In the middle of a great room sits a man on a small stool. It is a privilege to be in this cathedral. People travel a long way to come here. To be in this very room. To see the master’s art, the magnificent mythology. During the day the room fills with thousands of people walking through, staring at the walls, the ceiling. Watching with awe. But the man, he is the one who could be here alone, just by himself with his thoughts and the art framing the ground.
He comes here as often as he can. But he is a busy man. He has duties to fulfill. Tasks that demand his attention. And then, there is his age. He is not the youngest anymore. There are the small things. The pain in his back. This stiffness in his fingers. The lack of his usual body strength, he used to think of as a matter of course.
And there are also the things that grow to become a threat to his life. The pain in his lunges. On some days it is better, on others worse. His kidneys aren’t in the best shape anymore. One had to be removed. Sometimes he has pneumonia and once, not too long ago he had a pulmonary edema. Death is rising up to take his hand. To let the velvet fall over him.
But he is a busy man. He cannot die, yet. There are still things that must be done. Tasks that call for him. People who count on him. Because he is not just a man, not just an individual anonymous person who lives in this world for their own belief. He is here as a representation of something bigger than just him. His body, his mind, his personality, his soul, all of him is there to devote himself to the highest cause in life. It is love, it is fear, it is belief. It is awe.
Sitting on the small stool makes his knees hurt. The pain is part of his life. He ignores it. His eyes focus again. He fixes his gaze to the north side of the room. Besides the darkening room, the picture that is presented to him is astonishing. The story unfolds before his eyes. He has looked at it a thousand times before and still, there is more to see, more to experience. Hundreds of figures move in the picture. Hundreds of individual stories. Stories of joy and life, belief and redemption. Stories of threat and death, doom and sorrow. And in the middle of it all: the messiah. Shining and bright. An earnest expression while fulfilling the will of the Almighty. He is a picture of youth, of strength.
The man closes his eyes. When was he young? When was he strong? When did time rise so fast, take him away from his young self, and turn him into this old man, sitting here alone in an empty room. He was blessed. He knows so. His life was all he ever wished for. He lived for his belief, for them. But sometimes he feels as if he was cursed.
He doesn’t have to open his eyes; he sees what is in front of him. It is burnt into his memory. Down below in the left corner of the picture, there are people rising. The dead are coming back to life. They ascend. Rise up to the sky, to be free, to be loved, to see the world beyond this. He always thought he would be one of them. But how to be sure?
He did his best, he worked, he lived a life of good, he believed. But still after a life of believing his heart is weaker. He saw the worst of this world, the endless evil and he fought against it; he fought for what he thought was right. But the world is not good, people are not good. They are not evil either. It’s just that they are humans, they do good, they do bad. They make decisions. Sometimes they are right and sometimes not. Sometimes they have the right reasons but do wrong. Sometimes they have the wrong reasons but do good. How to judge them?
But it is not his right to judge. He is not the one in power. This life gifted him so much power and authority and still, he is just a mere human being. He himself will be judged soon. He can feel it. He can feel his life running out. But he will hold on a bit longer. He is a busy man after all. But is that really the reason? There are things to do, tasks to be fulfilled. But there are others than him. Others that can take care of them.
The truth is, he is afraid. He is afraid that his decisions weren’t the right ones. That his intentions weren’t good enough. That the outcome wasn’t as good as he thought. Maybe his belief wasn’t enough. But he knows he must have faith. Faith is part of believing. And still. He had faith, he had belief for his whole life. He was strong. So strong in believing. But now he grew weak. Weak in body and mind.
He opens his eyes. In the dark corner of the fresco, he faces his fear. A demon, the judge of the underworld. Ready to capture those who are weak. The contrast is so magnificent. A body painted in flaw. Ruling over the demons, over the doomed. Will he be one of them? He did so well. He tried so hard. And still, this is his fear. It remains.
His eyes wander over the painting. Hell is burning at the bottom, the demons reaching out. A snake wrapped around the foot of a human. With greedy fingers, the demon captures the foot. He holds on to the snake, the foot for dear life. What has this human done to deserve that? And hell burns. What an incredibly talented artist. Such strong images. He can feel the picture reach out to him. Holding him as tight as the demon holds the snake. He feels hell burning within him. The angels singing. He feels the weight of the books of judgment. One for the blessed, one for the doomed. How is it fair that the one for the blessed is so much smaller? How is it fair that the one for the doomed is so huge that it must be held by two?
Who will he be? The man who is drowned by demons, captured by a giant snake with no hope of liberation? Or will he be one of them who are holding on to a rosary with all they have so that an angel takes mercy on him? Is that his destiny? Or was he strong enough? Will he rise by himself? By his own faith and belief in the One.
He feels a tear falling lightly on his cheek. His hand reaches up and captures the drop of water on a finger. He looks at it. When did he start to cry? He can’t remember the last time he did so. He feels his throat tightening. His hand sinks to his knee. The bright blue of the painting's background catches his eye, and he looks once again at the picture. A last judgment. His last judgment. His heart aches. It burns. He slides from the stool. Lies down on the cold ground. He can feel the icy stone underneath him. It soothes him. But he can feel the sweat on his head. The racing of his heart. The weight that lays heavy on his chest.
He should call for help. He knows so. But he fought for so long. He is tired. Exhausted. He is afraid of what will come. It pains him that he did not have enough faith to not be afraid. But it is how it is. And it will end. It will end now. And the realization is hell and heaven at once. He fought, he believed, and the rest is not up to him. He is no judge. No authority in what will come. Powerless for once. And he smiles through the pain. Maybe he is doomed, maybe he is blessed. It doesn’t matter. He tried. At least he tried.
The ceiling unfolds in front of him. Beautiful pictures. Stories, mythologies, colors. He hasn’t looked up there often. His gaze was always consumed by the northern picture. But not now. His body is aching. His chest is bursting, and his final gaze is on a hand reaching out for another. His life flows out of him. Drop by drop. Death is finally there reaching out to him, holding his hand. And the pain begins to ease. Until there is no feeling anymore, no emotion. Just peace.
A man approaches the great room. He knows His Holiness values his lonely moments in the Sistine Chapel, but it has gotten late and there are still some tasks that must be done before the day comes to an end. He looks through the room expecting His Holiness to sit on his usual spot, with the gaze fixed on The Last Judgment.
He never fully understood His Holiness’ obsession with this work of Michelangelo. Sure, Michelangelo was a genius in his time, but this piece of art was and still is a highly controversial perspective regarding their religion and their beliefs. He is not sure what to think of it himself. He can see the artistic value in it but still, something in it provokes him in a place he can’t even name. It irritates him and it annoys him that His Holiness has such an obvious fondness in the picture.
His eyes find the spot where His Holiness normally sits. But not today, not at this moment. “Your Holiness,” it breaks out of him. “Holy Father,” he shouts out as he runs to the body lying still on the ground.
Written by India Wittmershaus.
Photo of the Last Judgment by Michelangelo (Source: Wikimedia).