Beautifully unbeautiful: Chiesa San Niccolò, Catania

I stepped inside and felt, at once, a little disappointed. The church was undergoing serious construction, so I could not really walk around. I was reading a sign about San Nicolò’s significance when I was startled by a loud snort. The source of the noise appeared to be an older gentleman dressed in a checkered fleece, despite the heat, who was sitting asleep on a wooden bench nearby. Every so often, he would let a strident snore escape as he sat slumbering on his throne. Eventually, he woke up and noticed us. He said a few introductory words about the church in Italian, walked to the door where two other men stood and then sat behind a desk where he clasped his hands into a ball on its surface and began humming peacefully.

I was struck by the serene manner in which this man carried himself. With his calm movements in mind, the church assumed a new atmosphere for me. It became a beautifully walled city of white marble, whose interior was punctured by shafts of bright light. The construction scaffolding, though quite expansive, only carried the weight of one or two workmen, whose silhouettes were foggy in the dusty light and whose panging hammers were like dripping water on stone. The church had transformed from a decrepit monument into a heavenly sanctuary, draped in an atmosphere of sleepy luminosity. And yet, it is this very luminosity that lends such an environment a certain vibrancy, infusing it with an unquenchable vitality. Despite the church’s incompleteness, all of its various elements – the man, the sound of hammering, the shafts of light – form their own harmonious ecosystem and I, a casual tourist, felt close to God in its presence.