CLEVELAND — Sightseers are something new to members of St. Casimir Catholic Church. In fact, it’s been awhile since their landmark church drew any kind of attention at all.

They’re doing what they can to accommodate the tourists who have descended since the bishop decreed St. Casimir will be shuttered in a bid to create a smaller, leaner local diocese.

Soon after a bus stopped in front of St. Casimir’s twin steeples, the president of the parish council cued the organ music. Votive candles had been set ablaze. When the wide-eyed visitors walked into the sanctuary, their oohs and aahs rose above the strains of “America the Beautiful.”

Yet it’s what the visitors said afterward that was music to the ears of parishioners: “Oh, how can you not love this church?” one woman exclaimed. “How can we lose something like this?”

It’s shaping up to be a fateful summer for St. Casimir, one of the many ethnic/nationality parishes doomed to go dark in the downsizing. Never more vulnerable, the largely forgotten church is suddenly basking in fresh attention.

Before anyone paves paradise to put up a parking lot, some people want a glimpse of what’s to be lost. Since March, when Bishop Richard Lennon ordered the end to a parish founded in 1892, St. Casimir has attracted a growing circle of admirers.

At first, they came in pairs and small groups to the dark-brick colossus built in 1918 by Polish immigrants.

The visitors, lured by rumors of Old World craftsmanship, stepped through twin sets of oak doors into a sanctuary that seats 1,000. Massive stained-glass windows filtered sunlight like sacred rainbows. They gazed upon an altar, carved from ivory and wood, that rises more than 30 feet into a dome vibrant with paintings of a heavenly world.

More recently, the tour buses started arriving, first occasionally and now about twice a week. Group tours are booked into October.

The curious include former parishioners and people who grew up in the mostly Polish neighborhood. But the pilgrims also include newcomers and non-Catholics. A Jewish senior citizens group came through, followed by a class from a local community college and a troop of nature lovers.

Recently, 35 older men and women stepped off a bus on a tour arranged by John Latkovich, owner of JKL Tours of Willoughby, Ohio. Latkovich has been running “Historic Houses of Worship Tours” since 2002. He added St. Casimir and other ethnic parishes in May, after people began asking to see the churches scheduled to close. Ridership grew, and tours began selling out.

“Some people want to take pictures. Some people just want to see these beautiful churches before they’re gone,” Latkovich said.

At St. Casimir, the sudden attention heartens an anxious congregation of about 400 people, most of whom live in the suburbs. After the bishop declined to reverse his decision to close their church, the faithful appealed directly to the Vatican in Rome. That appeal is a long shot that probably only buys time before sacred artifacts are removed, church members know.

Perhaps the tourists offer salvation. That’s the hope of Halina Feimer, 79, who can point to her childhood home from St. Casimir’s front steps.

“Hopefully, maybe some of these people could write to the bishop and say, `Why? Why?”‘ she said.

She and other members of the congregation are rallying to serve the tourist trade.

With a cell phone call reporting a bus en route, parishioners pulled open the oak doors and cleared a vista from the front steps to the altar.

The church’s longtime organist died last year, but the tourists would hear the rich sounds of the pipe organ. Parish council president Ray Michalski held a remote control. With the push of a button, it would start the pre-recorded organ music.

“They say no one else does that,” he said.

The visitors settled into front-row pews, and Tina Girod, a lifelong parishioner, pointed out prized flourishes, the shrine to World War I veterans and the monument to the Solidarity labor movement that crushed communism in Poland.

She recalled the tanks that rumbled past her family’s home nearby during the riots of 1966, people with means moving out, a dwindling faithful maintaining the parish and its school, which closed in 1977.

After Girod’s presentation, the pilgrims lingered, many looking skyward.

“Beautiful. Heartbreaking,” said Peggy Milk of Twinsburg.

“Well, when you come right down to it, it’s our own fault,” said her husband, Chuck Milk. “We didn’t raise children wedded to the church.”

The bus growled and the visitors expressed their thanks for the hospitality. As the last of the tourists exited the front doors, Girod called out a request.

“Pray for us!” she said.

(Robert L. Smith writes for The Plain Dealer in Cleveland.)