COMMENTARY: Visiting St. Peter’s

c. 1999 Religion News Service (Tom Ehrich is a pastor, writer and software developer living in Winston-Salem, N.C.) ROME _ I should have stuck with my original plan: wander over to the Tiber, gaze across the winding river at St. Peter’s, and then walk on. But curiosity got the better of me. How could I […]

c. 1999 Religion News Service

(Tom Ehrich is a pastor, writer and software developer living in Winston-Salem, N.C.)

ROME _ I should have stuck with my original plan: wander over to the Tiber, gaze across the winding river at St. Peter’s, and then walk on.


But curiosity got the better of me. How could I be 4,000 miles from home, five minutes from the ancient seat of Western Christendom, and not look inside?

So I trooped down a broad road lined with vendors, past the castle whose brown battlements signal that Christianity has been a political movement from the start, and into Piazza San Pietro, a vast stone oval capable of holding 300,000 people.

St. Peter’s itself was obscured by the scaffolding and plastic sheets of a restoration project. Only the famous dome was visible.

Inside, ushers shoved people to the sidelines of a nave that is said to be two football fields long. Not interested in staring at an empty expanse of marble, I walked to my right and suddenly stood before Michelangelo’s Pieta, safe behind a plastic shield, dimly lighted, one treasure among thousands.

People moved toward the nave, straining to see a procession that had begun 150 yards away. Ushers held us back. From a side hallway came a long line of men in colorful garb: acolytes, several dozen cardinals in red cassocks and capes, lesser clergy, a tall, stooped celebrant (not the pope) and security guards carrying radios.

They processed behind the canopied altar and disappeared from sight. Over the loudspeaker, a chant began. Onlookers continued to mill around. Then the clergy processed down one side of the nave and back up the opposite side. Added to the procession now were perhaps 100 people _ nuns, priests, laity _ who appeared to have been plucked from the crowd. A woman from the sidelines thought we were all being invited to join the procession, but an usher wrestled her back.

I had no idea what I was seeing. Maybe the faithful are allowed into the nave once the procession ends and Mass begins, or after the clergy leave. But it was clear we were expected to watch, not feel involved. We were tourists. Even believers for whom this was the pilgrimage of a lifetime were tourists. Pity the lost soul who came here expecting succor.

I suddenly thought of all the grand places of Christendom _ not just Rome’s lavish displays, but the stone and brick castles Presbyterians, Episcopalians, Baptists and others have built in city squares and suburban intersections around the world. I thought of the unsmiling ushers, the worship events that proceed unexplained, the elaborate processions whose invitation is to awe, not amendment of life, the constant reinforcement of hierarchy, whether robed in red or clad in Brooks Brothers.


Every era has its princes competing for acclaim. The Borgias simply went farther than most.

If one is indeed a tourist, then perhaps nothing is lost. St. Peter’s is part of the tour, along with the Coliseum, the Spanish Steps and the stylish shops of via Dei Condotti. One walks, one dodges wild drivers, one sips cappuccino, one admires the elegant Romans, one goes home. It’s fun.

As a tourist, I kept reminding myself: This isn’t your city, just be respectful. But I still found it disorienting, for I realized that the Vatican’s extravagance is merely the energy of Christendom writ unusually large. The focus on displaying wealth, the dismissal of people as anything but onlookers, the competition among noble families that church hierarchs encourage as a way to pursue their own ambitions, the absence of explanation, the vendors and crowd control _ this is what Christianity has become in many places and many traditions.

Were I indeed a pilgrim on this sunny day in early spring, were I broken and contrite, were my sins crushing me, were my soul aching for a touch of grace, I think I would walk quickly away from the stiff procession and head straight to the via Dei Condotti, where at least the rules are clear and the clerks are friendly.

And that, I sadly concluded, is exactly what has happened in these latter days. We turn to mall and amusement for our succor, not because we are inherently shallow, but because what soul-need is met by watching a parade?

DEA END EHRICH

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