In the Spring of 2010, I lived in Madrid Spain for the three months studying and soaking in the European culture. As a 21 year old sponge of information, I went on many trips during my days there, but one such excursion caused a sort of spiritual revelation in me.
As a child I attended Catholic grade and junior high school for nearly a decade. It was very structured and I was subject to memorize various prayers and Bible verses. Needless to say my young mind merely saw these assignments as words and not religious literature. Upon abruptly leaving private school in the middle of my eighth year I enrolled in public junior high and was virtually absent as a Catholic until my trip to Toledo.
It was a Friday in the middle of March when my excursion took place. My classmates and I wrapped in various layers trying to keep warm in the cold Spanish air. We boarded a one hour bus ride from Madrid to the medieval city. Driving down the windy road you are given a panoramic view of various beige structures which make up the city. They all seem to blend together. There height and structure similar. Amongst this brown soup of a skyline, one tower seemed to pierce the horizon. Penetrating the clouds it seemed as though it might reach the heavens. I was intrigued by the preservation of the city. It seemed as though Toledo had remained somewhat unchanged since its Jewish, Christian, and Muslims inhabitants had united all together peacefully in this town. All three religious still prevalent inside of the city.
I realized Toledo bares some similarity to the plastic your grandparents place on their furniture to keep it clean from stains and creases. The whole settlement seemed to be sealed off from the modern world. The only thing to assure one that they are still in the 21st century is the modern cars which graze its narrow streets. Our first stop was an old sword making shop, where we were greeted by the grim faces of the merchants. As my classmates picked up the swords and staged faux swordfights, their actions were met with stern expressions. They were basically pushing us out the door with their body language. The second a synagogue where we viewed El Greco’s “The Burial of Count Orgaz”. This picture paints the vivid transition of a man exiting his mortal body and being ascended into the heavens. It was with this piece of art which began a sort a rumbling inside of me. It had been awhile since I had even been inside of a church. Talks of religion in the past were merely brushed aside as I was reminded of my days as a slave to memorizing the “Apostle’s Creed”. Yet the images were very powerful. These were paintings and towns which grazed my religion book in 7th grade and now they were in front of my eyes. It wasn’t until we arrived at the sight of the heaven-esque tower that the rumbling turned into a full on flashback and eye opening perspective.
The front of the cathedral was scattered with marble figures. Our tour guide explained to us that the front statues were a reenactment of Jesus’ Last Supper, while the ones to the right were the representative of the Final Judgment. Pointy arches which are built above the doorways act as architectural proof of the Visigoth builders. Its pale stone structure matched with the sky on this day made the whole building look so delicate, as
though it was made of wax and could melt any minute. My school named after Saints
Simon and Jude bore the same pointed arches above its walkway. Both seemed to have an unwelcoming nature about them, you were almost intimidated to entered into mass. In
fact on Sundays my dad would always do a once over of him self as well as my brother
and I to make sure we looked appropriate. I never knew who he was trying to impress: the snooty Catholic housewives which always took a liking to my dad because he was a single father, or God himself. Probably a little of both.
As we walked into the Cathedral of Toledo, its beauty was undeniable. In fact I along with some of my fellow students muttered, “Oh my God” while surveying the inside. How appropriate to mutter God’s name in vain while standing in this grand building dedicated to Him. Its silly, but I has this image of seeing the light as we walked to a window in one of the corners of the Cathedral. My body shaking violently, knees buckle and all of the sudden I’m blurting out Latin dialect. Its crude I know. The window before me was breathtaking though. Known as the Transparente (which translates to upper hole) it is decorated with angels painted by El Greco. They seemed to dance around the windowsill above me. In fact this seemed to be one of the few bright areas of not only the church, but also El Greco’s work. Another more bright section was rows of colorful stained glass windows which were randomly placed throughout the Cathedral. There was no sunlight on this Friday, yet they still had an omniscient glowing to them. Each window the piece to retelling traditional Bible stories.
The alter was undoubtedly the centerpiece. Made from solid gold it took approximately six years to complete with contribution from twenty seven different artists. The gold gleaming so brightly it seemed to leave a yellow reflection on the skin of those who stood before it. Gaudy crosses and Jesus Christ figures made up the backdrop. If one was to attend a mass here I do not know how they could pay attention or even keep their eyes on the priest for that matter. He would seem so dull in his white robe in comparison to the bright stage that was set up behind him. There was a point in my young childhood where I could have given a mass myself. The routine was always the same: an opening in which a song was always sung, followed by an “Our Father” afterwards, scripture would be read, then the body of Christ would be offered. This was the most important part of the ceremony. Bread was broken while the priest would mutter, “We do this in memory of you.” The concept of wine being blood and bread being flesh was too much for me to wrap my head around.
In the Catholic faith one had to be baptized, which I wasn’t as I child. Then around 12 you would enroll religion classes in order to be able to receive communion. If someone hadn’t gone through these steps, they would cross their arms across their chest as a sign they hadn’t received their right to communion. I got tired of being the one kid who had to be patted on the head by the Father, while my fellow classmates got to drink wine and eat bread. One day I just went for it, scared my teacher would say something, but she didn’t. I never turned back and received “illegal” communion until I left the school in eighth grade. What I did learn, besides how to break hundreds years of tradition, was that the Catholic religion very was serious and structured. This aspect was prevalent in this the gothic Cathedral. Everything built to illustrate the history of Catholicism, while being somewhat flamboyant and proud. The people that built this church were true believers. People that dedicated their life to Jesus Christ and tried to live their life for others as he had. Then there’s me: the immature girl who was born into a lineage of strict Italian Catholics. I muttered the words and went through the motions without even thinking about what it meant. As I stood on the cold marble floor that day in March, much more matured and wise I was embarrassed of my actions. Did that mean I was going to ask God for forgiveness? That I did not do, but after viewing this extremely spiritual atmosphere I did make a vow that I would be more respectful when attending religious ceremonies. Even if I didn’t file myself as a Catholic.
As I walked out back into the city of Toledo. My tour guide showed us one last mural. This one of St. Christopher, the saint of travelers. His crown stripped from him after the Vatican declared him no longer a saint, because of questioning he had not even existed. I too had been deceived by the Catholic Church kicked out of school as a teenager because I had died my hair. My lifestyle could not have been more different from the life Saint Christopher lead, but this common bond connected us. Yet he still remained inside the church and I decided that day that no matter what had occurred in my past Catholicism was a part of who I was. I did say one prayer that day, asking St. Christopher to protect me on my upcoming travels and return me home safe to my family.
LOVE, LOVE, LOVE IT, Kirstie! You have a great way with words. My critiques are all in the editng... There are a few sentences that don't flow well. I had to read them a few times to get what you were trying to say. There were a few words that were omitted (I remember "was" should have been in one sentence). And "died" should be spelled "dyed". But those are things you will probably pick up in your editing. The piece itself, however, is really really good! xoxo Rachel
ReplyDeleteWhat an amazing account of your experience! You are an excellent writer. I so look forward to reading your adventures. They are definitely a highlight in my week. Looks like all of my prayers for you are beginning to take effect...smile! love ya!
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