In Balvanera: it is the only Byzantine church in Buenos Aires and has the second highest dome in the city
The door is made of solid wood. Sober, heavy, unpretentious. From the sidewalk, if the sun shines directly or if the morning light finds just the right angle, You can see the main altar, a golden glow of tiny tiles where Saint Rose of Lima stands out in the center Outside, the neighborhood vibrates with the rhythm of the Centro Gallego—its silhouette imposing right across the street—and the hundreds of furniture stores that dominate this part of Belgrano Avenue, amidst freight, employees unloading, and windows packed with chairs and armchairs. No one suspects that, just a few meters away, another world begins .
The Basilica of Saint Rose of Lima It's not a well-known temple. Many who walk past its brick facade every day stop to look at it. Perhaps it's the lack of perspective, squeezed between buildings, that prevents it from being fully contemplated. And yet, there it is: one of the most imposing religious buildings in Buenos Aires , with a dome that rises almost 60 meters and a history that blends mourning, ambition, architectural revenge, and, above all, a deep belonging to the neighborhood.
The story begins with a woman. María de los Remedios Unzué de Alvear—a member of one of the most influential families of the time, with strong political and religious ties—felt the neighborhood needed a sacred place. It was she who donated the land and financed the construction of the temple, a gesture that blended faith, generosity, and a vision of eternity. She wanted a work that spoke of the transcendent. Something beautiful, solid, spiritual. Something that would never crumble.
He hired Alejandro Christophersen , a Norwegian architect who had become a naturalized Argentine, the same architect who had designed the San Martín Palace and, years earlier, submitted a project to build the National Congress. He didn't win that competition, but in Santa Rosa he got his revenge: the dome of this basilica—second in height after the Congress—is an unrecognized sister of the one he couldn't sign .
"If you look from the terrace, you see Congress in the background. And it's impossible not to make the comparison," says Jorge Rigueiro, historian, medievalist, and the driving force behind the guided tours offered on weekends.
Rigueiro doesn't give away details: he tells stories with undisguised passion. And when he talks about the temple's architecture, his eyes light up. "This is a kind of matryoshka," he says. "One shape within another, and another, and another." There's an octagon, a square, a circle, and a cross. All arranged with a geometric logic that refers to heaven more than earth.
The church was designed in the Neo-Byzantine style, a rarity in Buenos Aires. In fact, it is the only one of its kind in the entire city. The brick facade is reminiscent of the buildings of Constantinople. The baldachin above the altar—instead of the typical Baroque altarpiece—recalls the first Early Christian basilicas.
The mosaics covering ceilings and walls are made from thousands of tesserae—small pieces of Venetian glass—hand-laid by artisans in northern Italy . Some contain gold leaf, as in the churches of Ravenna or Istanbul. At first glance, they appear as flecks; from a distance, they reveal angels, saints, and biblical scenes. A visual trick that also serves as a lesson: you have to step back to see the whole .
Santa Rosa is architecture, but also a neighborhood. In 2001, during the crisis, the parish priest sold an old chandelier from the baptistery to buy food and distribute it to the neighbors. Today, across the street, the Campito school operates, offering a cafeteria, cooking classes for women, and community outreach. Caritas continues to provide support, and the church, as in the beginning, remains open every day , at all hours.
“It's not just a monumental building,” says Liliana Condesse, an architect and member of the group of volunteers who maintain the space with moving dedication. “It's a place that resonates with people.”
The visit lasts three hours, although no one is in a hurry. You'll explore the two domes—one inner and one outer, mounted like a box within the other—the green marble staircase, the spiritual retreat rooms, and the crypt where the bodies of the Marchioness and her husband, brother of Marcelo T. de Alvear, rest.
At the top of the dome, following its circular shape, there is a sort of intimate museum: original plans, period photographs, names of those involved in the construction, and objects that tell the story of the church's interior, as if it were a house. An archive suspended in the air , which one discovers after climbing several flights of stairs, breathing heavily and with one's neck at an angle.
You can also hear the original German organ—the same one since 1934—played live, by an organist who studied in Europe and teaches at the Conservatory. And when the melody reaches a certain pitch, the church lights turn on one by one , as if the music were calling them by name.
Then comes the afternoon snack: coffee, homemade bread, pastries. All served on antique crockery, in a room where time seems to have stood still. Some visitors lean out from the balcony overlooking the altar. Others remain silent, gazing at the stained-glass windows from above. Sometimes, in the middle of the tour, a female voice interrupts from the choir stalls: "Hello Jorgito," she says. It's the "Marchioness," a fictional character who, with the tone of a classical actress, embodies the original donor. No one knows who is behind that voice. But everyone applauds when she says goodbye, telling them that her carriage is waiting. As if the spirit of the house were indulging in a joke.
Santa Rosa de Lima isn't on the classic tourist circuit. No one usually mentions it in brochures. But more and more people are becoming interested and filling up the guided tours. "We can't keep up," says Liliana. "There's something about this place that's hard to forget," she adds.
It may be the glow of the altar seen from the sidewalk. The gleam of the gold tiles. The perfect geometry that organizes the space without one noticing. The sound of the organ. Or perhaps it's something else: that blend of beauty and hospitality, of solemnity and affection, that only certain places can sustain.
You don't have to be prepared. You don't have to be a believer. You don't have to know anything. Just walk in. The church does the rest.
lanacion
