Cathedral Crawl

I'm getting out of order here, but last Wednesday afternoon Nif organized a "Cathedral Crawl" of three churches to visit in a row. There was built in time for reflection at each church, and it was a walking tour (which limited the scope of choices somewhat, helpfully perhaps, as did the opening hours of the churches). Our first visit was to the Basilica of San Clemente (this had been my request, as it was recommended by Margaret [friend not daughter] after her visit in July). There is an amazing 12th-century mosaic ("The tree of life") that looks like this:

Another striking thing is that the basilica is built on top of another one from the 4th century, and you can go downstairs and walk through it and see the painted frescoes from that time. And that is built on top of some first-century structures. Pervading the whole was a sense of continuity (clearly) and it was also something of a mini-pilgrimage for me. It was a glorious place to think about the past and be grateful for God's steering the church through history.

The second church on our list was a healthy walk past the Colosseum, the Forum, and the Vittorio Emmanuel II monument with the tomb of the unknown soldier. As what I think of as "the other side of town" and completely unexplored by me up until the day before, it was refreshing to be able to recognize some things. The second church was an example of counter-reformation art that included a statue of "Religion Overthrowing Heresy and Hatred." Heresy and Hatred have Luther's writings with them and Cupid is ripping pages out of Calvin and Zwingli. This was a very vivid reminder of the intensity of the struggle that was the Reformation and Counter-Reformation, and was a bit shocking in its "political incorrectness" (the exterior of the church also has two statues of Ignatius's feet on the necks of pagan/barbarians).

On a happier note, the church is famous for its ceiling, which is frescoed but has statuary and other art "fading" into it such that it's difficult to tell where different elements begin and end. I was grateful for the large mirror they have set up so that visitors can inspect the ceiling without serious neck injury. Here's a peek:

On the way to our third church of the day (Chiesa di San Luigi dei Francesci), we passed reporters stationed on a curb (kerb?) and lots of security and police officers. From what I can tell from later research, it's the headquarters for one of Italy's political parties. I know that the US government is in the news with the shutdown, but over here Italy's coalition government has been repeatedly on the edge of collapse as Berlusconi has made threats of pulling his party. Anyway, it was a bit of a sideshow on our way to the church, which was next door.

The attraction of this church was a set (3) of Caravaggio paintings in a side chapel. I didn't know anything about Caravaggio when we started the crawl, but two of our party are knowledgable art-types who were willing to explain both "tenebrism" and Caravaggio's biography, so I was slightly prepared going in. I have not taken a visual art class since 5th grade; as soon as there were choices of subjects in school I always chose music, and schedules did not allow for both music and art.

I was not prepared for the paintings. They were of the life of the apostle Matthew: the first, his call; the second, his inspiration/writing the gospel; and finally, his martyrdom. They are still hanging in the chapel of the church for which they were commissioned in 1599. Perhaps that is part of why they were so powerful; they were not in a museum (where one might be tempted to see art for art's sake) but serving their devotional purpose. 

I have been moved by music (and frequently am) but I was astonished to find tears on my face as I stood before The Calling of St. Matthew. The tax collector's "Who, me?" with one hand still on his moneybags and the light of Christ shining on his face is a sermon that unfolded as I stood before it. It was deeply powerful.

It seemed like I would never get tired of looking at it. We did eventually have to leave, but the way I think of art has been changed (and I hope that I have, just a bit, too).  I was a bit torn about whether to bring home a print: I know I cannot capture the moment or the work, but I still wanted to have it, even though the scale and location will be all wrong. So when you come to my house and happen upon this,

you will know the story behind it. And maybe we can look at it and talk together of the riches of God's grace.