Uplifted by a show of faith

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 17/04/2024 (849 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

For someone who is not particularly spiritual, I’ve spent a considerable amount of time in churches lately.

But I come by it honestly.

As a child, I wanted to spend time with my dad any way I could, sometimes accompanying him to four Anglican churches in one Sunday — a scrawny kid sitting alone in a pew as her father donned his robes and led the service.

In our home church, Dad would let me slide the numbers of the chosen hymns onto the wooden display boards. After the service, the church wardens — a group of burly outdoorsmen, looking ready to burst out of their pressed dress shirts and Sunday-best sports coats — tallied up the cash from the collection plates and let me count the change.

As I got older, I sang in the choir and taught Sunday school. As a teenager, I’d be summoned to sit in if our church organist was unavailable.

In our house faith was like oxygen; it was a given. We lived and breathed it without feeling the need to put it to the test or hold it up to scrutiny.

My parents’ belief in God sustained them both, and us kids, too.

But a career in journalism is not always fertile ground for religious faith. Chasing the news is to be driven by relentless questioning, critical thinking and the hunt for demonstrable facts.

Over time, beliefs can change and dissipate. You can be left with more questions than satisfactory answers.

So, while I don’t personally find hope in prayer anymore, I do respect those who find solace and strength there and I still appreciate the mystery and beauty of churches, from simple chapels to awe-inspiring cathedrals.

On Good Friday in Lecce, Italy, four of the most elaborately baroque Catholic churches — the Duomo, Santa Chiara, San Matteo and Santa Croce — were open for visitors to explore. My husband and I had seen them all before but wanted to experience the magnificence of the art and architecture one last time before our return to Canada.

On this last visit it was abundantly clear that these were not just architectural wonders but spiritual homes where people’s faith was active and alive.

In Santa Croce, all depictions of Christ were now covered in purple cloth. In a side chapel, amid huge arrangements of calla lilies and babies’ breath, instruments of crucifixion were set out in front of the altar: a ladder, a crown of thorns, a whip, a spear, rusty nails, a mop with a sponge on the end with which to give Jesus vinegar.

I was moved by the display and by how powerfully the message of Christ’s suffering still resonates. It reminded me of a few days earlier, when we had been peering through the glass door of the small Church of the Mother of God, attached to a convent in our neighbourhood, where a service was in session. A parishioner entering the church ushered us in ahead of her, so we took seats and I hoped no one would notice the plastic bag of cured salami I was carrying.

A beautiful young nun we had seen many times in passing was playing the organ and singing, her voice clear, the notes soaring up to the gold and plaster domed ceiling. Later she led a prayer and I found myself transfixed as she murmured a phrase about Christ’s suffering on the cross: “La sua dolorosa passione…” (His painful passion).

On Good Friday night, we were among a small crowd that gathered to watch a priest and another man light candles in the shape of a cross on the steps of the church of Santa Chiara, where an altar with a large crucifix had been positioned in the open doorway.

Fifteen minutes later, as we were eating dinner in a nearby restaurant, a commotion outside grabbed everyone’s attention.

I hurried to the door to join others on the sidewalk as a solemn religious procession wound its way through the narrow cobblestone street. Men in dark suits and ties and white gloves acted as pallbearers, carrying a glass and dark-wood casket containing a sculpture of Jesus on the cross. Then came a statue of Mary, dressed in black, hoisted on the shoulders of men.

A brass band played a hymn as the faithful filed through the street, singing. Older women walked arm in arm, dressed in sombre clothes, mantillas of black lace covering their heads.

It was a poignant expression of faith and I was grateful for having witnessed it.

At a time when the world feels inhospitable and unstable, there is something reassuring and comforting in seeing old and trusted rituals observed; a congregation’s certainty unwavering — even if your own is no longer intact.

Pam Frampton is a freelance writer and editor who lives in St. John’s. Email pamelajframpton@gmail.com X: pam_frampton