By Fr Clement Baffoe SVD

When I look back on the months I have spent in Rome, I often find myself caught between wonder and disbelief. Rome, with all its centuries of whispers and layers of history, now forms part of my own personal story — a story I never imagined would unfold in such depth and colour.

I share this as a friendly journey through the corners of my life in the Eternal City. It is a story of grace, vulnerability, laughter, study, growth, and a fair share of unexpected moments.

My name is Fr Clement Baffoe, a Divine Word Missionary of the Australia Province, originally from Ghana. My journey to Rome began long before the plane touched down at Fiumicino Airport. I had lived the quiet intensity of theological formation at Dorish Maru College from 2016 to 2019. I professed perpetual vows in 2020, was ordained a deacon, and then a few months later — with trembling hands and overwhelming gratitude — ordained a priest. From 2021 to 2024, I served as an Associate Pastor in the Good Shepherd Parish, Townsville. Then came a moment I never expected so early in my ministry: the opportunity to pursue further studies, a Licentiate in Sacred Scripture at the Pontifical Biblical Institute in Rome.

When I arrived in April 2024, I felt Rome swallowing me up with its noise, charm, and unyielding beauty. The streets seemed to move with a rhythm of their own — a combination of honking cars, snippets of conversation, church bells that never seemed to rest, and the smell of freshly baked bread drifting from hidden bakeries. In that very first week, I felt both deeply welcomed and utterly overwhelmed.

The first task assigned to every newly arrived confrere was clear: learn Italian — and learn it well. For four months, the Leonardo da Vinci Italian School became my new home. I entered the classroom on the first day with the enthusiasm of a child and the uncertainty of a stranger entering a crowded room. The language sounded musical, almost playful, yet it carried a structure that felt like a maze. I would sit at my desk, repeating words under my breath long after the class ended, sometimes murmuring them as I walked through the corridors of the Collegio.

There were days when I felt triumphant — when I held full conversations with classmates, when the grammar finally made sense, or when I understood the rapid-fire announcements at the train station. But there were also days when I stood mute, unable to express even the simplest of ideas. I suddenly understood our confreres who come to Australia and must start English from zero. Learning Italian humbled me. To learn a new language, I discovered, one must be childlike: repeating sounds, stumbling over conjugations, and laughing at one’s own mistakes.

Along the way, I learned to think before speaking. In English, words flow naturally to me; in Italian, I must first rearrange the sentence in my mind. Is this verb conjugated correctly? Does the adjective agree with the noun? Italian does not allow one to speak carelessly. It requires attention — and a sense of humour.

At the end of the language course came a pilgrimage I will never forget: a journey to Oies, the birthplace of St Joseph Freinademetz. Standing in his family home, I felt as though the walls them-selves held their breath with stories. I visited the tiny parish where he was baptised, the church where he served as an Associate Pastor, and Santa Croce, the mountain where his family prayed their Marian devotions. I had read his story before, but walking where he walked transformed words into flesh. His life ceased to be a distant narrative; it became a living presence.

Back in Rome, my life found its rhythm — a steady interplay of spiritual, pastoral, academic, and communal experiences. Life at the Collegio was vibrant, rooted in prayer yet full of everyday humanity. There were days of silence, reflection, and private prayer in the grotto or the small chapel tucked away in the building. There were days of pastoral ministry, celebrating Mass in nearby convents or within the Collegio. And then there were summer days when I ventured into Italian parishes, like my unforgettable time in Santa Lucia near Monte Cassino, the place tradition associates with St Benedict writing his monastic rule. The parishioners welcomed me with warmth and curiosity. They spoke quickly, smiled often, and fed me generously — very generously. My Italian improved not only through study but through conversations over homemade pasta and laughter at parish gatherings.

Academically, Rome stretched me more than any period of my life. In October 2024, I officially entered the world of the Pontifical Biblical Institute — the Biblicum, as everyone calls it. Yet before stepping into the licentiate proper, I had to complete the Propaedeutic Year: an intense year dedicated solely to Greek and Hebrew. Every day I learned 30 to 50 new vocabulary words. Some days the languages danced gracefully before me. Other days, they taunted me. Many classmates dropped out under the pressure. I understood why. These ancient languages demand more than intelligence — they demand discipline, humility, and a stubborn determination not to give up.

I remember nights when my desk was covered with flash-cards, dictionaries, notes with arrows and underlines, scribbles of paradigms, and half-finished prayers asking God to help me remember what qatal or hiphil meant. But slowly, almost miraculously, the languages began to reveal their secrets. The first moment I read a biblical passage directly from Hebrew without fumbling felt like touching something sacred. The scriptures were no longer distant translations; they were alive.

By October 2025, I finally stepped into the licentiate programme itself. The deeper I go into the study of Scripture, the humbler I become. To truly understand the Bible, one must enter its world — its languages, cultures, politics, landscapes, and worldview. The inspired authors did not write in a vacuum; they wrote with calloused hands, beating hearts, and the cultural air of their time. My studies reveal these layers, and each day feels like peeling back the surface of a treasure I once thought I already knew.

Life in the Collegio adds another layer of richness. Here, confreres from every continent live, pray, study, laugh, and argue together. Italian is our common language, but love and fraternity are our true languages.

There is always someone offering help: a classmate explaining a difficult Hebrew verb, another sharing food from his home country, or someone simply listening when the day feels too heavy. Our community meals, pilgrimages, socials, and occasional games of volleyball or tennis bring joy and balance to our intense academic lives. Living interculturally is both a privilege and a daily lesson.

Rome itself has been a stage of momentous events during my stay. I witnessed the 19th General Chapter in Nemi, participated in its opening and closing liturgies, and celebrated our 150th SVD anniversary with its Jubilee Book launch, international conference, and closing festivities. Rome was also the centre of the Church’s global attention with the Synod on Synodality in 2024, the 2025 Jubilee: Pilgrims of Hope, and the streams of pilgrims walking through the Holy Doors of the major basilicas. I met young people from every corner of the globe during the Jubilee of Youth, their enthusiasm rekindling my own hope for the Church.

Not all moments were joyful. I was here when Pope Francis’ health declined, when he died, and during the deeply moving days of mourning that followed. Later, I witnessed the conclave — the quiet tension, the speculation, the crowds waiting in St Peter’s Square — and finally the announcement of our new Pope, Leo XIV. The Italians have a saying for events that rarely happen: ogni morte di papa — “every death of a Pope”. Indeed, many of the experiences I have had in Rome are once-in-a-lifetime moments.

And yet, despite all these grand events, Rome has also taught me to cherish the small things: the early morning silence before classes, the laughter of confreres during simple meals, the fragrance of jasmine on summer evenings, the sound of church bells echoing through narrow streets, and the gentle but constant invitation to grow — spiritually, intellectually, and humanly.

People sometimes ask me, “What next?” The truth is, I do not have a definitive answer. For now, what is next is simple: to remain faithful to the present moment. To complete my licentiate. To remain open to God’s voice and to the discernment of my superiors. Life has a way of revealing its path one step at a time. I have learned not to rush ahead of grace.

Rome has become more than a place of study. It has become a place of transformation — a chapter of life woven with challenge, beauty, purpose, and quiet miracles. And as I continue this journey, I carry with me not only the languages I have learned or the knowledge I have gained, but also the deeper truth that God writes our stories in ways we often do not expect, using every experience — joyful, painful, or ordinary — to draw us gently closer to Him.

For now, I take it one day at a time. And that is enough.

PHOTOS

TOP RIGHT: Fr Clement Baffoe SVD outside the Pontifical Biblical Institute in Rome, where he is studying.

MIDDLE LEFT: Fr Clement with a group at St Peter's Square.

BOTTOM RIGHT: Fr Clement with confreres from the SVD's Collegio del Verbo Divino.