Shells of their Former Selves

The Basilica of Sans Giovanni in Laterano
was once the Pope’s church. 

Twelve — 12 foot tall marble statues
of the 12 apostles line the naive
stand watch where for 1500 years
Cardinals and commoners have trod. 

I was upset at the entrance
where the marble bowl for holy water
used to sign a cross of belief and reverence –
stood empty –
A dried up sponge sat alone in the bowl.
I did not seek some magical potion,
only the simple touch of my fingers to the water
to refresh me as I entered the house
for my conversation with my God. 

I snapped with other tourists digital images of the ages.
“You never could take pictures in churches, could you?”,
my wife asked.
“It is because they are no longer churches
but museums — shells of their former selves.”,
awaiting more than the Easter resurrection
but a new birth of belief
which only God could know will ever come.
Now empty on Sunday
ranks of clergy filled only by foreign nations of faith
or places where a religious life is a way out of poverty. 

I pass a votive stand where I plan to light a candle,
say a prayer for myself and for my cynicism,
until I notice coin-operated electric bulbs
at the end of white plastic sticks –
contemporary versions of piety. 

The only thing real — a little gray-haired nun
who sits at the door to the empty cloisters
collects two Euros from those who seek entry
to gaze on the haunts of religious orders
now as close to permanently vanishing
as the legions which once strode triumphantly
along the streets.

She flashed the smile of a Sister
the one which uplifts you from your youth
then joked in Italian that we could contribute more if we wanted. 

I entered the marble cloistered garden –
unique columns lining the portico
twisted twin, inlaid marble mosaics -
then hesitated –
he was real, wasn’t she?
Please, I pray, don’t let her work for Rent-a-Nun.

Photos of the Basilica of Sans Giovanni in Laterano and scenes from the poem are posted on the Ray Brown Facebook Fan Page.