The Grandeur of Medieval Italian Churches
I have yet to be thunderbolted in the neck by an angry Old Testament God, so come on in!
I’m not much of a churchgoer, so my friends think it’s funny to joke about walls crumbling when I enter a vestibule or water boiling as I pass by a baptismal font. I did go to Catholic preschool and lie to a nun about where I put the cold, slimy tomatoes they served us at lunch (I chipmunked them in my cheeks, of course, and then spat them into the toilet), so hey, anything’s possible. I mean, lying to a nun … that’s got to be one the Seven Deadlies, right?
But nothing—not even fear of hellfire—can keep me out of an Italian church, if a door is left invitingly ajar. Italian Catholicism has been around for over two thousand years, so you can imagine how much time that’s given Italy to build some breathtaking churches. 1,600 at last count. And with such luminaries as Michelangelo, Da Vinci, and Bernini painting and sculpting and architecting these magnificent palaces of worship, is it any wonder then that I can’t stay away?
As much as I admire the duomi of the 16th and 17th centuries (and I will write more about them in future posts), I feel the deepest contentment in the presence of medieval churches, no matter how decayed or unimpressive or forgotten. We have one in front of our palazzo in Civita Castellana, La Chiesa di San Gregorio, a 12th century church with an interesting peculiarity. Unlike most Italian churches, its interior is designed like an ankh, the Egyptian cross, with a rounded transept and three apses. The minute I set foot in that church, I feel tingly: my one and only exceptionally painful tattoo is an ankh. I like to think a harmonic convergence occurs every time I enter.
Instead of paint and marble, the medievalists used light and form to lift the eyes of the faithful to non-secular matters. No 13th century farmer walking in from his fields stood a chance of feeling important in the presence of vaulted ceilings, braziers of incense, and the occult mysteries of the Divine. This was all by intent. The more “removed” the faithful were from their objects of veneration, the greater their devotion. Similarly, in the Golden Age of Hollywood, movie gods and goddesses were displayed in Art Deco palaces on silver screens that were two stories high. Now, we’ve reduced them to the size of a cellphone screen, and celebrities have lost a lot of their old world glamour.
We are a simple people, really, crafty and occasionally prone to murder, not much different than we were five thousand years ago. In the name of civilized behavior, we are tasked to put the brakes on all our baser impulses, which is probably what’s driving us slowly insane.
What’s remarkable about the state of the churches in Italy is that so few people actually go to them. Rarely do I see anybody under the age of forty attending Mass unless it’s Christmas or Easter. Usually the first two rows of any church are mostly women and mostly older, a generation that has seen its ranks decimated by Covid. What will happen to the Church once its last generation of faithful is gone?
One of many things I appreciate about the way Europe does religion is the lack of zealotry. After two thousand years of religious warfare, it’s probably had enough. No one is going to judge you here, not for your laughable and completely banal sinning. Even diehard Catholics aren’t beady-eyed about other people’s transgressions, which is refreshing. Where I come from, any deviation from the norm is a deviation, period. You are always found wanting.
To me, medieval churches are simply more heartfelt. There’s majesty without pretention, room for the spirit to soar. Medieval churches smell of wet stone and decay and the prayers of the penitent. You are less an observer and more participatory. Undistracted by walls full of other people’s painted interpretation of the story of Christ, you are left to make your own decisions and discoveries.
In terms of pure architecture, do you have a favorite church? Leave your comments below.