Eclipse at the Holy of Holies

When I reached the Sanctora Sanctorum, I could not see the “image not made by human hands”! It was high noon and the glare from the grated window above the portone of the building that houses the Scala Santa shone so brilliantly on the glass window that all I could make out amid the glare and shadows of grating was my own silhouette eclipsing the very image of Christ I wanted to see. I stood there squinting and soon the other pilgrims, making their way up the stairs on their knees, would rise like shadow specters behind me, appearing one after another in the obscuring light. How can it be? I wondered, that I would choose precisely the hour for my penance that the Acheiropoieton cannot be seen? I waited the longest time, thinking the sun outside would rise higher, the light would change and soon all would be revealed to me, but no: direct glare and my own silhouette, followed by the shape-shifting shadows of the others who’d climbed the stairs with me.

It may have been because I’d decided to bring the dog. Was it sacrilege to let an animal climb the stairs alleged to have been the very stairs Jesus himself climbed into Pontius Pilate’s palace? I’d originally intended to leave the dog at home. Shouldn’t my pilgrimage be between me and God alone, without canine distraction? Surely I could take the train early and return early and leave poor Desiree in her cage. But then I thought a pilgrimage should have no time restraints. I should be free to follow wherever the Spirit led, on a time-table not dictated by concerns for the dog or train schedules. If I could not climb the stairs, I could not climb the stairs. I could at least look at them and at the Giotto in San Giovanni di Laterano and at the other churches my art historian friend Ann, expert on pilgrimages, had insisted I should see. I’ve never been kicked out of church because of Desiree.

The last time I’d been to the Scala Santa was during the Jubilee year of 2000 when Lucy and I lived down the Ardeantina near the church of Divina Amore and, whenever we went anywhere, would have to catch the 218 bus that parks right in front of San Giovanni. We ‘d always talked about the rite of climbing the stairs and would see the throngs of pilgrims lined up to do so, but what patience does an 11 year old have for lines or holy ritual? While in Turin, we’d found ourselves accidentally stumbling across the Shroud, not knowing that the idling group of tourists we followed were taking us there, not knowing that it was even on special exhibit. I figured a divinely lit moment would impel us up the holy stairs as well, but one never arose.

How surprised I was today to just walk up to the building, walk into it—not only no lines, but no one standing guard to wave a finger about the dog, not even one of those circles with red slashes through it with a dog pictured inside as one often finds forbidding dogs in sacred places. Here I thought was the clearing Lucy and I’d never found: There were only five people poised in a staggered line along the 28 steps, their whispered prayers a soft and reassuring murmur. I stayed for the longest time at the foot of the stairs, wondering could I really do it? Climb the sacred stairs with my dog? I read the history--okay, legend--of how St. Helena brought the stairs from Jerusalem. I read about Sixtus V removing the stairs from the old Lateran palace in 1589 and installing them where they now rise toward the Holy of Holies. Suddenly I read that there are special dispensations for penitents who climb on Fridays during Lent. And thought, Wow--it is Lent! It is Friday! And got chills. The others were so deep in prayer, who would even notice that I’d brought my dog?

What I loved most about the climb were the places in the wood where centuries of knees had left gullies, soft indented places where my knees seemed to fit. I would find myself on one step feeling that I was ripping my knees up on gravel--the stairs are hard, they really hurt, they really are penitential. And then, when I thought I couldn’t stand it anymore, it did seem rather miraculous—the soft places that would suddenly find me, places where my knees truly fit and found comfort; places that seemed to even cradle my hurting knees—it did indeed seem so meaningfully allegorical, this mystery of generations of predecessors having created spaces of comfort for me to make my way up the holy stairs somehow easier! I was hardly aware of the prayers that happened through me. The Lord's prayer, but here and there, I’d find myself cheating: skipping lines, or forgetting whether or not I’d prayed the whole thing. At other times, the prayer would come out earnest and convincing. A prayer for every step: 28 prayers. Desiree must have been in a holy trance of her own. She didn’t squirm. I was not aware of her in my arms. I merely climbed.

The Acheiropoeiton, or the image of Christ “not made by human hands” hangs above the altar in the Sancta Sanctorum and is a Byzantine dazzle of silver—that much I could see. It was brought to Rome some time prior to 752, the year Pope Stephen II carried it barefoot to S. Maria Maggiore in an effort to invoke divine protection from the Lombards. The procession persists: the image of Christ seeking out the image of his mother annually. Did I feel cheated that I could not see him? No. But strangely chastened, somewhat amused—my own shadow a gentle kind of rebuke.

Today marks only the second Friday in Lent. There are four more. I can take an earlier train. I can leave the dog at home. I suppose I must try again. I do want to see the Acheiropoeiton and also any other visions variations on the climb will yield