Sacreligion at its Best

Written 16-3-08

I just got back from church.

Today is Palm Sunday. I woke up to church bells ringing in my mind. My most appropriate outfitt is a long, white skirt, a long tank top, and a scarf around my shoulders. I set out, following the bells, as if they were calling out to me. I was led to the main plaza in Leon, and up the steps to Catedral de Asuncion. It was packed, and everyone was there: the bored teenagers, the wrinkly old women crying, the small children running through a sea of legs, and they all held palm leaves delicately in their hands. The whole place smelled of cobal, and it was vibrant.

As I made my way towards the front, the bishop came into view. He seemed as if he would be tall, his red smock flowing, his pointy white hat starched with such rigidity that I felt as wrinkly as the old lady standing beside me. On his neck hung a golden cross that would have made 50 cent wince with jealousy, and he looked bored. In all the time I stood there, he barely moved. Someone else was speaking from the pulpit, a choir singing, a guitar playing, and his staunch, slightly tilted head never moved from it´s Holy Spot. He seemed so seperated from the event, I wonder why he was there at all.

For those who know me well, I am not religious. Spiritual, yes. I go to churches to see the architecture, the art, the statues and carvings. I go to churches to find peace of mind, to sit quietly in reflection, to think. All the religions, to me, seem the same. Everyone is looking for an explanation that they cannot see, or feel, smell, or touch. They look for a higher power they can relate to, even if they do not know what It is. To the Christians, It is called God. In Islam, It is called Allah. To the Buddhists, It is called Karma.

I was feeling out of place and mind in the big cathedral, so I decided to move on. I was graced with the tinkling sound of little bells ringing, the ice cream vendors outside waiting for business to pick up once the mass ended. I found my way onto another street where a smaller, older church came into view. Iglesia Virgen de la Merced. I walked inside and sat down, feeling the cool breeze wash through the old building. Birds sat on old ironwork chandeliers, chirping. A tiny lady sat next to me, looked up at me, smiled, patted my leg, and called me "Chelita," which is an affectionate name to call someone with light skin.

I sat there, staring up at a powerful figure. She looked serene, staring down at me: The Mother, The Protector, The Giver. Some call her Mary, others The Mother Goddess or Mother Nature. In latin countries she is Maria, Virgen de la Guadelupe. She stood in front of a simple, silver alter, with candles burning and palm leaves strewn before her feet. I sat and spoke to her in my mind, reveling in her smile. As I was in a church, I decided to cover all my bases and call upon St. Christopher, the patron saint of travelers, to ask for protection. For safe passage for my fellow travelers, and for my loved ones at home and all over the world, having their own daily adventures.

St. Chris and I talk a lot, as he is quite prominent in my life right now, so I figured I should give him a shout-out. As I get up to leave, the people stare, as usual. This is nothing new, as I´m a tall white girl with dreadlocks in Nicaragua. I put on my serene face, a half smile, head held high as I stroll into the sunshine, feeling better.

I wonder if anyone noticed that the shawl around my shoulders was Hindu.

This week is Semana Santa, Holy Week. May you be blessed with the deity of your choosing, from any established religion to a yoga mantra to a really good cup of coffee that helped to ease your mind.