The Lullaby of Priests

SAN MINIATO

The chant is serene and mostly monotone. The acoustics of the church are incredible: the lullaby of the voices in song carries through the marble hallway, pausing only to sweep in a circle around the cylindrical columns throughout the chapel. A mixture of complex and simplistic columns cut into the chapel space, forming retreating rows of gothic archways from my vantage point on the marble staircase.

It is a sweeping tide, the way things travel through crowds of humans. Disease, depression, piety, and love. A row in the bleachers stands up in respect; a row in the back follows suit. A few debate while one on the opposite side stands defiantly. Next to her, a man reluctantly rises, then a women a few seats down. Finally, a row stands. It is a wave, a disease of respect, with perhaps just a dash of piety thrown in for good measure.

The voices meet in unison, each leaping through the air to the conclave at the triangulation point. They reach their destination, forming a whole, and drift together in a hazy cloud.

Now, one voice is soft and broken. He wails in thinly veiled fear, suffering, and supplication. They are like a chorus. And then the rushing tide calms and the audience takes a seat for the main event. He preaches, while the others serve only as a background to enhance his words.