In the Santo Spirito

The church bells are already ringing when I leave my Firenze apartment at 10:15 this Sunday. The peels wash over me as I cross Piazza di Santo Spirito and climb the basilica’s stone steps.

I follow a mother and her young daughter, maybe 8 years old, as they enter the 13th century Augustinian church through a side door. The girl is wearing a white summer smock, with matching ponytail ribbon. An attendant greets them familiarly, but looks me over before nodding me through (my polka-dot dress, covering both shoulders and knees, apparently passing muster).

As we three walk down the long nave, a friar in a simple black, hooded cassock unchains the front pews to allow parishioners closer to the altar. He greets the mother and daughter, his voice warm, and chats with a group of older women up front.

I haven’t attended Mass on my own volition, well, ever.



Dragged by my mother to Holy Redeemer Catholic Church in Webster Groves, Missouri, until the age of 12, I have layers of resentment, resistance and disconnect buried in the crypt of my spirituality.

My mother decamped to the friendlier Emmanuel Episcopal Church up the street, and my brother and sister became staples of its youth group. But my father and I stayed home, each with our reasons.

The closest I feel to spirituality today is in woods, fields and streams, along with the occasional service at the 1866-era Plum Street Temple in Cincinnati. I joke to friends that I attend The Church of the Sunday New York Times.

But these last two summers in Italy have sent me strolling through dozens of chiesas and basilicas. And I’d come to believe that to really appreciate the architecture, the art, the devotion, the raw display of money and power noble families invested in these churches, you need to feel it all come together as it was intended.

At Mass.

I genuflect and sit eight rows back in this basilica, designed by Brunelleschi and graced with a freestanding carved Christ on the cross attributed to Michelangelo, at age 17. A plethora of 8-foot by 10-foot, or larger, paintings – some of them quite notable, according to Santo Spirito literature – mark the 30+ smaller recesses and chapels. My pew has a small bronze plaque memorializing one Enzo Basile.

This is the first time I’ve been in Santo Spirito, though I frequent its piazza often. I gaze around at its refreshing simplicity – except for the spectacular, octagonal sacristy.

Some 15 other people sit around me as the hidden organist begins to play. The mother and daughter join the cluster of older women up front. A ray of light beams onto the richly carved confessional to the left.

The friar returns in ornate green robes, his gray hair freshly settled, sandals on his feet. He moves swiftly up the aisle to the altar. And suddenly, in twos and threes, the worshippers grow to about 50. As the older women – a choir of sorts, apparently – begins to sing, the rest of us rifle through our hymnals to blend in.

The padre’s Italian rings clear and crisp, each syllable enunciated. Yet it echoes down the Basilica di Santo Spirito like a lively intellectual discussion, rather than the dry, cold dictates of Father Gottwald at the Holy Redeemer of my memory.

During his 20-minute homily, the friar talks about family, church and community. About a chiesa both historical and relevant today. About contemplating the place of Christianity in our lives. I only catch these snatches of thoughts, as I don’t speak Italian well. But he is not challenging us, not arguing with us, not punishing us. He is merely sharing his thoughts about the readings, real life and how to fit God into all of it.

Surrounding him, the altar and sacristy of intricate inlaid marble and stone – like an oversized four-post bed, with a latticework iron cap – glows from both natural light and electric candles spaced along its walls. A single fresh flower bouquet is placed near the sacristy door. The gesture is truly unnecessary.

When we kneel, the worn, unpadded benches are just as unforgiving as I remember in my youth. I squirm to relieve the pressure on my knees, but not as much as the two restless toddlers behind me. The elderly man in front of me rises from his knees and leans over the railing instead.

The exchange of the peace catches me by surprise, and I whisper “peace” to those all around me who reach out to shake my hand. They appear not to notice my English. But I am prepared for the collection. The 8-year-old and her mother pass the collection dish up and down the aisles, and I add 3 euro.

The wooden confessional to my left warns me sternly as the others rise for Communion. I sit put. And soon the service is over, the last hymn sung, the people rising and socializing, as happens in churches, temples and mosques all over the world after worship.

As I move toward the door of the Basilica di Santo Spirito I see the friar, back in his black hooded robe, lay his hand, one-by-one, on the young twins who had squirmed behind me the entire service. Their father, in orange linen pants and handmade leather shoes, watches benevolently.

Next comes the 8-year-old, her long ponytail swinging, as she moves toward the padre. He speaks quietly to her, touches her head, and she replies, smiling. He raises his eyes and extends the smile to me.

And then we are out the door, back into the piazza, into the sunshine, the experience of celebrating Mass together trailing behind us like the lingering notes of a Renaissance operetta. But an operetta unfinished.