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Lessons in Temptation

Bundled in our coats against the cold on our first day in Rome, Cindy and I walked along the road flanking the River Tiber with maps in hand.  It was my goal to keep our orientation by staying in the open by the river.  A new form of disorientation nevertheless hit us, when a stranger pulled beside us with a powerful temptation.  As we now approach Holy Week and consider the temptations that faced the early disciples that final week that Christ was with them, I am reminded of the lessons in temptation we learned by the River Tiber.  You may find them intrusive for the times temptation tugs at your coat tails.

Our lesson came as we anticipated venturing away from the river  into the deeper confines of the narrow city streets.  We stopped at various intersections to gain our bearings on the map. After one of our orientation checks, a car pulled up beside us and a well-dressed man inside asked in English, “Can you give me directions.” 

I did not realize how disoriented I was in this foreign setting, until I gave him my reply.  “Sorry, I don’t speak Italian.”

“But I speak English,” he responded.  I felt like a fool.  I imagined that since he had spoken with such a strong accent, I would not be able to help him.  He continued by saying, “I need directions to Saint Peter’s.  Can you show me the way?"

Of course I could show him the way!  I knew the answer.  I could help the man.  Although I was a disoriented American pastor in a foreign land, I was being given the opportunity to do the one thing I love best.  I could help somebody.  In that moment I did not consider it strange that an Italian in Rome would ask for directions in English.  Neither did I consider it odd that he didn’t know the location of the largest church in the world, when it was just down the street and around the corner.  I cheerfully gave him directions as I stood on the side walk a few feet from his car.

“I’m from out of town,” he said, leaning across his front passenger seat toward his open window on my side.  “Can you show me on the map?"

“Sure,” I said with only slight hesitation.  “I’d be happy to.”  I could sympathize with him.  I had felt rather disoriented only a few hours earlier, when I was working my way through the maze of cobblestone streets.  I was delighted to have gained my sense of direction, and was pleased to help a lost soul that needed some guidance.  I reached into his car and directed him with my finger on his map.

“Where are you from?” he asked as I gave him directions “I’m from New York”, I said, giving him the closest big city he might know.  I didn’t think he would have heard of Jersey.  “New York!  I have a brother in New York,” he said, his eyes lighting up.  He told me all about his brother, an attorney in New York City.  When I told him that I actually lived on the Jersey Shore, outside New York, he said, “Yes, my brother has been there.”  He continued to tell me about his brother’s family, and his brothers job, and how his brother could help me if I was ever in need.  He then told me of himself.  “I am going to go to New York next year,” he said.  “I work for the fashion industry.  I travel all around.  Look at this beautiful coat that I’m showing at a show today.”  He pulled a folded jacket from a plastic bag and said, “Feel this, it is very fine Antelope leather.  I will be selling these jackets at a fashion show for 2,000 euros.  Here feel it,” he said as he moved it close to my hand.  I drew closer, feeling the soft leather of the jacket. “Isn’t it nice?” he said as I ran my hand back and forth on the soft leather.  He then said, “I hope I can reach the fashion show.  I’ve been driving around and I’m almost out of petrol."  He pointed to the gas gage on his dash.  He showed me his wallet with his credit card.  “None of the petrol stations will take this credit card and I am out of cash.  Could you give me money for some petrol,” he asked.  Reading the growing suspicion on my face he added, “I will give you this jacket, thank you very much."

I looked over at Cindy, who seemed amenable to help him. “How much do you need?” I said, reaching in my pocket for a few coins.  “I need to fill my tank.  Thank you, very much.  I give you this jacket, thank you very much.”  When I paused, his head turned away, and his face carried a look of hurt, distress and indignation at my hesitation to help.

I felt prodded with guilt for my resistance in helping a fellow sojourner in distress.  I had the same feeling I often get when talking to one of the masterful con artist who make the circuit of churches in town. Then in an instant, my foggy brain cleared and it became abundantly obvious that I was in the midst of a con.  I looked around to see if this man had a partner on the street nearby.  We appeared to be physically safe.  “I really don’t want your coat,” I said, “and I don’t have the money to spare.”   We walked away.

He sat with his engine idling saying one last time, “I need petrol. Please, I give you my coat, thank you.”

That well dressed Italian, with his plastic covered coat, expressed the common qualities of many tempting situations.  The personal connection through friendly conversation.  The appeal to my good nature and desire to help.  The family connection with my home. The physical touch.  The promise for me to get something for nothing.  The opportunity for me to do a good deed.  And finally, a prick to my conscience and a stirring of my guilt.  It was all a part of a big Roma con.  I can see it now, but on that misty morning while I was still gaining my bearings, I was almost taken by man whose brother lives in New York. 

There is undoubtedly a man in New York, Seattle or Iowa who came home from Rome with what he thought was an Antelope Coat.  I wish him well.

Crossing to the Other Side

Cindy and I  traveled to Italy on a red eye flight out of Newark.  We arrive in Rome’s Leonardo Da Vinci Airport in the early morning fog.  Once we maneuvered through the passport check point, we located the train station and boarded a local line into the city.  As we fumbled through our papers studying directions and trying to determine how far we would go before transferring to a city bus, gypsy women and children wandered through our train car begging for money.  Some gave them coins.  Others stared at them in disgust.  Some shooed them away.  Most people ignored them.  We looked at them like we didn’t understand a word they were saying, which was true.

After a thirty minute ride, we disembarked at a small outdoor platform covered with graffiti and littered with trash.  There were steps leading off the platform in one direction and a tunnel under the tracks going the other way.  The few people populating the station did not look like the type to offer helpful directions.  A couple loitering young men stood smoking and appearing readying to sell something if asked.  I noticed only a man and woman engrossed in conversation who looked like they were actually waiting for a train. I stood by awaiting a break in their conversation for an opportunity to seek directions to the bus stop.  Thankfully they understood me and spoke enough English to direct us into the tunnel to the city street on the other side. 

A vacant tunnel in a strange and foreign way station on the other side of the world is not the most comfortable of passages.  We took a deep breath and crossed under the tracks with a swift clip.  I welcomed the sight of the busy street on the other side.  A ray of sun poured through the clouds and shined on the shops lining the street.  Groups of young people were hustling to schools.  Workers were headed to jobs.  A pleasant middle aged woman dressed nicely for work pointed us in the direction of the bus stop and told us we would need to first purchase bus tickets at a tobacco shop.  After paying a Euro a piece for tickets, we proceeded to the bus stop, oriented ourselves in the right direction, determined the bus we needed to take, and then pack aboard with the local morning commuters. 

We road the crowded bus for twenty minutes to an old section of Rome called Travestevere.  The last leg of our journey to the hotel was on foot.  We followed directions on our map along narrow cobblestone streets towards our hotel.  After numerous twists and turns through ancient alleyways lined with trashy modern graffiti, our narrow path opened into the courtyard for Trastevere’s Church of Santa Maria.  Breaking into this opening was like coming up for air after swimming through an under water tunnel.  The charming church looking down upon the courtyard is one of the oldest in Rome.  It was the location of a house-church around AD 220 and has gone through various reconstructions and expansions over the years.  The bells ring every fifteen minutes.  From the church we reentered the street maze for one more block until we arrived at L’Hotel Santa Maria.  We passed through a gate off the side of the street and walked down a path to an inner court filled with several orange trees and lined with charming little rooms.  Since it was still breakfast time, we were invited to eat. 

After eating, Cindy laid down for a short nap, but I stayed up, chomping at the bit to head out into the heart of the city.  Within Thirty minutes, Cindy had completed a power nap, and we were once again working our way through the labyrinth of ancient streets.  We came out of the graffiti lined cobblestone maze by the River Tiber, and crossed over the Ponte Sistro, a foot bridge leading to streets with a more manageable grid pattern.  An unshaven man in filthy clothes sat in the middle of the bridge like a Troll guard with a threatening canine by his side.  Like the tunnel earlier in the day, we passed without incident.