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We visited La Madeleine on the Right Bank, the Neoclassic church at the head of the Rue Royale.

The Basilique de la Madeleine, known to Parisians as La Madeleine, commands a central position in Paris both historically and geographically, and has an interesting but fragmented history.  In the Middle Ages the Church owned the reclaimed swampland between the Palais Royale and the village of Roule.  A small farming community settled here and came to be called Ville-l’Evêque, Bishop’s Town; a chapel was built and the Confraternity of Mary Magdalen established.  In 1639 the chapel became the parish church, Saint Madeleine of Ville-l’Evêque.

A hundred years later Louis XV (possibly at the request of the parishioner Madame de Pompadour who lived nearby in the Elysée Palace) began a new church on the site of the now crumbling one, modeled on Saint Peter’s in Rome.  The 1789 Revolution halted construction, and Napoleon ordered a Temple of Glory to his Grand Army.

With Napoleon’s defeat, Louis XVIII completed the design as an expiatory church in memory of the executed Louis XVI and his family, with “a statue of Saint-Mary-Magdalen, represented as a personification of France and in an attitude of repentance.”  In 1845 La Madeleine was finally consecrated.  Today, the church has become a beloved center of faith.

We climbed the broad stairs to the Roman columned portico and the massive bronze doors.  Inside, from the foot of the center aisle, I paused to focus on the golden tabernacle on the high altar, the lit sanctuary candle, the soaring Magdalene, and the stunning apsidal fresco of the Resurrection, all at the far end of the gigantic nave.

The brass tabernacle doors depict Mary Magdalene and Jesus in the garden on Easter morning.  It is a scene of recognition and adoration, two great pivotal experiences of Christianity.  Above the tabernacle, a white sculpted Mary Magdalene dances with angels atop Mount Pilon in  Provence.

Legend claims that Mary Magdalene, fleeing persecution in Jerusalem, sailed with Martha, Lazarus, Maximinus, Mary Jacobé, Mary Salomé, Sedonius, Sarah, Joseph of Arimathea, Zaccheus, and Veronica to Les Stes-Maries-de-la-Mer, west of Marseilles.  Over the next thirty years, she preached in Provence and finally retired to a cave in the Ste-Baume Massif.  Maximinus built a sanctuary in the valley, gave Mary last rites, and buried her there.  In the seventh century, with the threat of Saracen invasions, monks moved her relics for safety: some were taken north to Vézeley, some buried deeper.  In 1279, Charles of Anjou found her bones under the medieval St-Maximin Basilica erected over the earlier church.  Today the head of Mary Magdalene can be seen in the basilica’s crypt.

Twenty minutes south, a wide path between tall crosses leads through a forest up to Mary Magdalene’s cave, set in a cliff overlooking the broad massif, now a grotto-chapel.  Dominicans, residing in the valley below, care for the shrine.  The Blessed Sacrament is reserved on an altar in the dark, surrounded by flaming candles.  Behind the altar is the stone where Mary slept and prayed.  In the far back of the cave, roses and votives sit at the base of her sculpted image.  Thanksgiving plaques from pilgrims cover the dripping walls.  Outside, a narrow trail ascends to Mount Pilon, where angels carried Mary to hear them sing.
Today, in her Paris shrine, a relic of Mary Magdalene is kept in a reliquary to the far right of the altar, against the south pilaster.

We stepped down the central aisle, and knelt before the tabernacle, praying our thanksgivings for the church, for Paris, and for the publication of my little book.  The apse glowed with the Resurrection fresco of Christ, and Mary danced in ecstasy beneath, the powerful angels circling about her.  The tabernacle gleamed.  This was the purpose of art, I thought, the union of body and soul, portraying the reality of ecstasy.

Before leaving the sanctuary we left a copy of Offerings for the priest who spoke English here in the basilica, a Monseigneur Xavier de Tarragon, as a thank you for La Madeleine.

La Madeleine, 14 Rue de Surène, Place de la Madeleine, Paris;www.eglise-la.madeleine.com
Open Daily; Sunday Masses: 8 a.m., 9:30 a.m. (chants and organ), 11a.m. (Solemn with 2 organs and choir), 12:30 p.m., 6 p.m.; Weekday Masses: 7:45 a.m., 12:25 p.m., 6:30 p.m. Saturday  Masses: 11 a.m., 6 p.m. (anticipated).
Churches nearby: The Expiatory Chapel (resting place of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette), St. Augustin (the home church of St. Charles de Foucauld), St.  Roche. Foyer Madeleine (crypt café): 11:45-2:00, M-F.

We drove up Montmartre to Sacre-Coeur, the Basilica of the Sacred Heart of Jesus.  As the taxi wound through the neighborhoods of shops and cafes and apartments, along the Rue des Abbesses, I thought of those forty-three Benedictine abbesses who lost their lives in the Revolution.  The only surviving building of their twelfth-century convent is the Église St-Pierre, the abbey church, which stands on the busy Place du Tertre, in the shadow of Sacré-Coeur.

Arriving at the towering domed basilica, we walked to the terrace to see the view of Paris, but today was cloudy, the sky hovering low over the city, turning the landscape a wash of silvers and grays.  We turned to the stairs and ascended to the columned porch and entered the brilliant nave.

The Basilique du Sacré-Coeur rose from Montmartre, the Roman “Mound of Mercury,” the medieval “Mount of Martyrs.”  Legend claims 3rd-century St. Denis was martyred here.  The feeble bishop, over one hundred years old, was beaten, grilled on an iron grate, hung on a cross, and decapitated.  He washed his head, then carried it down the hill to the village of Catalliacus to be buried, and where, two hundred years later, Genevieve erected his basilica.  In the centuries following, wave upon wave of persecution spilled the blood of many others on this hill overlooking Paris.

The Franco-Prussian War and the Commune Rising of 1871 devastated Paris, particularly Montmartre.  Catholic Parisians, in an offering of grief, thanksgiving, and intercessory petition, built a church dedicated to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, that icon of love, life, and blood.  The white Romanesque basilica ascended over the martyrs’ mound with Byzantine domes that fused East and West, a home to perpetual prayer.  Through the last century, through two world wars, the vigil has continued as the faithful pray before the golden monstrance holding the Real Presence of Christ.  They pray for peace, and they pray for those who suffer, as they meditate on the love of God in the sacred and suffering heart of Jesus.

We happened upon the noon office, the round of prayers sung periodically throughout the day, in glory to God.  Benedictine nuns, robed in white, were kneeling in the chancel, and their ethereal voices wove through the air as they sang the Psalms.  We moved to a pew halfway down the nave and knelt to pray our thanksgivings for this church in this beautiful city.  I looked up at the great lit chancel and the magnificent apse.  Above the altar, the Host was exposed for adoration and prayer in a golden-rayed monstrance.  Pillars rose to the high, curved apse where a brilliant blue-and-gold fresco of the resurrected Christ in white robes, his sacred heart encircled by a crown of thorns, his arms outstretched in the form of a cross, embraced and welcomed us.  The Holy Spirit descended as a dove upon him; God the Father was above the dove – or coursing through the dove to His Son – forming the Holy Trinity.  The fresco expresses the belief of catholic Christians, the mystery of the Host in the monstrance, the mystery of the Real Presence and of the Trinity, the three persons of God.

The sisters ended the noon office and processed out.  We rose and followed the ambulatory around the back of the apse, looking up between the white columns to the brilliant frescoes, stepping past mosaic Stations of the Cross and frescoed bay-chapels.  A bronze St. Peter, a replica of the sculpture in the Rome basilica, stands in the center of the ambulatory behind the high altar, and pilgrims touch his foot as they pray, following the Roman tradition.

I approached a nun who was moving toward a side door and asked if one of the sisters spoke English.  She pointed to an British sister who turned to us, her friendly face glowing, her eyes sparkling.  Like the others in her community, she wore a white habit and a black headscarf.  Her name was Sister Marie Elie.

I explained how my novel Offerings is partially set in the basilica and I wanted to give her a copy as a thanksgiving for its publication.  She seemed happy to receive it and led us to an office where she told us about the upcoming celebration at Sacré-Coeur.  2010 is their 125-year anniversary of perpetual adoration, she explained.  Would we return on pilgrimage?  And invite others?  There was a guesthouse, and there would be special services throughout the year, soon to be announced.  I hoped we could indeed return, for it would be a great blessing.

We were glad to have met Sister Marie Elie, to have been in her warm company, and to have chatted for a few minutes.  We left thankful, through the great porch, down the massive white steps, to the broad terrace, Paris spread before us.   We meandered through a wine and art festival congregating in rows of white tents, up to the famous Place du Tertre, found a taxi and wound down the hill of the martyrs, full of the welcoming Christ in the apse and the Host and his welcoming Benedictine Sister of Sacré Coeur.

Basilique du Sacré Cœur; Open daily; www.sacre-coeur-montmartre.com
Resident Community: the Benedictine Sisters of Sacré Coeur of Montmartre.
Weekday Masses: 11:15 a.m., 6:30 p.m., 10 p.m., 3 p.m. (Fridays); Saturday: 10 p.m.; Weekday Offices: Monday, Vespers, 6 p.m.; Tuesday through Friday: 8 a.m., 12:00, 6 p.m., 9:30 p.m.; Complines; Saturday: 6 p.m., Vigils, 9:30 p.m.; Sunday Masses: 11:00 a.m. (Solemn), 6 p.m., 10 p.m.; Sunday Offices: 8:00, 4 p.m. (Solemn Vespers), 9:30 p.m.

I love the churches in Paris!

Our first day was overcast and humid, the sun struggling to appear, and with thick-soled shoes we set out for a long walk (Paris is a wonderful city to walk) through the Tuileries Park, past the Louvre Palace, crossing the Seine (pausing to watch the river roll under her many graceful arched bridges), and through the quaint Left Bank neighborhoods to rue du Bac, home of the Miraculous Medal.

On July 19, 1830, the feast day of St. Vincent de Paul, the Virgin Mary appeared to twenty-four-year-old Catherine Labouré from Burgundy.  Six days later, the July Revolution would barricade the streets of Paris.

Catherine, one of ten children born to a poor farming family, had joined the Daughters of Charity to care for the poor.  In her room on the rue du Bac, an angel-child appeared, leading her to the convent chapel.  There she saw the Virgin Mary, who predicted terrible times for France.  Catherine described her experience:

“I seemed to hear some noise . . . I saw the Blessed Virgin.  She was standing and was wearing a white silk robe, the color of dawn, her feet were resting on a ‘globe’ of which I could only see half; in her hands, raised at the level of her breast, she held a globe effortlessly, her eyes were raised heavenward . . . her face was utterly beautiful, I could not describe it . . . I looked at her, the Blessed Virgin lowered her eyes, looked at me, and an inner voice said to me:
‘This globe that you see represents the entire world, particularly France . . . and each person in particular . . .’
Here, I don’t know how to express what I felt and what I saw, the beauty and brilliance of the rays were so magnificent!
The voice said to me again:
‘This is the symbol of the graces which I will pour out on the persons who ask for them.’ “
(Superiorum, Catherine Labouré, the Saint of Silence)

Mary instructed Catherine to have medals made with the inscription “O Mary, conceived without sin, pray for us who have recourse to you.”  The Blessed Virgin would grant graces to those who wore her medals and to those who prayed before her image in the chapel. Catherine told her confessor and the medals were cast.  She told no one else about the visions until her deathbed confession in 1876.  In 1947 the body of this “Saint of Silence” was incorrupt, a sign of sainthood.

We walked up the rue du Bac to the drive leading to the chapel and worked our way through the gatherings of pilgrims.  We entered the three-nave chapel, and once again I breathed deeply and sighed at the amazing light in the space – the pale blues and whites and golds, the ethereal sense of joy in this simple chapel.   We knelt in a pew in the central nave and prayed our thanksgivings before the Blessed Sacrament on the high altar, then looked about the luminous sanctuary.

The chancel fresco above the altar tells Catherine’s story.  A sculpture of Joseph and the Christ Child stands in the north aisle and the Virgin Mary as she appeared is in the south aisle.  Mary holds a golden ball, representing the world and Catherine’s incorrupt body rests in the glass tomb below.  Nearby, a statue of St. Vincent de Paul stands above a reliquary holding Vincent’s heart.

Millions of pilgrims journey here each year to pray before the body of Catherine.  Literature, postcards, and medals are available for a small fee in the convent shop.

As we left, I approached a nun who was answering questions in the outer courtyard and told her about my little novel, Offerings, in which a scene is set at the Shrine of the Miraculous Medal.  I wanted to give an English-speaking nun a copy in thanksgiving to God for the publication of my book.  Was there one there at the shrine?  She called another nun over and they smiled with pleasure.  Finally, after thinking about it, they said yes, indeed there was.  They promised to give the copy to an American nun in charge of the International order.

We thanked them, and left with grateful hearts, our minds full of the light and devotion in the blue and white chapel.

Our Lady of the Miraculous Medal Chapel
140, rue de Bac, Paris
http://www.chapellenotredamedelamedaillemiraculeuse.com/
The Daughters of Charity of St. Vincent de Paul
Open 7:45 a.m.-1 p.m., 2:30 p.m.-7 p.m.  Closed Tuesdays
Weekday Masses: 8 a.m., 10:30 a.m., 12:30 p.m.
Saturday Masses: 8 a.m., 10:30 a.m., 12:30 p.m., 5:15 p.m.
Sunday Masses: 7:30 a.m.; 10 a.m., 11:15
Marian Masses: daily at noon, 4 p.m., 6:30 p.m.
Marian Prayers: daily at 4 p.m.  Vespers: daily at 6:30 p.m.
Church nearby: The Shrine of St. Vincent-de-Paul ,
95, rue de Sèvres, where the body of St. Vincent de  Paul rests over the High Altar.

We visited St. Peter’s Cathedral in Fiesole this morning for Sunday Mass on the Feast of St. Francis.

Fiesole sits above Florence, a village dating to Etruscan times.  A Roman arena and other ruins can be seen near the town square.  Today the square was alive with a market, with stalls selling antiques, lace, and books.

As bells clanged, we walked through the fair to the cathedral, an imposing Romanesque basilica at the end of the square and at the foot of the hill leading to the Franciscan monastero.  The front doors were open wide and sun streamed into the dark interior, lighting the central aisle leading to the modern altar, the raised presbytery, and the high altar above with its golden triptych and glittering domed mosaic.  Below the level of the nave, where we sat, stairs descended to the crypt, where I recalled the relics of St. Romolo, a ninth-century bishop of Fiesole, lie, sanctifying the church.

We knelt in a back pew, prayed our thanksgivings for the church, the clergy and the people.  We looked around, absorbing the vast vaulted space, waiting for our eyes to adjust to the dim light.

As I waited, shapes and forms, light and darkness emerged from the gray tones, and I thought how this waiting was like waiting on God, that if we are patient, sitting in His presence, we will see more, be granted increased vision.  Columns running along the side aisles grew brighter, the dark wood of the pews turned to a burnished gleaming russet, the triptych glimmered and glowed in the raised chancel, the mosaics in the apse slowly took form to reveal God the Father, Saint Peter, Our Lady.  The altar at the head of the central aisle, awaiting the Eucharistic celebration, stood solid under white linen with four thick candles.  A boy lit the candles, and my eyes rested on the beckoning flames.  A large crucifix stood to the right of the altar.

The church grew bright as I waited, the colors and shapes revealing themselves, and I knew that in the next hour, now that my vision had grown keener, God would reveal Himself as well, in the great Eucharistic offering of the Mass.

He would offer Himself to all of us there that morning in the bright sanctuary – the young families with children, the aged with stiff limbs and bent backs, the couples sneaking kisses and whispering in one another’s ear.  And they would offer themselves back to Him.

St. Francis, who knew the love of God as well or better than anyone, would have agreed.

We headed across the river to the San Spirito neighborhood of Florence where we found St. Mark’s Anglican Church on Via Maggio 18, not far from the Ponte S. Trinita.  I wanted to drop of a copy of PILGRIMAGE for Father Lawrence MacLean, the Chaplain there.  The church is in an old palazzo and hosts opera concerts on a regular basis.

Alas, after buzzing the bell for the church, we learned from a charming young lady who lived in the building that Father Lawrence was away in Assisi but would be returning on Sunday.  We were sorry to miss him and miss seeing the church, but grateful the young lady was there who was kind enough to place the book on his desk.  I wish them all blessings in this beautiful city of art and faith, and thank them for their witness to the English speaking community.

We decided to visit one of my favorite churches, San Miniato al Monte, the ancient basilica on the hill.  We found the long stairs that rise to the Benedictine shrine built over the grave of the early martyr Minos (a victim of the same emperor as Reparata).  The stairs are steep, but shady, lined with leafy trees, and once were used as the Stations of the Cross.  Today I could only find four crosses, and said short prayers before each, the others have disappeared behind wire fencing.  We continued the climb, feeling the stretch of our leg muscles and turning occasionally to see Florence appear before us far below.  Finally we reached the Piazzale Michelangelo where a great terrace has become the pre-eminent location for photos of the Arno and the churches that rise from the rooftops like mother hens, or perhaps like guardian angels.  The river wound below us, parting the city, under the ocher bridges and a blue sky bordered with white clouds.

We turned to the path that led to the basilica by way of San Salvatore, the church cared for by a Franciscan community.  The door was open and we walked up the central aisle to the full size statue of Francis looking down upon us, his face at once full of pain and full of love.  We said our thanksgivings in the Blessed Sacrament chapel in the south transept, and emerged into the bright afternoon sun.

Further up the hill of cypresses and shade trees we entered the “sancta porta” that opened onto another broad viewing terrace of Florence.  The tall Romanesque San Miniato rose behind us in its green/white marble pattern against the blue sky.  The 11th century church is still cared for by Benedictines, and as we entered the darkened nave I listened for an office chanting in the crypt but all was silent.  As our eyes adjusted to the dim light, the massive frescoes along the side walls began to appear, all roses and greens, telling stories of Minos, the saints, Christ and his mother.  At the head of the central aisle stood the tiny “Crucifix Chapel” added in the 15th century to house a miraculous crucifix (no longer there, but at S. Trinita as I recall).  A stunning golden altarpiece focuses the nave between the rising stairs on either side.

Those stairs ascend to the high altar and chancel where a domed mosaic glitters of Christ Pantokrator.  Stairs also descend from the nave to the crypt where an altar is sanctified by the grave of Minos.  Here, in past visits, the monks in their white robes, have chanted the offices, their voices floating through the vast space.

We returned to the nave, slipped out the front doors onto the bright terrace, and stepped down the Way of the Cross linking the city of art with the mountain of faith.  We crossed the river and headed back to our hotel.

In the massive church of the Frari, the Franciscan basilica in Venice, there is a sumptuous gilded altarpiece off the south transept that is worth a visit.  The goldwork is indeed incredible, but I was struck by the hands and fingers and bits of cloth and blood and hair that had been framed in silver reliquaries.

Some would think such displays morbid.  But I wondered, as I often do lately, what the attraction was for the faithful.  These were not the bones of the average person but saint’s bones, bones that, when living, had moved on this earth with a sanctity, a holiness, a Christ-love, that was noticeable.  These were men and women who were honored, revered, for the way that God lived in them.  The faithful sensed that when they were close to a saint, they were close to God.

And thus it was no surprise when the occasional miracle occurred, a healing, a saving from disaster at sea, the birth of a child to an aged couple.  God worked through the saints.  One could see it happening all the time.

So when these men and women died, it seems natural their body would contain that holy presence.  For a time in the early Middle Ages, the bodies of saints were divided and sent to altars throughout Christendom, to sanctify the holy tables where the Eucharist would be celebrated, but eventually the Pope decreed this cutting up and dividing was no longer allowed.  The relic trade had become tainted with fraud and irreverence.

Today, silver reliquaries, engraved, embellished, are displayed behind museum glass.  Many still contain fragments of saints’ bodies or even clothing.

Others are in church shrines, adorning side altars.  We saw Catherine of Siena’s foot in the Dominican basilica of Sts. John and Paul, the name contracted in Venice to Zanipolo.

Relics, to my mind, are one more physical way of touching God.

We walked into town today to revisit the duomo of Florence, the cathedral.  There were no lines (amazing) and we gratefully entered (no fee, more amazement) and stood in the narthex.  The Gothic interior is austere – few frescoes or mosaics adorn the walls; massive vaulting is broken by stained glass panes.  We walked to the center of the transept and peered up to the colorful dome, painted by Bruneleschi.  The high altar and transept chapels are roped off, so there is no chapel for prayer, no place to offer thanksgiving.  Through the ropes I could see the Holy Sacrament chapel, but alas, from a distance.

We returned down the massive simple nave to stairs that descended to the crypt.

Excavations have revealed the fourth-century church dedicated to Saint Reparata, an early Virgin martyr.  Other churches were built over this church, and it wasn’t until the 14th century that today’s cathedral was constructed, dedicated to Our Lady of the Flower, Santa Maria del Fiore, and I learned today that that Flower, by contemporary accounts, refers to Christ himself.

We stepped into the crypt, where excavations reveal nave, aisles, apse (fee 3 Euro).  An altar bears a cross, and it seemed Masses were still offered here.  To the left of the apse is a glass case containing the skull and bones of Reparata herself.  Martyrs were so very prized by the early church, that it is entirely possible these were her bones.  There is a long lineage of attentive care and sanctified space as church after church rose over her grave, her grave the cornerstone, the keystone, the very roots of the building.

As we left the duomo, we paused to admire the pink-cream-brown-green marble squares that form the fascinating and incredible façade.  The marquetry pattern, repeating in a kind of visual symphony, made me recall that someone once said that all art works to achieve the essence of music.  This façade sings, and as the sun emerged through a sultry sky, the wall of color became a concerto.

We crossed the few yards to the Baptistery (fee), thought to have been transformed from a Roman temple as Christianity cleansed paganism and entered this Byzantine sacred space.  In the center of the rounded western wall the Christ Pantokrator, Christ the All-Creator, in regal robes, sits on his throne of glory, surrounded by golden mosaic that tells the story of Man, from Adam to Christ.  He is ready to judge and to redeem.

We headed back up the Via dei Servi to our hotel, past the church of San Michele with a vibrant painting of Michael throwing Lucifer out of Heaven, peeking into the hauntingly Baroque church of Santa Maria Annunziata with its miraculous Madonna, and finally to our hotel.  Hopefully we can revisit Santa Maria Annunziata.  The entrance is in the chancel and we happened upon a Mass in progress, fine if you are in the back, but we felt like intruders, and left quietly.

My first novel, PILGRIMAGE, has a chapter set in Venice, with scenes in San Marco, San Zaccaria, and Santa Maria dei Miracoli.  The canals are flooding, the waters rising and Venice becomes a haunting reflection of the night demons of Madeleine, who is our narrator.

Returning to Venice since publication has been a great blessing for me, and I’ve shared my novel with a few book vendors and clergy.  And on this trip, as I returned to San Marco and San Zaccaria and Santa Maria dei Miracoli, I have once again been challenged by the definition of art and why we are so attracted to these giant narrative canvases of color and light, these dramatic, vibrant statues of marble depicting the human body in cold stone.

What is art?  I don’t have the answer.

The paintings of Titian and Tintoretto and Bellini, the sculptures of Canova and Sansovino, even the music of Vivaldi, all were created in a world of belief.  The pictures tell stories from the Bible, from the prophecies of the Old Testament to the Incarnation, Crucifixion, and Resurrection in the New Testament.  The sculptures depict the great saints of two thousand years, the martyrs, the apostles, the evangelists.  These works of art are hopeful, showing man’s salvation, his redemption by a loving God.

Throngs of tourists swarm the aisles of these churches; they jostle down the lanes leading to the next church or museum, also filled with Christian art.

But the art is only a message.  It is an expression of truth.  The tourists often do not believe the message, yet they long to see the art.  Confounding.  Do they long to believe?  Do they long to hope?

On entering San Zaccaria one is struck by the massive canvases on the north wall.  But isn’t the body of Zaccaria in the south wall of infinite more consequence?  Here lies the father of John the Baptist.  Here lies the body of the man who lost his speech when he did not believe Angel Gabriel’s prophecy concerning his wife Elizabeth’s pregnancy.  And isn’t the Reserved Sacrament, the presence of God the Son, in the tabernacle on the altar far more tremendous than a canvas of oils that in its own way was simply pointing to God the Son, and painted by a devout believer?

It is as though art has replaced faith, rather than enhanced, communicated, or glorified it.  Man cannot bear too much reality, T.S. Eliot said.  How true.  We must admire the removed truth, rather than the immediate.  Rather than encounter God directly, we can admire his story from a distance, through an artist’s eye.

For me, although I appreciate a great masterpiece reflecting a great truth, such a work is no substitute for a real encounter with God.

We walked to Saint Mark’s Basilica this morning for the 10:30 Mass, and entered the side door at 10 by a brusque guard, through the Chapel of Santa Maria Nicopeia and found seats in the sixth row in the nave.  We were close enough to view some of the liturgy through the rood screen pillars and far enough back to see the five golden domes, the rolling vaulted transept forming the Greek cross plan.

Sun streamed through windows high above the chancel galleries and lit the walls of glittering mosaic and I wondered again in some awe at the glorious jeweled depictions of saints and prophets, martyrs and apostles, the Passion of Christ covering these domes and walls.  I pondered the Temptation in the Wilderness high above us.  Satan, the small black lizard/demon appears three times before Christ in his white robes; finally the demon is shown scurrying off and angels appear.  I thought of our own wilderness, the world in which we live which seems more and more hostile to believers and also the wilderness within our own hearts, the temptations we must face daily – pride, envy, covetousness, selfishness.

I looked about the crowd, now filling the nave.  How many were believers, how many were simply seekers, seekers searching for transcendence, some pull outside themselves.  How many had found what they sought?  How many continued their search?  How many reveled in the momentary light, the choir’s voices soaring through the musty air, the bells clanging high above?

Some, it seems, continually seek, finding but not accepting what they find.  They wander in the spiritual half-light.  ”Seek and you shall find,” Our Lord said.  “Ask and it shall be given to you.”  But how many reject the gift when they find it?  For the gift of belief requires a response, a commitment to Christ, to God, to the Church, Christ’s Body on earth.  Christ Himself is the answer, and with that immense love (not all want the demands of love) we must also love, we must be Christ-like, we must examine our hearts and clean out our souls.  We are called to righteousness, to perfection, to sacrificial love.  We must desire to be changed.

I looked at the domes of brilliant glory and then at the darker sculpted images of the rood screen.  The light and the dark.  We live in the darkness of our own mortality, our own selfishness, but the light has come to show us the way.  The images in San Marco ’s vaults glittered with a heavenly assurance that this world is not all there is, but that God lives among us, God is with us.  By the Cross God enters our world and redeems us.  He has conquered death, the dark reality of our humanity.  We need only believe.

I left San Marco happy, radiant with the memory of soaring chants, bread and wine changed to Body and Blood, the hundreds of worshipers partaking of the divine feast.  And God among us.

Moving waters glinting with light, graceful bridges, bright sun on open squares, campos.  St. Mark’s Square, the only piazza, alive with music – waltzes, Baroque (Vivaldi was born, baptized, and spent many years here), haunting melodies played by violinists under white billowing awnings.  We cross the broad square as pigeons scatter and music plays.  A dream, a fantasy, another world.  Tourist faces of wonder and delight mingled with awe.  Lanes packed with crowds suddenly opening onto silent alleyways, no sounds of traffic or gunning motors.  Gondoliers shouting to one another, laughing, waving their arms.  Cheap souvenirs.  Designer shops.  Murano glass.  Silk.  Leather.  Masks.  Soaring churches.  Palazzos resting on piles driven deep through sand to bedrock, waters rising.  Rows of rectangular windows, prettily curved pediments, fluted columns fanning like marble flora.  Gondoliers in striped shirts singing opera.  Water buses packed.  Bells, bells, bells, ringing over the city, the terracotta roofs.

We arrived in Venice weary after a long flight, San Francisco-Frankfurt-Venice.  The new airport requires a long walk to the water taxis and dock, and we forged ahead in our travel stupor, pushing our trolleys along the walkway.  The boatman loaded our luggage in the bow and we stooped to work our way through the cabin to seats in the open stern, stepping carefully as the launch rolled.  Then we sped off, leaving the mainland behind, watching the wake bubble in long furrows of white foam and trenches of water.  Soon we were in the broad sea lanes marked by buoys, speeding by others leaving Venice, pilots waving.  We passed Isola di San Michele, the island cemetery, and worked our way to the edge of Venice, where the first settlers turned swamp land into civilization.  Here, in this water bound city, the Renaissance peaked, here opera and Vivaldi flourished, here a people who loved to argue managed to live side by side in relative peace, here a flourishing hub of trade connected the East and the West, a channel for world culture.  Here Saint Mark is buried.

The city on the water basks in a late September sun, the sky a dome of blue, with cool breezes hinting of fall.  We’ve settled in, breakfasting along the Grand Canal with a view of Notre Dame della Salute (Our Lady of Health), a giant white sculpted church built in thanksgiving for the end of the plague.

Venice is a passionate city, full of life, and, alas, full of tourists just like us.  Even so, we venture out in the morning for a long walk, planning to get lost, but also planning on finding too.  The alleyways, the calles, meander here and there with signs pointing to San Marco or Accademia.  We pause in shady corners, studying the fine print of the map, moving a finger along a line and holding it tight as though keeping it under control.

The churches are a great pleasure here, partly because there are so many, partly because there is such an artistic expression of joyous faith, and partly for the many Madonnas that give life to the marble interiors.  Each church has its own Madonna, it seems, a colorful image above a side altar, often with fresh flowers and an intriguing history.  I search for the Madonnas with their beds of flaming votives and say a Hail Mary, asking for Our Lady’s intercessions for our world.

One such Madonna and Child is in the Chapel of Our Lady of Nicopeia in the back of the great domed basilica of San Marco, and is accessible for prayer from the north side-entrance.  The Byzantine image depicts a simple iconic face, the young child centered on her on her lap, her head above his.  Her eyes are dark and serious, yet comforting.  Evidently she was taken from Constantinople during the fourth Crusade, and previously had been used as a standard born by the army, so she is called the Madonna of Nicopeia, or Victory.  Today her chapel is aflame with candles, and a daily Mass is offered at 11 a.m., the priest’s back to the small congregation.  It is a sacred space, a corner of the great San Marco, a place to pray.

This was our first stop, and I gave thanks for a safe journey and the blessings of Venice.
We would visit San Marco for Sunday Mass.