Sergio Luzzato’s portrait of Francesco Forgione, better known as Padre Pio, recently came to my attention while researching Luzzato’s broader perspective on the interwar period. He holds the chair of Modern Italian History at UConn, and his work on the intersection of secularism and religious mysticism, now almost 20 years old, is a masterpiece of interdisciplinary analysis, incorporating research on intra-faith power squabbles, political violence, national memory and myth, and a host of topics that would be a welcome addition in the library of any student of fascism’s rise. While he doesn’t appear in the index or rich footnotes from what I can tell, George Mosse and his cultural lens on fascism’s appeal never seems far from Luzzato’s approach.
The book provoked a fair amount of controversy amongst the devout, less perhaps for anything particularly damning or critical in Luzzato’s story than the fact that it doesn’t unambiguously tip readers to his own intellectual loyalty to a scientific or religious worldview. Luzzato isn’t as interested in taking sides per se as understanding Forgione’s cultish following objectively, above the fray of the emotional intensity bound to arise from any work on religious history. As the Catholic News Agency reported in regards to one journalist’s defense of the work:
“Messori noted that Luzzatto’s book fills a void in the information about Padre Pio, who Luzzatto called “the most important Italian of the last century.” He said it strikes a balance between the excessively pious accounts of the saint’s life on the one hand, and the anti-clerical books that one can find in bookstores. Luzzatto distances himself from these books, noting that disproportionate criticism of Padre Pio should be avoided.”
The superlative may seem like a stretch, but seen from the specific temporal and geographical limits of Padre Pio, Luzzato provides a compelling portrait of the Capuchin’s massively outsized influence in the larger Catholic world, which counts about an eighth of the global population among its flock. Readers that grew up in the church will be less shocked by the claim of the friar’s singular importance: photographs of his stigmata, printed en masse on prayer cards, may be second only to the crucifixion itself in the imagistic universe of Catholicism.
Making a claim on his familiarity and meaning to the faithful wouldn't amount to much by way of Forgione’s historic importance, however, and Luzzato goes well beyond the Gramscian endeavor to portray mystical Catholicism’s ideological capture. Where the book particularly excels is its linkage to the search for meaning after the slaughter of WW1 had concluded. (Gramsci’s notebooks are riddled with commentary on Father Gemelli, one of Forgione’s intra-faith enemies and a major intellectual figure in his own right during the period in question -- a post for another time.) I'm not sure there’s a better book for understanding the clerical component of fascism’s hold on the Italian population as it struggled to make sense of what many perceived, poisonously ideological or not, as a “mutilated victory,” a phrase that itself conjures up so much of the corporeal experience of demobilization. A skeptic myself of “histories of the body,” Luzzato’s story of the vitamorta -- death in life -- that many identified in Forgione’s “passion” has retuned my thinking to the deeper resonances of cultural experience that should be part of fascism studies, particularly at its advent.