Cathedral of Fire and Gold
The light hit the Tabernacle with such intention, such divinely inspired grace, I felt like a fedora-wearing, whip-wielding adventurer who had just found the Holy Grail. Incense still hung in the air, suspended like mist, creating beams of sacred light. I captured it on video, and that footage would later anchor a travel film I created from that year’s Italian holiday.
“But no camera could ever do that space justice.”
Golden angels held aloft a massive, gilded chest. And in that chamber, something hit different. Something eternal.
So what am I talking about?
We need to rewind time, to early June, Rome, 2024.
We were in Rome for vacation, planning to visit the Vatican, the Colosseum, all the usual hits. But thanks to a guide’s recommendation, we made a detour, to a lesser-known place called Santa Maria Maggiore, tucked away on the north side of the city near the train station.
Because we were there just ahead of the summer crush, the city still had a kind of spaciousness to it. After a long, hot day exploring the Colosseum and Roman Forum, sweaty, tired, and overloaded with tourist energy, we set off to find this hidden gem.
When we arrived, the outside of the basilica underwhelmed me. In a city packed with ancient wonders, it looked… pedestrian. Big, sure. But it didn’t stand out. Just another boxy Roman church.
I climbed the steps casually, not expecting much. Then I stepped inside, and everything changed.
To say I was dumbstruck would be an understatement. The moment hit me like a wave. I literally forgot to breathe.
The space opened wide and holy, drenched in silence and light. And, by some miracle, it was empty. No tourists. Just us. The late-afternoon sun poured in through high windows, casting long shafts of gold through the lingering incense. The light glowed in waves. Everything shimmered. The ceiling gleamed with geometric designs and subtle gold leaf, humble and regal all at once.
There weren’t giant statues or Gothic flourishes. Just space, space that spoke for itself. And what it said was this:
“Tread lightly. You are on holy ground.”
I drifted forward, mouth agape. Absorbing. Listening. Worshipping without a word.
Then I saw a different hue of light, cooler, bluer, pouring off from the right transept. Compelled, I followed it. Not a conscious decision. More like a calling.
There I found it. A chamber covered in art. Every surface alive with color, form, story. And in the center of it all stood the largest Tabernacle I’d ever seen, rising maybe twelve feet high. It dwarfed me. It silenced me. It humbled me. I stood there for what felt like hours.
When I finally regained my senses, I felt small. Really small. Like a single grain of sand in the ocean of eternity.
Then I found out: this basilica was built in the 5th century.
Fifteen hundred years ago, before the world was round, before the printing press, before the rise and fall of empires, humans built this. People just like us, with breath in their lungs and dreams in their heads. And they created this space of reverence and glory.
That moment stayed with me.
I captured the above short video before we left. I didn’t think I’d ever return, not to that room, and maybe not even to Rome. But three coins in the Trevi Fountain have power, I guess, because the following year, I found myself planning a return trip. This time, with my entire family of six in tow.
But that room? It haunted me in the best way. I knew I had to photograph it, truly photograph it. To show the world what beauty can be when man and God build something together.
I bought a lens specifically for that space. Got a travel tripod. Mentally rehearsed every angle, every obstacle. This time, I’d be ready.
But when we returned, things had changed. Santa Maria Maggiore had become a tourist stop, thanks in part to Pope Francis announcing he wished to be buried there. The once-empty sanctuary was now flooded with people.
Pope Francis’ Tomb
Still, I pressed forward.
I entered the space, found my spot, and set up. The clouds outside parted like a gift. Afternoon light poured in just like before. I tried dozens of shots, none quite right. I moved. Adjusted. Waited. Watched. Then, finally, a lull in the crowd.
“One shot. That’s all I got.”
Then a docent tapped my shoulder. “No tripods”, they said. Too many people.
Crushed, I packed up. Was that it? All that preparation, for nothing?
Hours later, back at our place, I loaded the image onto my laptop. Tired. Doubtful. But then…
It sang.
It wasn’t perfect. But it held something. The light. The weight. The feeling. I worked it in post until it came close to what I saw with my eyes. And it made me tear up.
If you ever make it to Rome, go off the beaten path. Go beyond the fountains and stairs and stands of postcards and trinkets. Go find Santa Maria Maggiore.
and beneath that golden ceiling. Walk in slow. Let the light fall on you.
Because in that space, if your heart’s open, you’ll feel it.
The majesty of the Almighty.