What old churches teach us about faith, beauty and the brokenness of Christianity

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What old churches teach us about faith, beauty and the brokenness of Christianity

What began as sightseeing became an encounter with generations of believers whose prayers, divisions and hopes still echo there. 

By Patrick McCormick | FāVS News Columnist

The views expressed in this opinion column are those of the author. They do not necessarily reflect the views of FāVS News. 

In my childhood, Catholics were encouraged to “make a visit” to church to light a candle for the sick or say a prayer for some special intention. Though I (and many others) fell out of this practice over the years, I found myself once again “making a visit” to churches when I began to study, teach and travel abroad. 

Now, I came not as a parishioner or pilgrim, but a tourist. And instead of lighting candles, I dropped coins in slots to illuminate a fresco or mosaic. Still, the beauty of the cathedrals and basilicas I visited often moved me to an awe and wonder not so far from prayer. This became even truer when I returned to hear a choral evensong or sung Eucharist. 

So the church visit to check off an item on my bucket list often enough became a shady bench where daily cares evaporated, and my sympathetic imagination expanded to notice and care about a community of saints and sinners who had left their mark on this place. 

I was drawn in by churches’ architectural splendor, enchanted by the unfolding complexity of their Romanesque, Baroque and Gothic arches and the neck-bending views of their domes, towers and spires. 

Once inside I marveled at stained-glass windows spreading rainbows across pillars and pews, was dazzled by scores of frescoes, mosaics and statues illustrating the lives of prophets, saints and martyrs, and rejoiced at the swelling sounds of hymns echoing off the walls. 

But the architectural, artistic, and musical beauty of these churches (like beauty everywhere) did more than entertain and enchant. It “unselfed” me, inviting me to pause and take “a long loving look at the real,” a Jesuit term for contemplation.

Prayer and toil made these churches holy

I came to these places to see the creations of famous and forgotten architects and artists, and once in front of the beauty of these works and surrounded by the symphonic grandeur of the gorgeous churches, I found myself wondering not just about the celebrated geniuses identified with these works, but also about the hundreds or thousands of laborers who had built, repaired, or rebuilt these churches down through the ages. 

To admire the beauty of these cathedrals or basilicas is to tip one’s cap to all the people whose blood, sweat and toil fashioned and maintained them. London’s St. Paul’s Cathedral and Florence’s Duomo are so much more than the creations of Wren and Brunelleschi. They are the labor of legions.

And to really see and hear the beauty of these churches is also to call to mind the scores of generations of souls who have prayed, preached, chanted and mourned at these altars and in these naves, and all who have been christened, wed, absolved, anointed and buried here. 

Lincoln claimed the Gettysburg battlefield was hallowed by the suffering and death of those who gave their last full measure there. So, too, these churches are made sacred not by a bishop’s blessing or holy relic, but by the songs and supplications of parishioners, penitents and pilgrims begging for forgiveness and their daily bread.

 To see the real beauty of these churches is to see the communion of saints and sinners who have called this place home. 

Churches bear the scars of the broken ‘Body of Christ’

And because they are gathering places for a sinful and penitent church, these basilicas and cathedrals also bear the scars of a frail and broken Body of Christ. For though the earliest Christian assemblies sought to share their goods and lives so none would be in need, the communities that built these palaces of worship had long been split by a chasm between rich and poor. 

And the marks of this sundering are seen in church walls barnacled with monuments and memorials of royals and patrons craving a higher place at the heavenly banquet. In temples meant to be places of worship for all, the names and titles of the rich and powerful are the ones inscribed on countless statues, floor stones and stained-glass windows. 

So too, in churches built to memorialize the one who demanded we forgive and love our enemies, we find national shrines with monuments to the heroic soldiers who died defending crown and country. 

Rarely, however, do these patriotic temples grapple with the tension between war’s slaughter and the gospel’s command to reject violence, repent of the cruel excesses of our just and unjust wars, or mourn the death and destruction suffered by civilians or enemy troops and citizens. 

There must be a place in Christian churches to remember and mourn all those injured in wars and repent of all the sins that led us to these conflicts and the barbarities committed by all sides. Such memorials may be too controversial in a national shrine, but not in a place remembering the crucified. 

Old church walls are etched with the scars of division 

And, of course, so many churches bear the wounds of religious division, intolerance and violence. The ruins of monasteries and abbeys seized and closed by rulers dot the landscape of English cities and countryside. 

The bare interiors of basilicas once illustrated with frescoes and statuary testify to the passions of iconoclasts who sought to wipe out the graven images of their fellow believers. 

And the litany of martyrs killed in religious wars and persecutions remind us of the scandal of a divided church that manufactures and murders so-called heathens and idolators. Along with our saints, our sins — and a call to repentance — are etched on the walls of these churches.

In the end, the difference between a tourist and a pilgrim may only be the willingness to sit a few more moments and let the wonder sink in. Visiting an old church is an invitation to see the full and frail humanity of the communities of believers who have inhabited these places for centuries or longer. 

Sitting or kneeling in the naves of masterpieces we have come to admire for their art, architecture or music opens a window into the lives of saints and sinners who have struggled with the gospel and their own brokenness in differing ages. 

It also calls us to recognize the unfinished nature of our church, and of the ways we need to repair, refurbish and rebuild the churches we belong to. 

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