Sticky-fingered from our gelato and only half-cooled from sitting in the shade, our group packed into the bus. We anticipated a hot, crowded ride up the craggy hill to Orvieto—a little Italian town built into the dry rock among the vivid green trees of the foothills of the Apennine mountains. After we forty-three climbed on, several native Italians shoved into the smallish bus, cramming our sticky bodies closer together. Once he figured no one else could squeeze in, the driver closed the doors and began his none-too-graceful careen up the mountain. I was glad I couldn’t see the steep slopes directly below as our driver took the turns with a hardly perceptible pressure on the brakes, but I did wish for more air than the cracked, obstinate old windows let in. Sweat poured and people gripped the handholds, meager seating, or each other during the sharp turns; was this extra trip worth five euros after all? But the day was still young and we were still good-humored, if hot, and hoped to see the hilltop and town soon.
We pulled up in the wide-open town square almost in front of Orvieto’s Duomo—the cathedral. The dry breeze outside seemed heavenly to our hot faces when we were freed from the stuffy bus. Shops and villas of brownish stone surrounded the square, and the narrow, twisting streets beckoned us to follow their worn ways. From the old, patterned cobbles at our feet, the Duomo rose into the thin blue sky—its front almost entirely covered with rickety wood, ugly poles, and flapping, dirty cloth. Another church with scaffolding, I thought. Since we began our trip in Frankfurt, we had been in many old churches and seen plenty of scaffolding.
But when I walked through the open side door into the inner, cool dimness, I forgot the disappointment of the cathedral’s shrouded front. Silence and peace dispelled the heat, noise, and world of the outside. We walked with hushed footsteps in the glorified gloom, little wishing to speak and only whispering when necessary. The very stillness itself seemed a kind of reverberating glory—plumbing the depths of ages past: the remembrance of people and the mute recollection of their voices praising God. I lifted my eyes to the dim heights of the vaulted ceiling, supported by carved wooden beams—strong, enduring. Light shone through the thick, plain glass wrought high above in myriad petals. Elusive beams illumined the quietness and transformed the lingering dust into a reverent, homely, dusky radiance.
My footfalls softly echoed as I crossed the length of the church and stood near the altar. The un-restored, faded honesty of the mosaics covering the panels around the altar brought closer the memory of those unnamed worshipers whose love and talent made such unassuming beauty hundreds of years ago. Above the wooden crucifix, the gospels shone in translucent, stained-glass splendor—the ancient story gleaming with the joy of the vibrantly colored light. As I sat, thought, prayed, looked, and listened, a few-noted, old chant rose from a side chapel where a priest was saying mass. The voices carried me back again to the people of long ago—those who had built and worshipped in this cathedral. There in Orvieto’s Duomo I seemed to touch the reality of the church’s existence throughout the ages in people. No doubt the stones of the floor and the tall pillars could tell of many a weeping woman, many a joyful man, many a sorrowful sinner, many a redeemed believer coming within the church’s doors for prayer, petition, laughter, song, praise…
This cathedral remembered and retained its purpose as a sanctuary, not a spectacle or museum. Even though its beauty struck me, its sense of awe pointed not to the building or the artists, but to God. Its worn floors, aged bricks, faded paintings, and chipped mosaics somehow drew me back in unity with the believers of history; it brought alive the meaning of the "great cloud of witnesses surrounding" in Hebrews 12. And its very silence seemed to carry a great weight of reverence and glory, unlike so many of the de-Christianized buildings lauded for their architectural magnificence and sadly deprived of their real purpose and significance.
I left the cathedral reluctantly, but took with me the memory of its silent fullness and mute praise of the Creator who had made the hands that crafted its heavy stones, the fingers that labored painstakingly over its paintings and mosaics, the voices that rose to its high roof in riotous song or reverent chant, and the lips that whispered prayers in its dim, comforting safety.
Later during the return trip—an equally precarious and tightly packed bus ride down the mountain—I felt satisfied in five euros well spent. The heat, sweat, smell, close quarters—these were all worth the trip to Orvieto. I would have endured more for that hour in the Duomo. And I loved Italy!
We pulled up in the wide-open town square almost in front of Orvieto’s Duomo—the cathedral. The dry breeze outside seemed heavenly to our hot faces when we were freed from the stuffy bus. Shops and villas of brownish stone surrounded the square, and the narrow, twisting streets beckoned us to follow their worn ways. From the old, patterned cobbles at our feet, the Duomo rose into the thin blue sky—its front almost entirely covered with rickety wood, ugly poles, and flapping, dirty cloth. Another church with scaffolding, I thought. Since we began our trip in Frankfurt, we had been in many old churches and seen plenty of scaffolding.
But when I walked through the open side door into the inner, cool dimness, I forgot the disappointment of the cathedral’s shrouded front. Silence and peace dispelled the heat, noise, and world of the outside. We walked with hushed footsteps in the glorified gloom, little wishing to speak and only whispering when necessary. The very stillness itself seemed a kind of reverberating glory—plumbing the depths of ages past: the remembrance of people and the mute recollection of their voices praising God. I lifted my eyes to the dim heights of the vaulted ceiling, supported by carved wooden beams—strong, enduring. Light shone through the thick, plain glass wrought high above in myriad petals. Elusive beams illumined the quietness and transformed the lingering dust into a reverent, homely, dusky radiance.
My footfalls softly echoed as I crossed the length of the church and stood near the altar. The un-restored, faded honesty of the mosaics covering the panels around the altar brought closer the memory of those unnamed worshipers whose love and talent made such unassuming beauty hundreds of years ago. Above the wooden crucifix, the gospels shone in translucent, stained-glass splendor—the ancient story gleaming with the joy of the vibrantly colored light. As I sat, thought, prayed, looked, and listened, a few-noted, old chant rose from a side chapel where a priest was saying mass. The voices carried me back again to the people of long ago—those who had built and worshipped in this cathedral. There in Orvieto’s Duomo I seemed to touch the reality of the church’s existence throughout the ages in people. No doubt the stones of the floor and the tall pillars could tell of many a weeping woman, many a joyful man, many a sorrowful sinner, many a redeemed believer coming within the church’s doors for prayer, petition, laughter, song, praise…
This cathedral remembered and retained its purpose as a sanctuary, not a spectacle or museum. Even though its beauty struck me, its sense of awe pointed not to the building or the artists, but to God. Its worn floors, aged bricks, faded paintings, and chipped mosaics somehow drew me back in unity with the believers of history; it brought alive the meaning of the "great cloud of witnesses surrounding" in Hebrews 12. And its very silence seemed to carry a great weight of reverence and glory, unlike so many of the de-Christianized buildings lauded for their architectural magnificence and sadly deprived of their real purpose and significance.
I left the cathedral reluctantly, but took with me the memory of its silent fullness and mute praise of the Creator who had made the hands that crafted its heavy stones, the fingers that labored painstakingly over its paintings and mosaics, the voices that rose to its high roof in riotous song or reverent chant, and the lips that whispered prayers in its dim, comforting safety.
Later during the return trip—an equally precarious and tightly packed bus ride down the mountain—I felt satisfied in five euros well spent. The heat, sweat, smell, close quarters—these were all worth the trip to Orvieto. I would have endured more for that hour in the Duomo. And I loved Italy!
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