If beings from outer space were to study the history of the architectural accomplishments of the human race, they would be greatly interested in our churches, especially Catholic churches. Here are the greatest artistic structures ever created by man, with signatures of our most celebrated artists – including Michelangelo, DaVinci, and Rafael – etched into their walls. Churches were/are symbols of the connection between the Divine and the mortal.

Those aliens would also note that, in modern times, these “Houses of God” and the number of people who worship within them are in serious decline. Here in Western New York, this is all too clear as so many Catholic churches have gone dark and locked their doors. Especially as Christmas approaches, worshippers carry the burden of a lost past and struggle to keep the faith.

But some of the most exquisite edifices still remain open. Below is an excerpt from my short story “Dressing for a Funeral” in which I take a close look at Our Lady of Victory Basilica in Lackawanna.

It was a dim, grey Monday morning in April as Father Green drove from the airport to Lackawanna, home to the national shrine Our Lady of Victory Basilica. The priest, who was from Buffalo originally, was proud to have been assigned here at this mid-point in his life-service to God. He spoke with the authority of one who has traveled the world, claiming that Buffalo was a blessed place, that the notorious lake effect winter storms symbolize mankind’s internal and external struggles, while the lush and peaceful summers and autumns remind us of Pope Pius V’s victory over the Ottomans, and of the strength and hope that can be achieved through prayer. He was a man of deep, unequivocal faith.

Flanked by copper topped twin spires, the great dome of Our Lady of Victory Basilica rose 120 feet into the sky. Four giant angels, each eighteen feet tall, trumpeted from the dome’s rim. The adjunct colonnades boasted their own guardian angels, each tending to a group of children clamoring for enlightenment. Encased in a domed niche above the main entrance was the twelve-foot marble statue of the Lady herself. Among these giants, there was, in effect, an ambience of great mystery — the edifice seemed to emanate its own light from a source within, a light greater than that of the grey sky of South Buffalo on this early spring day.

As we walked across the parking lot toward the church, there was a shout from behind. “Father,” hollered a slightly hunched man with a US Marine-style brush cut and wire-rim glasses. He pointed accusingly at the priest’s car. “If you leave it like that, with its rear end sticking out, someone will hit it. You know it’s happened before, and it will happen again.”

“Oh s***, what a pain” said the good priest under his breath, excusing himself to go and pull his car up several inches and out of harm’s way.

As we approached the front entrance to the basilica we were accosted by a quick and wiry little lady with blue hair. “Father John,” she pleaded. “I ask you again: can’t you find some way to quiet that screaming child at the ten o’clock mass. And I’m not the only one complaining. For God’s sake, we can’t even hear your homily. It happens every week. And those parents, barely adults themselves, have no control over it!. And don’t forget that there are many parishioners who are concerned about the bingo schedule changing. It has always been on Tuesdays.”

The priest explained calmly. “Milly, you know that God’s house is open to all comers, and I have neither the authority nor the heart to turn people away. And as for bingo, the bishop wants us to try Thursday. He feels that we might draw more people later in the week. But when I speak with him I will let him know of your concerns.”

The interior of the Basilica was even more magnificent than the exterior. A host of six-foot tall white marble angels stood like stoic sentinels throughout the church, some holding fonts, some ushering along the aisles, others guardians of the young and innocent. Along the walls, the Stations of the Cross were also human-sized, and the drama of Christ’s Crucifixion, frozen in white, seemed as if it might breathe life at any moment.

The Great Dome’s ceiling was painted with images of the Coronation, the Assumption, the twelve apostles and three archangels. Jesus wore a scarlet red robe. A white dove of peace signaled His ascent to heaven.

Most mesmerizing to me were the 16 stained glass windows that formed a ring around the dome’s mural. These portals of multi-colored light hovered there like an alignment of glowing planets, leaving the impression that what lies out there beyond this life is, at the same time, already right here before us and within reach.

Musician, writer, house painter Pete Howard lives in Dunkirk. Send comments to odyssmusic20@gmail.com