Yesterday we made the trip to Brew City - Milwaukee, that is - but it wasn't for the beer. Instead, it was to the Catholic Basilica (a regional center) of St Josephat, payed for and built by Polish immigrants some one hundred years ago. We were told that it was fabulous, although having been to Italy, my nose high in the air, I hadn't expected much. Still, I was up for the trip even though I hate cities. I could be Oliver from "Green Acres" on that, always looking for "land stretchin' out so far and wide...", but a visit to see how Man competes with nature for wonder and diversion is always interesting - for a few hours at least. On the way, the road crews were out, with slow- downs and people racing around, my unpracticed hands gripping the wheel, but finally we made it, finding a parking spot available right across from the entrance to the church as if the day was meant for us.
And more - my morning dose of tee had needed an outlet for the last half hour, and right after we entered the church, I saw a sign for bathrooms, pointing left to a broad set of stairs. Finding them as advertised, I noticed on coming out that there was a chapel to our right, and we tip-toed in not knowing what to expect. It was bright and glittering, perhaps as an appeal to Catholics who had come from an area so close to the more ornamental Orthodox Church, and I was impressed. More so, since in a niche of the chapel was something we had heard of before, but had not expected so handily - the relics room. Once we wondered past the open wrought iron gates set off to the side, a woman (one of only two people there) followed behind us. As it happened, she was the caretaker for the day and would explain what we were seeing.
It was not so much what we saw, really, but what we saw meant. For the most part, there were plaques set upon the wall set with little star-like clear buttons that had teeny bits of something within them. Below were the names of various saints and prophets, many well known to anyone who has read even a bit of the Bible. What these little bits of something were, we were told, were pieces of the saint's body (primary relics) or something the saint had worn or had used (secondary relics). To understand this was amazing - here before us were actual items from or at one time in possession of John the Baptist, the Virgin Mary, her mother, St Joseph, along with bits and pieces from all the Apostles. In other glass cases were larger bone sections from early martyrs, as well as articles from later saints like Francis and Bernadette. One relic was encased in a gold leaf cross, which we were told we could actually hold (which we did). In it was visible a tiny splinter that our host said was a piece of the True Cross - that is, the actual cross upon which Jesus died.
What, I asked, was the Catholic belief in the power of such relics? (this church was one of a few with so many relics housed together. In Italy, we had actually driven dozens of miles several times to see just ONE.) Well, she said, the presence of the saints (etc) were supposed to be around such relics. In such a room as this, the saints (etc) were there to hear our prayers, where they would be given an immediate audience in heaven, in which they were also present. Of course, I immediately repeated in my mind my most fervent wishes, and joked later to Vicki: "Hey, I know what you prayed for. All of a sudden, I feel like less of an asshole!"
That stupid joke aside, the idea of "joke" had already intruded on my thoughts. Who, having had an older sibling or having gone to grade school and worse, middle school, has not felt the sting of ridicule for certain beliefs? It starts with Santa, works its way into things about sex (the stork) and from there, explodes like an exposed magic trick into the rest of the world. We are taught very harshly what NOT to believe in from a very early age. No one wants to be a fool. And so, just as I was presented with, and in some cases touched, what were supposed to be the material remains of the saints and the Christian God himself, I felt smug. Dealing in fake relics, I knew, had been a thriving business in Medieval times. The Catholic Church does a fairly vigorous check on such items, but not always. In some cases, they couldn't or can't really check the provenance, and in others, I suspect fraud was overlooked to awe the faithful. And more, this thing about the saints being present in the room - this was a thing of magic, called sympathetic or contagious by anthropologists, a thing of unlettered savages from another time. No fool me!
Yet, fool I felt in seconds for NOT believing. Many of the relics were real, amazing bits of long-past history, and more - all of them, saints and prophets alike, had been attributed with supernatural powers. That is a condition of sainthood, and in most cases since at least Medieval times, these miracles are scrupulously checked out by the church. Some might be more sketchy than others, but it must be accepted by all but the most obdurate that miracles happen. In fact, we know they do, as is well attested in unexplained cases of remission from disease. And once we open that door, who knows what else is true? Maybe, even with magic, the old people knew something of what they were talking about. The same goes for the presence of the saints with the articles. While I might not remain around my old underpants after I'm dead, whose to say what is possible of a saint?
True, I have no proof of this presence, or the efficacy of my prayers, but I understood right away what my greatest foolishness was, and it was from my doubt - for in this, I was denying what I was feeling. Whether from the unconscious or the saints (we really don't know what consciousness really is anyway) I felt entirely different after that visit. Later, we went to the main church upstairs, which was magnificent with its dome and stained glass, and I felt like I had never before. Something had changed me for the time being, and with that, even my vision seemed to have changed. I could see the other-worldly glory that the architect had attempted to reflect, and I could understand it - more than just feel it - in a way I can not normally understand. For some hours after, this sense of greater understanding pervaded.
Something had indeed happened in the relic room, despite my pitiful wiseguy attitude, which was brushed aside as so much dust. Regardless of the "how," another world was briefly opened to me, one that sat comfortably side-by-side with the everyday, yet was so unlike the everyday. And again and again, I have to remind myself that the wiseguy in me, built up from childhood as a defense from ridicule, is no less pathetic than the innocent - or even more so, for while the innocent can be duped, he can also understand what the wiseguy will never allow.
But sometimes all that cynicism is bypassed by some kind of miracle, and that greater something gets past the wiseguy anyway. It is a reminder, to me at least, that the wiseguy only knows how not to be laughed at and often little more. FK
And more - my morning dose of tee had needed an outlet for the last half hour, and right after we entered the church, I saw a sign for bathrooms, pointing left to a broad set of stairs. Finding them as advertised, I noticed on coming out that there was a chapel to our right, and we tip-toed in not knowing what to expect. It was bright and glittering, perhaps as an appeal to Catholics who had come from an area so close to the more ornamental Orthodox Church, and I was impressed. More so, since in a niche of the chapel was something we had heard of before, but had not expected so handily - the relics room. Once we wondered past the open wrought iron gates set off to the side, a woman (one of only two people there) followed behind us. As it happened, she was the caretaker for the day and would explain what we were seeing.
It was not so much what we saw, really, but what we saw meant. For the most part, there were plaques set upon the wall set with little star-like clear buttons that had teeny bits of something within them. Below were the names of various saints and prophets, many well known to anyone who has read even a bit of the Bible. What these little bits of something were, we were told, were pieces of the saint's body (primary relics) or something the saint had worn or had used (secondary relics). To understand this was amazing - here before us were actual items from or at one time in possession of John the Baptist, the Virgin Mary, her mother, St Joseph, along with bits and pieces from all the Apostles. In other glass cases were larger bone sections from early martyrs, as well as articles from later saints like Francis and Bernadette. One relic was encased in a gold leaf cross, which we were told we could actually hold (which we did). In it was visible a tiny splinter that our host said was a piece of the True Cross - that is, the actual cross upon which Jesus died.
What, I asked, was the Catholic belief in the power of such relics? (this church was one of a few with so many relics housed together. In Italy, we had actually driven dozens of miles several times to see just ONE.) Well, she said, the presence of the saints (etc) were supposed to be around such relics. In such a room as this, the saints (etc) were there to hear our prayers, where they would be given an immediate audience in heaven, in which they were also present. Of course, I immediately repeated in my mind my most fervent wishes, and joked later to Vicki: "Hey, I know what you prayed for. All of a sudden, I feel like less of an asshole!"
That stupid joke aside, the idea of "joke" had already intruded on my thoughts. Who, having had an older sibling or having gone to grade school and worse, middle school, has not felt the sting of ridicule for certain beliefs? It starts with Santa, works its way into things about sex (the stork) and from there, explodes like an exposed magic trick into the rest of the world. We are taught very harshly what NOT to believe in from a very early age. No one wants to be a fool. And so, just as I was presented with, and in some cases touched, what were supposed to be the material remains of the saints and the Christian God himself, I felt smug. Dealing in fake relics, I knew, had been a thriving business in Medieval times. The Catholic Church does a fairly vigorous check on such items, but not always. In some cases, they couldn't or can't really check the provenance, and in others, I suspect fraud was overlooked to awe the faithful. And more, this thing about the saints being present in the room - this was a thing of magic, called sympathetic or contagious by anthropologists, a thing of unlettered savages from another time. No fool me!
Yet, fool I felt in seconds for NOT believing. Many of the relics were real, amazing bits of long-past history, and more - all of them, saints and prophets alike, had been attributed with supernatural powers. That is a condition of sainthood, and in most cases since at least Medieval times, these miracles are scrupulously checked out by the church. Some might be more sketchy than others, but it must be accepted by all but the most obdurate that miracles happen. In fact, we know they do, as is well attested in unexplained cases of remission from disease. And once we open that door, who knows what else is true? Maybe, even with magic, the old people knew something of what they were talking about. The same goes for the presence of the saints with the articles. While I might not remain around my old underpants after I'm dead, whose to say what is possible of a saint?
True, I have no proof of this presence, or the efficacy of my prayers, but I understood right away what my greatest foolishness was, and it was from my doubt - for in this, I was denying what I was feeling. Whether from the unconscious or the saints (we really don't know what consciousness really is anyway) I felt entirely different after that visit. Later, we went to the main church upstairs, which was magnificent with its dome and stained glass, and I felt like I had never before. Something had changed me for the time being, and with that, even my vision seemed to have changed. I could see the other-worldly glory that the architect had attempted to reflect, and I could understand it - more than just feel it - in a way I can not normally understand. For some hours after, this sense of greater understanding pervaded.
Something had indeed happened in the relic room, despite my pitiful wiseguy attitude, which was brushed aside as so much dust. Regardless of the "how," another world was briefly opened to me, one that sat comfortably side-by-side with the everyday, yet was so unlike the everyday. And again and again, I have to remind myself that the wiseguy in me, built up from childhood as a defense from ridicule, is no less pathetic than the innocent - or even more so, for while the innocent can be duped, he can also understand what the wiseguy will never allow.
But sometimes all that cynicism is bypassed by some kind of miracle, and that greater something gets past the wiseguy anyway. It is a reminder, to me at least, that the wiseguy only knows how not to be laughed at and often little more. FK
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