The Crèche

A Nativity 1498 - Florence, Italy Few children played, or laughed, or ran through the alleys, fields, and markets. Their voices were a murmur, lost in the silence outside the walls of St. Marks. The usual neighs of horses, shouts from coach drivers, beckons of merchants, and bargaining with the city’s inhabitants were absent. The city had nearly become as monastic as those who lived within the walls of the friar’s home. He had once found joy in jarring a window or door, listening to the many sounds of Florence, its people, its commerce. Whether it was civic pride or his desire to sense a comradery amongst its citizens, or of wanting to know the struggles faced by those who lived ordinary lives, who were not protected by vows of silence, or celibacy, or service to God, he sat at his window observing a child at play, a young man courting a Florentine maiden, a vendor making a sale. To understand them would assist in intercessory prayer and serving their needs. There was no more time to meditate on what should be done to assist the needy, what could be done, or what must be done. The sermons had been preached, the lessons taught, the hungry fed, the naked clothed, the stranger welcomed. Still, what had been accomplished? How much progress had been made in light of all that had transpired over the last several days? St. Marks was his home. He ate here, slept here, worshiped, served, and sought his God within its walls. Now, he was leaving the doors for what he felt certain would be his last. The streets whispered as he walked the graveled path leading from the monastery. He raised his eyes, canvassing the land, down to the River Arno and beyond. There could be no place like this on earth – hills blossomed with lush trees, spotted with tops of homes surrounding the perimeter of the city; the streets, converging to the many plazas; the buildings rising higher the further one ventured in, confirming that his city was progressing, leading the world in achievements of architecture, science, and engineering. He stopped, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, lifting his head toward the river, imagining his feet in the Arno’s waters; trying to remember its rush against the banks, its speed under the bridges, the cool of its touch created by the newly melted snow traveling from The Apennines. If only he could cross it one last time; over the Ponte Vecchio to the Medici Gardens. A hand violently nudged him, forcing him to open his eyes, and move forward. He struggled to raise his hands, hoping to shield his face from the sun’s glare, but his strength would not cooperate. Instead, his arms and hands trembled. Years ago, this was the first ailment that caused him concern, making him aware of the price to be paid for outliving most from his generation. He took a step forward and a dull ache radiated from his inner thigh, up through his groin. Several more steps and the walking would become less painful. He straightened his back, vertebrae crackling in rhythm. He smiled, grateful that he could still walk on his own efforts; grateful that he still lived. They led him toward Via Cavour; if asked, he would have chosen to be led on Via Ricasoli. It was a straighter route, offering more opportunities to view his adopted home. Perhaps they chose this route intentionally; perhaps he should be grateful they had. He would reach the domed church, and from there be led to where? Would there be someone, or some ones, waiting for him at Duomo, to decide his fate? Just before they entered Piazza Giovanni, he gazed longingly at the distant Vecchio, recalling his many visits to the Medici family gardens. He’d sit on a stone bench for hours, watching the squirrels dance up and down trees, scampering across the paths and fields of green. He’d enjoy a finch’s melody as it darted from the tops of fruit trees to pines; from olive trees to the vine-covered walls. Surrounded by the harmonizing aromas of lemon, apple, fig and roses, he’d wait to witness the flight of a butterfly or the occasional rhapsody of a woodpecker. He wished he had made the effort to walk the four miles one last time. No sight however was as precious to him as the dome of Doumo, flanked by its tower and Baptistery. He lifted his head, his heart raced; this was Duomo, his pride. Determined to no longer let his eyes wander, he fixed them at his feet. This was to be done nobly, with no malcontent, with no anxiety, no fear. The sun radiated its warmth though evening drew near. He felt the sting of its warm rays staring at him, accusing him, judging him, just as he was sure the two men on either side judged. The escort on his left strode ahead, knocking on the large wooden doors of Duomo. He glanced back, looking across at the Baptistery, for a moment forgetting his predicament, admiring the bronze doors created by Lorenzo Ghiberti. Bronze reliefs, so intricate, so life-like, of the Old Testament patriarchs: Adam and Eve; Cain and Abel; Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and Esau; Joseph betrayed by his brothers; Moses, David, Solomon. He caught only a glimpse of the motif illustrating Joseph being thrown in the pit by his brothers, when he was nudged to turn around. From inside the main cathedral, the left door was pulled open. His two escorts led him into the narthex, one in front, the other behind him. Candles burned in the front of the cathedral, providing light enough only near the altar. Long shadows crept on the walls, shifting with the tides of the flames. He lifted his head for the first time since entering, cautiously taking in the familiar scent from the burning wax. Voices echoed through the cold, damp chambers. The scents of wood and incense mingled with the sweet fragrance from the candles, aided his attempt to remain peaceful. He had embraced this sacred building, along with its sights, its aromas, its leaders, and its parishioners. It was a place of worship and refuge for not only the people of Florence, but for believers throughout the papacy’s sphere of influence. The arrival of these men changed all that. Within a week they destroyed the hope he held for his city, his country, his world. The escort behind led him gently toward the right. These two men, who so boldly led him out from among his fellow friars minutes earlier, seemed more cautious within these walls, in the presence of those who led the proceedings near the altar. With a much greater respect than he had received since the arrival of the Rome Delegation a week earlier, the younger of his two escorts motioned to a pew in the middle of the cathedral, and assisted him in sitting. Fear filled the young man’s eyes and perhaps just a bit of respect for the elderly that the pride in Rome had not yet chased from him. He returned the young man’s gesture with a gracious nod. A deep breath. And another. This is what he told himself he must do. Keep all in perspective. Remember the path that had led him here.