Berkley Center

Churches are museums in Italy. For the 15 to 20 percent of Italians that actually attend Mass regularly, they participate in the presentation of something that signified more in the past than it does now. I visited one of these sacred spaces the other day, the Basilica di Santissima Maria Annunziata, and I was shocked to discover that, between the tourists taking photos and ogling the stunning artwork, people were going to confession and a priest was conducting the Beatitudes.

The churches in Italy always make me wonder about the purpose and structure of sacred spaces. In art history, I studied the motivation behind the cathedral, and its subsequent formation. These places were constructed as pilgrimage sites, designed to awe and inspire perennial visitors even as regular church-goers attended services. In other words, Italian Mass attendees are used to tourists. The churches have long aisles along the sides, and naves separated from the main body of the pews with archways connecting them in order to keep the steady stream of foot traffic out of the way.

I walked along the aisles just as pilgrims must have hundreds of years ago, marveling at the intricate architectural details and the vast variety of beautiful religious art over the ages. Then I wondered: how much do I have in common with those pilgrims? My purpose is ostensibly different; I did not visit the Basilica to be inspired, nor did I come to Italy in order to enrich my Catholic faith. With regards to my visit to this church specifically, I was interested in the messages behind the paintings, and I was attracted to their beauty. Were there pilgrims who, like me, received nothing further from these visits than a piqued interest and the satisfaction of viewing artwork? No divine inspiration, no sentiments of stronger devotion, no greater appreciation of the glory of God?

Simply put, today, Italy is the land of a thousand spectacular, empty churches. It seems to me that no degree of commissioned artwork or architectural maneuvering has managed to make the souls of Italians enraptured with the religion behind it. The grander the structure, the more one thinks of the men who made it and the money it required. In my experience, visitors have been more likely to comment upon the revolution in perspective or the realism of the portrayal of Jesus on the cross than upon their own deeply felt spiritual reactions to the work. Most Italians are more likely to know the name of the famous architect who built a given church than to ever attend a service inside of it. A church’s meaning is historical, sociopolitical, cultural, and artistic. It is religious, in that it is a representation of the institution, but rarely is it spiritual.

The same could be said of the larger perception of the institution of the Roman Catholic Church amongst many Italians. At least in Florence, a relatively liberal and secular city within Italy, the Church is regarded as a political force first and a spiritual one much further thereafter. Even today, the Pope exerts an influence on the Italian government through an alliance with the most powerful party; even today, Italians donate a portion of their taxes to the Vatican. Where the ground is still stained with the spilled blood of the Crusaders glorified in frescoes above altars, where the grandest places of worship were financed by indulgences collected by corrupt officials, it is hard to regard the Church as more divine than man-made. Like any man-made institution, it has its moments of sin.