This church, at the north end of the Piazza del Popolo (see post above) was built on top of the graves of a particular famous family, whose most famous spawn was the Emperor Nero. Legend has it that a tree here had become the haunt for a murder of crows (you know, I think that's the first time in my life I've ever actually used the collective noun for crows!) said to be the incarnation of Nero's soul. So it was cut down in 1099 to make way for a chapel (though all this has been consigned laregly to the realm of legend). The church as it stands now was built in the late fourteen hundreds.
The photo above is of the Chigi chapel, which was designed by Raphael. Near the main altar of the church are two famous Caravaggios, but as I approached them I was shushed away by an old man - who I soon discovered happened to be the priest, wanting to start mass!
The thing is, I would've made it the two or three minutes earlier to see the paintings if I hadn't been distracted by a rather humorous event, which goes like this. You may be aware of the religious act of intercession, whereby one prays to the good lord (perhaps the best justification ever devised for talking to oneself) on behalf of, or for someone else; the practice is common in fact to both Christianity and Islam, and probably many other religions. In churches such as this one there are candles you can light, to help a soul in purgatory, which is another kind of intercession. (Incidentally, the final poem in my 2005 collection is actually called 'intercession'.)
Well in this church I was struck by a strange sight, which I'm sure is quite common, but was a first for me. Instead of actual candles, I found a kind of rickety old switchboard, from which protruded roughly three dozen candle-like lengths of plastic, and which rested on something akin to a keyboard-stand; along the front edge are a number of switches; beneath this is a sign in Latin, which reads if I remember correctly per animae in purgatoria or 'for the souls in purgatory'; and beneath this, a coin slot. So the idea is, you put your money in, you flick a swith, the electric candle comes on and bingo, you've saved a soul. The contraption is I suppose a type of vending machine for wandering souls.
Now as I was looking at this strange contraption, somewhat bemusedly, a woman walked up beside me, clearly intent on 'using' it. I might mention that of the three dozen or so candles, only about seven or eight were 'on'. So she put her money in, and the poor woman flicks one of the switches; but it transpires that she's actually flicked one of the ones that was already 'on', 'off'. She realised right away, and, muttering something to herself (or God?), she quickly flicked it back on, and then flicked another one 'on' that had been 'off' (which of course revealed that payment was optional). As she underwent this ordeal, she caught my eye, and must've seen in my look that I was aware of the implications of her mistake; if in fact you save a soul by flicking one of the candles on, then had she just snuffed one out by mistakenly flicking one off?!!
She hurried away, and despite the gravity of the situation, I couldn't stop chuckling even after I left the church.
3 comments:
LOL. looks like a place where you really get control of God - forcing him to invite or expell guests to his table via a rickety roman switchboard! Its theological implications are mind-blowing!
Q: Could this machine, and the use of it that Jaya observed, have finally persuaded Martin Luther that the Roman church was best attacked by satire, of which it was its own cruellest author? Or would the notoriously humourless ML simply have fumed and added a ninety-sixth Thesis? If so, how would it have been worded?
Ciao caro! Love ya Mars - like a brother. When will the great reformation of this millenium begin, one wonders? To be around for that...
Post a Comment