Seat of St Ambrose

The following day was the last alone with our two young people before the flurry of wedding crunch time began, so they bustled Mom and Dad onto a train to Milan--Milan, city of trend and fashion, city of the third largest church in the world, the famous Duomo cathedral.

It is hard to overemphasize how large this massive church looms. Even from the air this cathedral is huge. Built over the ruins of two basilicas, one built in 355, one built in 836, the current cathedral was begun in 1386. It is not purely Gothic, as through the six centuries of construction other styles are represented, but its bones, its "innards", its heart is Gothic.

This was my first real exposure to the Gothic. I'd seen pictures, of course, and knew a smattering about the style, but there is simply no adequate preparation as one walks across the square fronting the church, takes a place in line, and slowly moves toward the entrance with the rest of the queue. What did I expect? I don't know. I expected beauty; I expected to be moved; I expected, to put it colloquially, to make a memory, a singular imprint upon my mind. I knew that this church was special, and I also knew that only one Gothic church remained in Rome, and we weren't likely to visit it with only one week to devote to that city. So, closer and closer the white facade crept and soon we were inside.

There is a saying, "Seeing is believing", and it is often used in a negative way in contrast to faith without having seen. That is all well and good, and instructive, as St Thomas the Apostle would, no doubt, agree. But let me wrest that saying from its normal usage for a moment and apply it, as the pilgrim first enters what is at once a house, a home, and a palace of and for God. The eyes of the pilgrim, seeing, adjust briefly to the lower light, and then without effort or will, they fly upward, following the immense columns to the spines of the arches to the very top. The soul itself inflates with a sharp intake of air as the eyes wander across the vast expanse of ceiling. It’s hard to keep one’s mouth shut with the head flung all the way back. The neck begins to object, but the eyes can’t stop looking. They strain, they gaze, opened wide, innately reaching to make their own as much of the vaulted grandeur as possible.

Did I say “grandeur”? Oh, yes. Grandeur it is that announces the Glorious. The eyes know it without being told. The lungs know it. The feet know it, stumbling forward unconsciously toward the nave. There is Something here. There is Someone. This fitting dwelling place was fashioned for this Someone; a dwelling place that reflected, in only a small way, the awe that smallness feels for the Great, and the finite for the Infinite. And yet, this reflection, paling in any comparison to the Real, is utterly breathtaking. These are the first minutes after entering. This is the Gothic: a visual polyphonic catechism in praise of the Eternal God, fraught with profundity upon profundity, and made for us, the ignorant, the ordinary and the average, and nothing is required of us except to look. Seeing is indeed believing.

I didn't take many pictures; I was barely able to speak, let alone compose frames. Even though people around me were chatting, to me there was a decided hush inside that made contemplation easy, and there was much to contemplate. Every column, lamp, piece of furniture; every tapestry, window, statue and painting had a story to tell or point to teach, all of them ultimately bearing witness to the glory of God.

A large stone plaque bearing the names of all the bishops of Milan pays tribute to the fact of the foundation, by St. Barnabas, of the Church and archdiocese of Milan. But the cathedral and indeed the city owe the greatest debt of gratitude to the two bishops who are now regarded as patrons of the city, St Ambrose, protector of Milan against the Arians, and St Charles Borromeo, who among his many great works and achievements, refused to flee Milan in the face of the plague, and spent all of his personal fortune to feed the people decimated by plague and famine. St Charles lies in the crypt below the cathedral.


Below the cathedral also are excavations of the earlier basilicas. History here is palpable and intensely dramatic. How can one stand before the baptismal font where St Ambrose baptized St Augustine and not feel chills? A lion of our Faith was born here! How wondrously profound to be granted the grace to see such a spot with my own eyes. Deo gratias!

 The statue St Bartholomew Flayed will wait for another post. We gaped and gawked at all side altars and works of art, and climbed to the roof to take in the vistas in every direction. Flying buttresses accompanied every turn, and each spire was capped with the likeness of a saint, Our Lady soaring the highest. Down again to the square, where I had the chance to examine and marvel at the towering, intricately-carved bronze doors. Even the way outside fills the heart; it is no wonder that the carved figure of Our Lord that is of reachable height has been rubbed shiny and clean through the years by the loving hands of the faithful. Love compels one to touch--one last look and touch before we leave. There is too much. I drank as deeply as time permitted; to spend a whole day here wouldn't be long enough to exhaust its beauties and treasures.