June 11 Part I: Basilica SS. Quattro Coronati

Up the cobblestone sidewalk lined with gray brick walls overrun by vines and ivy. It was a whim, I saw a street sign with an arrow pointing this direction. Finally, at the top of the hill I ascend a few steps to a cramped parking lot, maximum capacity: 4 cars. Maybe. What even is this place? A trusty sign holds the answer, “Chiesa dei Santi Quattro Coronati”. I start reading the English translation of the description. Something about some martyrs. I lose interest and wander through the open gates. Past a deserted courtyard or two I reach the open doors to the sanctuary barricaded from entry by a single desk. I peer inside the dark doorway.

From what I hear, this is tiny as far as Basilicas go. But to me it seems cavernous. Tile mosaics lead to the altar flanked by dark wood pews on either side, lush paintings crowd the walls, Corinthian columns and a massive arch open up to the brilliantly painted dome ceiling, gold trim around the altar gleaming solemnly in the dim light. Perhaps it is only so captivating because I share this scene with no one but a lone janitor methodically sweeping the floor; I can lean forward on the desk and slowly drink in the view uninterrupted, contemplate. And I do. Time passes. A lone nun floats ethereally into view. Sweet music pours serenely from female voices and resonates through the hall as she converses for a moment with the janitor and someone unseen on the balcony, the Italian words so meaningless to me, but so beautiful.

It seems strange. Strange that so many people would spend so much money, so many hours, to make such a truly beautiful work of art, to make this church such a storehouse of beautiful art representing, proclaiming, praising something so meaningful to them, and yet all of it is lost upon me. Strange that so many find spiritual inspiration in these pictures while my admiration is purely superficial. The image of the crucifixion does not leave me convicted, the images of the saints do not fill me with comfort or inspiration. I stare merely in wonder at their craftsmanship, their aesthetic appeal.

And finally, inevitably, the janitor approaches, speaks a few apologetic words (in Italian), and begins closing the doors. I pretend to understand what she says and reply with a grateful “grazie” as I turn to leave.