Faith Tested at St. Peter's
We arrived at the Vatican today, on the first day that it has not been raining. The rain had kept the heat at bay. Today it was back with a vengeance.
The central square at St. Peter's was already crowded with people. The line wrapped completely around the perimeter of the square. We stood in line with everyone else, not quite sure where the line was going... was this the entrance to St. Peter's church? The Vatican Museum? Or a line to see the Pope himself, who was giving his weekly Wednesday blessing via the two large stadium-size remote TV screens on each edge of the square?
In the throng of people were a babble of languages from all around the world. Rather than find a likely English-speaking individual to ask, we decided to just hang tight and go with the experience.
The first leg of the line was deceptively easy. This was going to be a piece of cake, and I thought that by the flow of traffic, we'd be there in in about half an hour. The line bottlenecked at the entrance of the church. The white marble made the sun especially blinding and hot. Things stopped for some time. We finally stepped over the threshhold into the atrium. And then it really slowed down. Time seemed to stand still.
We got into a courtyard right before the ticket booth. A different line was for people who wanted to see the tomb of Pope John Paul. That one was moving at a decent pace. We stopped. We were all crowded together in a small cordoned off space in front of a gated entrance. The sun and the heat and just the sheer mass of humanity were stifling. I fanned myself and the children with the audioguide map given to me in the coatcheck. Suddenly, a young German woman right in front of me shuddered and fell down to the marble courtyard floor. She hit her head, convulsed, and drool came out of her mouth in a puddle.
My first thought was that she'd been stricken by some sort of intense Christian fervor due to an uncontrollable rush of religious devotion. People around me looked momentarily confused and scared as well. Two men from Spain rushed to help her. She woke up, very pale. I fanned her face. Evidently she hadn't eaten, and the heat, the wait, and the crowds just caused her to faint. Someone gave her a slice of cheese and she moved out of the line. She cupped her hands to drink from a flowing water fountain basin located on the other side of the barricades, where the folks entering the tomb were standing.
As I stood there, I realized that I was thirsty as well, and that we'd checked our water bottles into the coat check, and that I couldn't reach that fountain from where I was standing. And the more I thought about it... the thirstier I got. And the water was just right there, but there were wooden barricades blocking my way. I started to feel lightheaded. The kids were just melting. They stared up at me in agony. I stared at a mosiac of Christ walking on the waters located behind Tony's head. Tony read to me from the guidebook about Michelangelo's statue of Pietà ("Piety"), which we would see upon entering. I listened to random audioguide entries to pass the time.
We moved about three feet, and Alex pointed out a small pigeon down by our feet. The bird was fluffed up, sitting there, right against a marble column. It didn't move despite the hundreds of people and their shuffling feet. Was it sick, dying, or just trying to rest next to the cool stone? Was it feeling the presence of a holy place and had lost all fear?
I looked at the sign up ahead. It announced that we had the option of paying extra to take the elevator to the cupola of the church. Actually it announced that those who were "old, suffering, or cardiopathic" should be aware that there were 320 steps after the elevator. I felt like I could qualify for all three categories.
Was this heat, this infernal human traffic jam some sort of divine plot set up to ensure I would enter St. Peter's in total and abject humility? No cynicism, no ego, just me in touch with the suffering of all God's creatures? If so, it was working. I reprimanded the children that this was what their pet rabbits felt like when they "forgot" to give them water. They cast their eyes downward.
Two hours after we started, we paid for our tickets, and were let through the gate. We dutifully took the elevator as we were told. We got on the elevator, expecting to be let into the church to see the Pietà.
Only we were let out on the roof, and the only door available was to a wire-barricaded terrace above St. Peter's. We pressed our noses against the wire and looked at the throngs of people milling about below in church. How the heck did they get in there? Where was the Pietà?
We followed the other door that said "cupola", and started the 320 steps. Each level got progressively smaller and smaller, until the final steps were like those in a spiral staircase, and those got smaller and smaller as well. The sides of the cupola curved in on us in tighter and tighter. A different German woman in front of me, huffing and puffing said, "nein, nein." "Ya, ya," I urged her on. Besides she was in front of me, and there was nowhere to go but up. Keep it moving Fraulein!
While I counted the steps, and announced each 25 or so to my exhausted children, I knew that this was some sort of wicked allegory created by Michelangelo when he designed the cupola. These steps, this pain, this suffering, was just like the journey we call life. All our trials and tribulations. Nowhere to go... no way out. Keep it moving! Where are we going?... Why can't we find the Pietà?... Will the view at the top (aka "The afterlife") be worth it?
The top step opened up to a stunning panoramic view of Rome, the Tiber river, its bridges. All of it laid out to see. Roman law dictates that no building can be higher than St. Peter's, which is on a hill. So there are no skyscrapers to block the view of the city. It was worth all the pain and the agony.
We went back down a different staircase, which took us directly into the church. We stopped on the way to quench our thirst at a water basin.
We entered the church. There was the Pietà behind bullet-proof glass. A young Mary holds the body of her dead son. The marble has a life of its own. It was just as beautiful and sad as the audioguide said it would be.
The central square at St. Peter's was already crowded with people. The line wrapped completely around the perimeter of the square. We stood in line with everyone else, not quite sure where the line was going... was this the entrance to St. Peter's church? The Vatican Museum? Or a line to see the Pope himself, who was giving his weekly Wednesday blessing via the two large stadium-size remote TV screens on each edge of the square?
In the throng of people were a babble of languages from all around the world. Rather than find a likely English-speaking individual to ask, we decided to just hang tight and go with the experience.
The first leg of the line was deceptively easy. This was going to be a piece of cake, and I thought that by the flow of traffic, we'd be there in in about half an hour. The line bottlenecked at the entrance of the church. The white marble made the sun especially blinding and hot. Things stopped for some time. We finally stepped over the threshhold into the atrium. And then it really slowed down. Time seemed to stand still.
We got into a courtyard right before the ticket booth. A different line was for people who wanted to see the tomb of Pope John Paul. That one was moving at a decent pace. We stopped. We were all crowded together in a small cordoned off space in front of a gated entrance. The sun and the heat and just the sheer mass of humanity were stifling. I fanned myself and the children with the audioguide map given to me in the coatcheck. Suddenly, a young German woman right in front of me shuddered and fell down to the marble courtyard floor. She hit her head, convulsed, and drool came out of her mouth in a puddle.
My first thought was that she'd been stricken by some sort of intense Christian fervor due to an uncontrollable rush of religious devotion. People around me looked momentarily confused and scared as well. Two men from Spain rushed to help her. She woke up, very pale. I fanned her face. Evidently she hadn't eaten, and the heat, the wait, and the crowds just caused her to faint. Someone gave her a slice of cheese and she moved out of the line. She cupped her hands to drink from a flowing water fountain basin located on the other side of the barricades, where the folks entering the tomb were standing.
As I stood there, I realized that I was thirsty as well, and that we'd checked our water bottles into the coat check, and that I couldn't reach that fountain from where I was standing. And the more I thought about it... the thirstier I got. And the water was just right there, but there were wooden barricades blocking my way. I started to feel lightheaded. The kids were just melting. They stared up at me in agony. I stared at a mosiac of Christ walking on the waters located behind Tony's head. Tony read to me from the guidebook about Michelangelo's statue of Pietà ("Piety"), which we would see upon entering. I listened to random audioguide entries to pass the time.
We moved about three feet, and Alex pointed out a small pigeon down by our feet. The bird was fluffed up, sitting there, right against a marble column. It didn't move despite the hundreds of people and their shuffling feet. Was it sick, dying, or just trying to rest next to the cool stone? Was it feeling the presence of a holy place and had lost all fear?
I looked at the sign up ahead. It announced that we had the option of paying extra to take the elevator to the cupola of the church. Actually it announced that those who were "old, suffering, or cardiopathic" should be aware that there were 320 steps after the elevator. I felt like I could qualify for all three categories.
Was this heat, this infernal human traffic jam some sort of divine plot set up to ensure I would enter St. Peter's in total and abject humility? No cynicism, no ego, just me in touch with the suffering of all God's creatures? If so, it was working. I reprimanded the children that this was what their pet rabbits felt like when they "forgot" to give them water. They cast their eyes downward.
Two hours after we started, we paid for our tickets, and were let through the gate. We dutifully took the elevator as we were told. We got on the elevator, expecting to be let into the church to see the Pietà.
Only we were let out on the roof, and the only door available was to a wire-barricaded terrace above St. Peter's. We pressed our noses against the wire and looked at the throngs of people milling about below in church. How the heck did they get in there? Where was the Pietà?
We followed the other door that said "cupola", and started the 320 steps. Each level got progressively smaller and smaller, until the final steps were like those in a spiral staircase, and those got smaller and smaller as well. The sides of the cupola curved in on us in tighter and tighter. A different German woman in front of me, huffing and puffing said, "nein, nein." "Ya, ya," I urged her on. Besides she was in front of me, and there was nowhere to go but up. Keep it moving Fraulein!
While I counted the steps, and announced each 25 or so to my exhausted children, I knew that this was some sort of wicked allegory created by Michelangelo when he designed the cupola. These steps, this pain, this suffering, was just like the journey we call life. All our trials and tribulations. Nowhere to go... no way out. Keep it moving! Where are we going?... Why can't we find the Pietà?... Will the view at the top (aka "The afterlife") be worth it?
The top step opened up to a stunning panoramic view of Rome, the Tiber river, its bridges. All of it laid out to see. Roman law dictates that no building can be higher than St. Peter's, which is on a hill. So there are no skyscrapers to block the view of the city. It was worth all the pain and the agony.
We went back down a different staircase, which took us directly into the church. We stopped on the way to quench our thirst at a water basin.
We entered the church. There was the Pietà behind bullet-proof glass. A young Mary holds the body of her dead son. The marble has a life of its own. It was just as beautiful and sad as the audioguide said it would be.
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Auntie Lisa