Creative Writing #11

The mass surged forward, taking me along for the ride, through the security checkpoint, past the souvenir shop, past the ornate doors, into the grand church. The crowd dispersed, people walking in every direction, cameras at the ready, taking pictures of everything they saw so they could record now, observe later. I heard tour guides reciting a two minute summary of the history and architecture of the church as their group trailed behind them, barely pausing to look around at the sculptures and paintings that surrounded them. I wandered to the high altar at the far end of the church and stopped. Directly in front of me was a colossal, bronze canopy with twisted columns supporting sculpted angels on the top. It was the baldacchino of St. Peter’s, the main showpiece of the basilica.

I walked around the baldacchino, stooping to look at the Barberini family crests that decorated the base and craning my neck to see the bronze tassels that hung from the canopy. After I studied the structure close-up, I stepped back to appreciate the scale and design of the baldacchino, but I constantly moved to avoid blocking the other visitors who pushed past me to get a closer look at the baldacchino. Almost all of the tourists, presumably some Catholics and some art lovers of various faiths, looked up at the baldacchino and the dome of St. Peter’s in awe. They pointed up at paintings and looked down at the marble floors with expressions of amazement on their faces. A young man with a guidebook in his hands spun around trying to figure out what he should see first. Everywhere I turned, I could see people taking pictures and admiring the expensive and exquisite art on the walls. Nevertheless, there was something missing from this church. There were hundreds of people, but none of them were praying in this church. The basilica clearly conveyed a message to visitors, but it was not a message of piety or reverence for the holiest saints and God. Instead, modern pilgrims came to see the material representations of these figures. These visitors did not come to worship God, but instead were worshipping the art that was created in his name. They were not in awe of God’s miracles and creations in this elaborate church; they were in awe of the Catholic Church’s power and wealth. I left the basilica wondering if anyone felt comfortable enough in the lavishly decorated church to close their eyes for a moment to pray there.

My experience in the largest church in the world made me think about the smallest church that I have ever visited. On a recent trip to Venice, I went on a tour of the islands near the city. Our tour boat took us to Murano and Burano to see the famed glass blowers and then we were taken to a minuscule island that I had never heard of before our visit. We were given one hour to explore Torcello, an island that features one of the oldest churches in the Venice area. Our tour guide explained that the cathedral is the only interesting sight on the island and we could not get lost on our way there because there is only one road in Torcello. I meandered through the town, following the only road that was paved alongside a small canal that ran the length of the island. I reached the other end of the island and I saw a modest church nestled on the shore, overlooking the water. It was built with large stones and had a simple colonnade that decorated the façade of the small building. Before entering the church, I walked along the shore of Torcello, watching the light sparkle on the deep blue surface of the water and listening to the gentle lapping of the waves in the lagoon. Twenty minutes later, I entered the small church to look around. There was only one small painting in the church with small lanterns emitting a dim light that hardly illuminated the stone walls and the wooden pews. The single room was completely silent. There were no clicks or quick flashes of lights from cameras. There was no marble floor that loudly echoed the footsteps of visitors. I sat in the front of the church by myself, feeling calm and relaxed in this haven by the water. I did not recite any of the Catholic prayers that I know so well, nor did I kneel in front of the crucifix on the altar. I silently meditated on my travels thus far and I thought about all of the objects I had seen in countless museums and churches. I wondered if I would remember any of those priceless works of art or if I would only remember how I felt about them. I finally left the church and started walking back to the dock on the other side of the island. As I wandered down the single road, I realized that this tiny church on this remote island was one of my favorite churches I had seen during the entire trip. It was not gilded or decorated with the works of famous artists, but it invited me in with its humble interior of rock and wood. There was no gift shop or large piazza surrounding the building, but I could contemplate issues of spirituality and faith next to the bluest waters in the serene lagoon beside the church. This cathedral did not have a message of power or authority, but instead was a personal place of worship for all visitors.

On my visits to both St. Peter’s basilica and the Church of Santa Fosca in Torcello, I was a pilgrim searching for a place in which I would be inspired and could strengthen my faith. Both churches were built in order to fulfill specific purposes. They were both monuments built to honor the good works of two saints with unwavering faith. St. Peter’s basilica, the largest church in the world, has become a symbol of the influence and strength of the Catholic Church while the Church of Santa Fosca is preserved as an inviting, modest house of worship. As a pilgrim, I experienced a more profound religious awakening in the little church on the shore of Torcello.