on. This keeps us from dealing with truth and the heartbreak it brings. This truth-telling heartbreak is what Pope Francis calls conversion in his beautiful book “Let Us Dream.” As he puts it “conversion is necessary to save humanity not only from destroying nature but from destroying itself.”
This selective memory is not unique to Rome; it is a challenge we face in all places marked by pain and by power. People like me, immigrants and refugees who have been forced to leave that place where they were rooted, know how hard it is to come home.
Just as Rome bears the weight of layered histories, our homes also carry the imprints of people and moments, shaping who we are sometimes positively, and at other times only through their loss. And so, home is people, relationships, and the memories we make together. Home is created not because everything is perfect, but because even in our struggles, we extend comfort and grace to one another.
Home is my students joyfully welcoming me back to LMU and taking turns leading our classes while I recover my voice. Home is Sacred Heart Chapel, filled with the prayerful music of a concert aptly named “Love, Burn Bright” and brimming with old friends and embraces. My students and I have spent a semester cultivating a sense of being present and awake to our world, with its inevitable mix of sorrow and of joy. We have discerned our dreams for a better world, and gathered the tools to help build it. We have learned to walk with each other through our questions and discovered that being “we” is a beautiful gift.
And so, as I headed home from Rome, a letter also began its journey from the Vatican to Washington, D.C. and then to my faculty mailbox. It seems that my students’ “dreams,” written with disarming honesty to one of the world’s most significant spiritual leaders had reached their much-desired interlocutor. As we gathered in our classroom, I presented my students with the envelope and one, Olga, volunteered to read. As she smiled and struggled to pronounce Apostolic Nunciature on the envelope’s return address, she took out the letter and her eyes widened as she read to her classmates.
As we prepare to complete our semester together and return to our homes all over the world from our home at Loyola Marymount University, my grateful students will each carry a copy of this letter with them. My hope is that the Pope’s invocation of “wisdom, strength and peace” will rain down in abundance over them and our entire LMU community. Very glad to be home—home to the relationships that sustain us, the dreams we share, and the grace that guides us forward, especially as we navigate uncertain times together. Felices Fiestas.
