The Power of Place: A Lapsed Catholic in Italy

For a lapsed Catholic, traveling to Italy can seem a bit surreal.  I instantly recognize most of the ubiquitous religious images, from the bust of a blue-veiled young woman (the Virgin Mary, of course) to the painting of a blonde maiden holding her eyes on a plate (who other than Saint Lucy?). But though familiar, I see them less as objects of devotion, and more with the dispassion of a classical archaeologist viewing a statue of the Roman goddess Juno or the Etruscan Minerva.

Nowhere is this feeling stronger than at the Vatican Museum.

Intent on seeing the Sistine Chapel, I enter the museum on a sweltering afternoon in July, the height of the tourist season. Although I am traveling alone, I am herded through turnstiles, past ticket windows, along corridors, through halls filled with priceless works of art. The power and wealth of this papal legacy takes my breath away—and makes me feel ashamed. Two themes run through the collection: classical gore, think the The Rape of Europa, and papal glory, expressed in gold-embroideries of crossed keys and papal crowns. There are few, if any, images of the Madonna or the pious saints, let alone the humble carpenter who started it all.

After a couple of hours of winding through this stifling treasure gallery, my section of the crowd  finally nears the Sistine Chapel. At the entry, signs in several languages remind us that this is a place of worship, but inside the scene is more akin to an airport terminal. A lone guard periodically shouts, in English and Italian, “Silencio!”  “No photos!” Next to me, a young woman asserts, “We’re from Queens and we don’t listen!” as she and her friend take photos of each other, as do other groups of tourists.

In fact, the only people not armed with cameras are the groups of nuns in long black habits standing in small clusters against the high walls, presumably trying to have a religious experience in the midst of the international cacophony. As for me, I crane my neck and squint at the images of Adam and God on the ceiling high above.

I start to count the number of people in the room, but give up; there must be at least 500 of us. How different the experience might be for me, not to mention the nuns, if the guard let in only a few dozen people at a time.

Over the next few days, I find my feelings towards religious art remain largely dispassionate, although I am drawn to one painting in a side chapel of Siena’s cathedral in which a young woman saint wears an enraptured look while her parents’ faces express fear and worry: the juxtaposition of youthful bliss and parental anxiety resonates with my own experience.

This theme is certainly present in Italian director Franco Zefferilli’s tribute to Saints Francis and Clare: “Brother Sun, Sister Moon.” Lapsed Catholic or not, I am still thrilled to be in Asissi, home of my favorite childhood saint. Entering the Saint Francis Basilica from the top of the three-story structure, I walk into a soaring Gothic cathedral with its famous Giotti frescos. Although cracked with age and earthquakes, the paintings still shine with pale jewel colors of peridot, topaz, tourmaline, and aquamarine. I am touched by their beauty, but the content leaves me feeling distant.

Descending to the next level, I come upon the stout pillars, rounded arches and lowered ceilings of the earlier, Romanesque era. In the central sanctuary, a priest is celebrating Mass. I am not comfortable joining in, but not yet ready to leave the church. Looking around, I notice the stairway leading down to the crypt. With the masses of tourists occupied, this seems to be the perfect moment to visit the saint’s grave. I grab the iron rail and follow the stone steps down.

The small crypt is lined with bricks bare of artwork and furnished with a dozen folding chairs facing a rock cleft. I am not alone, but nearly so.  In the relative stillness, I hear or sense a murmur, a pulse that seems to surround me like a low hum. Is it creaks from the aging ventilation systems, or vibrations of worshippers from the floor above? Is it emanations from the buried saint, or perhaps the power of an ancient deity or the land itself? Whatever the cause and whatever its meaning, the feeling of something more, something deeper continues the entire time I am in the crypt.

As I leave the cathedral, moved by the wordless experience, I dab my forehead with holy water in a gesture to the ambivalence of belief and the power of place.