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Sunday, February 22, 2009
I went to my first mass today, performed in traditional Italian and held in the oldest duomo (church) in the city.It is an experience to behold. I come from a country that has a very loose connection from its own history, and as such attempts to conjure conflicting histories up through rather Kitschy techniques. As such it is almost my first reaction to think that the paintings within this cathedral are a fraud, or at the very least a recent addition to spice of the church going experience. I am having processing the fact that this statue, that fresco, the holy water basin, has been there since the 13th and 14th century, that these hands that formed and placed these stones that are absorbing every inch of the heat from the building that we worship in have long since decomposed. There is a Pope buried here, although I do not know which one that might happen to be. The city housed this Holy Catholic head peace from the 13th-16th centuries. Orvieto is literally carved out of the side of a huge, exceptionally imposing rock that leers at you from a distance as you climb the road towards the city. It base is volcanic, which adds an earthy reddish gray color to the fortress walls that were a natural defense mechanism to deter unfavorable forces. One would expect a service held in such a building that resides in such a city to be overwhelming in its adherence to piety and tradition, yet the service itself is small and informal, informal that is for catholic liturgy. There is an acoustic guitar that accompanies the songs of the mass, and little children from the crowd assist with the offering and communion procession. It is, on the whole, very welcoming, although I must say it is an odd and unnerving sensation to have attention called to you by the priest in a room full of people that speak a language you fail to understand. The priest recited the timeless words of a timeless traditional mass, smoke seeped from his mouth, curling into the vaulted ceilings above. I tried to decipher even a few words as if they were written in the breath that quickly dissolved above the crowd. Have you ever sat through something longer than a minute or two that was presented in a language you cannot understand? It reveals much, I believe, about who you are and how you’re imagination functions. For all I know, the service was a reprimand to the worshipers, a guilt trip, fire and brimstone marathon, a reminder to give more, lust less, pray, protect your heart. Or was the traditional form and structure of the mass a scaffolding, a frame work for the worshiper to expand his or her mind and expound in new ways on the ideas that they are quite familiar with? Tonight we party with the nuns. I’m serious. In a few hours, the convent is throwing a party: appetizers, fruits, cakes, pastries, live music, and enough wine to drink half of Italy under the table. That+24 kids from sheltered school+no societal stigma (should)=fun and great entertainment for all. More to come… Yossarian [
8:09 AM ] |