Giornale 4: Santa Maria in Trastavere

Italian churches—whether they're big or small, from modern times or the 5th century, or the magnanimous basilicas of the Vatican and St. John Lateran—oftentimes look quite similar. I'm sure that's true of the U.S. too, if you visit a Catholic church in one state and then for some reason find yourself scoping out another one in the next state over. If you've seen one church, you've seen them all. That's the kind of sentiment you get with any theme-linked structure, which is probably why I enjoy ruins more than modern, perfectly maintained edifices. I won't begin to say that these churches aren't beautiful, because a blind man would swoon within the grandiose, echoing aisles of any Italian church. But a lot of the time there is sensory overload: each church blends together because they oftentimes boast the same style, and that was the problem I ran into in high school, when we spent a day just going to church after church in Naples.

What I've discovered, therefore, is that you have to find certain aspects of each church that really speak to you—that distinguish themselves from the blur of religious imagery, the decorated apses, the caged-off niches that always have some specially-framed paintings of saints, the virgin, or Christ. For Santa Maria in Trastavere, I wasn't so much moved by the ceiling—a glorious, gold plated work that had twisting triangular designs and a depiction of the virgin in the very center, floating above her adoring followers—as by the sculptures (as I so often am), the beautiful apse, the stained glass windows, and the inscriptions on the outside. Before you even enter the church, you have to pass through a door that leads to the marble-floored porch, shaded from the sun and ultimately still outside. And what makes this porch so wonderful are the ancient inscriptions: they line the front and left walls, slabs of marble carved out with ancient Greek and Latin prayers, intentions, names, and symbolic pictures. Even the center door—which remained unused as far as I could tell—sported gold-lettered Latin: "This is the door of God. The just shall enter into it."

 

The inside is full of the standard Italian pomp and circumstance. High-vaulted ceilings throw echoes all around the rectangular room, creating a kind of eerie presence that seems bigger than the crowd; religious chants play from speakers hidden somewhere; marble floors boast swirls of designs beneath the pews; niches cage off beautiful paintings. You feel small inside this shadowy and ominous church, as you perhaps should, the altar staring down at you from the top of the aisle and the iconic images of Mary and Jesus fixed in the ceiling, the dome of the central apse, and the pictures in the niches. The apse, though, is beautiful. Sure, it features the typical Jesus-and-Apostles scene, with a ring beneath their feet of thirteen sheep—the center-most one depicted as Jesus, Lamb of God—but the colors of the mosaic are beautiful. The background is gold, matching the ceiling above it, and reflects the light of the church streaming in through the windows beneath it.

 

Perhaps my favorite part, which is consequently a part you could easily miss because of the way the central apse attracts all attention, are the three stained glass windows that tower high above on the back wall. They depict three men, my guess being Matthew, Luke, and John, whose names are written into the central apse below the decorative mural. They're absolutely beautiful in color, the blue, red, and gold of their respective robes all the more brilliant for the sunlight streaming in through the glass. Their portraits are simple—three men with halos, standing in specific devout poses—and easily overlooked if you consider the size of the hall, the niches that run along the right and left side, and the beautiful statues carved into the wall (which I, of course, loved). But when I looked up at the wall I walked in through and saw those three (and only three) windows, I felt relief settle over me. Mosaics and plaited ceilings are lovely (if abundant) in churches, but they aren't particularly vibrant. The colors are washed out, no matter how beautiful, and become somewhat gloomy after too long--maybe to impose religious solemnity, who knows. But it's nice to have a splash of color thrown in every so often, and I like the idea of three saints gazing out over the church, illuminating the building with light.