The Roman Anglican moves back to England.

Last year, the Roman Anglican celebrated its 10th anniversary. It all started while visiting a friend a mentor in Cambridge, to whom this blog is dedicated.

Not many may be aware of my story. I am Italian, born and raised in Rome, hence the name of this blog. I had a very normal upbringing, lived a comfortable life, I had a lovely family. 

One summer, as I finished middle school, an employee of my mother came home in tears and brought her flowers. I wasn’t too sure what this was about. Within the next two years, she developed a horrible cough, which I hated. The coughing eventually led to her passing while we were on vacation. I remember sixteen-year-old me at her funeral, so angry at the God who dared to do this — to do this to my Christian mother. After her death, some who should have cared for me took advantage of me instead, and I would have been left an orphan had it not been for my grandmother, my beloved nonna. Nonna looked after me, despite the attempts of others to render her financially unstable as an act of vendetta... but my grandmother did not give up. In the meantime, my anger toward God was turning into something more — it was turning into interest.

At this time, I was living with a guardian who should have taken care of me, but he took what was mine instead, and his only interactions with teenage me were through shouting. My anger toward God turned into a need — a thirst for God. I started opening the Bible I had. I would read Jesus’ words. I would read the Psalms; they consoled me when I needed to be consoled. God was there by my side. I got a cross and a prayer book through which I found a structured way to pray. I needed structure amidst all the chaos, hidden in my room — but I needed more. I was attending a Catholic school, but I did not feel that way of doing Church responded to many modern questions. I remain a great friend of Roman Catholicism, but God was calling me elsewhere.

I stumbled upon Anglican chant and hymnody. I would listen to those beautiful renditions while mourning and crying in my room, while being shouted at. Anglicanism wasn’t unknown to me — I traveled to America often and stumbled upon the Episcopal Church, but also, the spire of All Saints’ Rome always inspired me. That was it. I asked my grandmother to come with me to the American Episcopal Church in Rome. That is where I found God — where I felt the Holy Spirit embracing me in its fulfillment in the Eucharist. Feeling God at the altar was the fulfillment of a much-needed journey, the beauty of the liturgy and music captivated my soul.

At this time, I finally moved in with my grandmother, who strongly supported me in the exploration of my new Anglican self. She liked that we were still Catholic and that I still loved visiting the great churches of Rome with her. Eventually, this journey led me to the warm, welcoming community of All Saints Rome, which would become my home church for over a decade and where God made a choice — I felt called. During these years, I had a spiritual director, Monsignor Mark Langham, the Roman Catholic ambassador to Anglicanism — a holy man, a great lover of beauty (and of Italy; he is the only non-Italian ever to have made better nativity scenes than I). A truly holy man who listened to my pains and anguish, despite being such an important prelate in Rome.

One week, I had a crisis — because, as an annoying teenager who had turned Anglican because of beauty, I was appalled that our Sunday service was an all-age service (I have changed since then!). He, a Roman, told me that my vocation was in the Church of England. He was right. He then gifted me a George Herbert book, and that would shape my faith for years to come. My journey through the years went on. I felt God was calling me to be part of this amazing testimony of His work here on earth — to help others as others helped me, to listen to them, and to bring Christ to them at the altar and through Scripture. 

At All Saints' came a moment of fulfillment: a papal visit with Pope Francis. I brought my grandmother with me, and as we prayed there together, I felt two parts of my soul — the Roman and the Anglican — not in conflict, but together at last. My grandmother’s pride made the moment glow; it was one of the happiest days of my life.

My grandmother pushed me to study art at the Pontifical Gregorian University, which took me years to complete amidst hard family crises. I eventually spent a good year as a pastoral assistant in London, during which I learned a lot, but was probably still very angry and immature. Then came COVID. Fr Mark passed away, but his lessons did not. He promised to pray for me from above, and I believe that. I have since had other great figures as mentors, especially another Anglican and a Methodist, without whom I would not be where I am now.

Then, during COVID, when Italian healthcare was not at its best, my grandmother started to develop an inability to walk. She could not be diagnosed for the return of a dark shadow. I was by her side during her final journey. As she went to heaven, others tried to take advantage of the situation. But I was now an adult, and I knew I had God by my side. All these tribulations made my faith stronger.

My grandmother planted the seed of faith in me. As a child, she would tell me about the most important parts of Jesus’ story, such as the Resurrection — as on that morning of an Easter Sunday in the late ’90s. She would take me to historic churches and art galleries, nurturing in me an eye for beauty and the transcendent. Without her or my mother, I think my story would have been a lot more different.

My Director of Ordinands at this time asked me if I wanted to go to a BAP. Stage one happened as I was looking after my grandmother. Stage two happened last summer; the results were positive. I am thankful and humbled that God chose me to carry on in something I have felt called to do for such a long time. I am thankful for the Church and His people for believing in me.

Ten years ago, I would visit my friend Fr Mark in Cambridge, where he had just been appointed Catholic Chaplain. He showed me Westcott House, below is a picture of that visit. Ten years later, I am training as an ordinand for the Church of England here. Honored, humbled, thankful to all these wonderful people, this post is a tribute to them. Excited about this new journey. Everyone here is lovely, including the vicar at my attachment church. I pray I may be half the pastor, half the generous, kind-hearted man, half the humble servant of God that so many have been to me.

I was baptized in a font said to have been used by Saint Peter to baptize the Roman martyr Prisca — Rome flows through my veins; this is still my heritage. Yet it was through Anglicanism that God found me, in the beauty of its tradition — that call to “worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness” and to “stand in awe of Him.”

May the Lord bless you all, as He has blessed me during this journey.

God is our hope and strength, a very present help in trouble.