Sunday we had the bitter-sweet right of passage known as "dropping your kid off at college." It was an odd day filled with a Gordian knot of emotions, in the end leading to a feeling of age and exhaustion. But I was not exhausted those few hours after we saw our son run off to a premier luncheon, giving us no time to hug or hand shake or - the depths for men - cry. Pumped on morning coffee, we left immediately for the Shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe, just south of La Crosse, something we had long planned to do but had not gotten around to.
Perplexed and emotionally torn, we eventually found our way to the shrine, not so much by directions, which were not entirely clear, but by the sight of a tall, fairy-tale like spiral we saw on a distant wooded hill. That must be it, we sighed, and we were right. A mile or two more and we were at the entrance building and souvenir shop, carved from a side of a steep hill, the likes of which are seldom seen in our area of Wisconsin. It was very hot, the building cool and new, almost sterile, and we loitered in the comfort until we attempted to maneuver the site on our own. It turned out to be easy.
In the back was a slim paved road that wound further up the hill, arriving first at the Votive Candle Chapel. This was the odd, Arthurian age spiral we had seen from the road, and my wife first thought it the church, which was having a mass, and did not want to enter. I insisted, knowing that nothing outside of a direct hit stops a mass, and there we found the gleaming tile-floored, high ceiling-ed chapel, colored light splayed from stained glass falling on a pyramid of large votive candles. Of course we lit one for our son, and then were given the tour of the stained glass windows, each one devoted to a miracle involving Mary. Although the entire Shrine is named for Guadalupe, the vision seen by a (former) Aztec peasant that united the old faith and the new in the New World - thus making her the Marian saint of all the Americas - there were none to this aspect of Her. Instead, there were others - including one to "Our Lady of the Miraculous Medals," where a novice nun was given the vision of a medal to be struck which would give "great graces" to those who wore it. Of course we bought two, for $1.98 a piece, at the gift shop later, which I have now by the side of the computer. I could use some graces, really, although in many ways I already have an abundance.
The pyramid of candles was a reminder of the Aztec pyramids, where blood sacrifice of many humans was replaced by the single sacrifice of one man-god, Christ, so that the previous evils - and in fact all evils - could be dispensed with. This chapel, too, was cool, but it was a place to gaze at, not to meditate in, built for the movement of candle-lighters, not quiet prayer. We left and continued up the hill.
Heavily wooded and at places steep, we stopped at the statues to the saints along the way, and then walked through the paths designated for the Stations of the Cross, depicting scenes from Christ's acceptance of his sacrifice in the Garden of Gethsemane, to the trial, to the crucifixion, to the resurrection; as well as a section on meditations for praying the rosary (something that I have never learned - in my youth, that was reserved for old ladies. I think it still is). Neither were particularly spectacular, but they did teach you of the meaning of Biblical events in clear words and statue-pictures, set against a deep and hilly woods. It gets one in the mood.
Beyond is the church proper, large enough for a mid-sized city but visited only by those willing to walk the hill, and by the monks in the Friary (Friars in the Friary?), attached to the church. The view was magnificent, of the hills that stand against the Mississippi River, and the interior, of what we saw, was beyond what one would think of a church in the woods; new, high-arched ceilings, solid wood doors, tastefully glittering altar. We did not see more because mass, indeed, was in session, and time was getting to our feet. Instead, we went towards the top of the hill and terminus of the path, where an arabesque/Romanesque mall - with arched, thick surrounding walls and deep-set window-portals -opened to us, as a monument, in essence, to the unborn who were and are lost to abortion. Disagree with the doctrine or not, this plaza is impressive, a semi-circle looking something like a miniature Colosseum, headed by a large statue of Mary, her cloak flowing, her face in pathos for the unborn, three of which she cradles in her arms. Nearby is a wall set with blue mosaics depicting great scenes from the gospel, including my favorite, where Moses and Elijah join Jesus on a mountain in a blaze of glory while the disciples tremble. Ah, glory is not all fuzzy kindness!
It most certainly is not. At the bottom by the tourist building is also a statue of Mary, this in blackened bronze (or so it appears), where one approaches first from behind, seeing her robed back. At the monument to the unborn, one also approaches from behind, seeing the same sight, although she is in lighter color. But let me tell you, until one sees her face, in both cases there is a chill lent to the viewer. From behind she carries the aspect of the grim reaper, the symbol of death. I believe it is Kali who to the Hindus is the god/goddess of both creation and death. Although Catholics do not talk of her in the darker aspect, the statues do, just as the apparitions, to which this shrine is devoted, also do. There is fear lent to the blessed receivers from these apparitions, as well as enlightened joy, for she often speaks of humanity and its fate. We are doomed to death, all of us, after all, and through free will, are only granted eternal life through proper living and faith - and by grace, the last ace card for us sinners. The visions at Fatima in 1917, for instance, gave to poor Bernadette the burden of prophecy, many of them (for instance, the turn to evil and atheism in Russia) not pleasant at all. And she reminds us that through our individual and collective wills, it is WE who determine which future we will have, in the end.
A slap of darkness amid piety and light - that is the way of Catholicism and of most - perhaps all - of the true religions. How else could it be, given what we are? At Our Lady, everything is new and bright, the weight of heavy spirituality still not added to its bones, but, like an adolescent child, it is just a matter of time. A place worthy of a visit. And a place that made me think: what is it? What is it that the church, this or any other of the old and true religions, what is it that they need now? Something is lacking - not in the core, but in the dress, for we "moderns." The medal and other things that I bought, for instance; they are icons, meant for the coalescence of faith, but used by the peasants of another era as good-luck charms, like shark's teeth and rabbit's feet. For the peasant, they meant both, faith and good luck; for us, I don't know. Do we believe in either? How many visions of Mary would it take to convince us? Do we need the terror of the dark veiled-Mary before we can see the light? FK
Perplexed and emotionally torn, we eventually found our way to the shrine, not so much by directions, which were not entirely clear, but by the sight of a tall, fairy-tale like spiral we saw on a distant wooded hill. That must be it, we sighed, and we were right. A mile or two more and we were at the entrance building and souvenir shop, carved from a side of a steep hill, the likes of which are seldom seen in our area of Wisconsin. It was very hot, the building cool and new, almost sterile, and we loitered in the comfort until we attempted to maneuver the site on our own. It turned out to be easy.
In the back was a slim paved road that wound further up the hill, arriving first at the Votive Candle Chapel. This was the odd, Arthurian age spiral we had seen from the road, and my wife first thought it the church, which was having a mass, and did not want to enter. I insisted, knowing that nothing outside of a direct hit stops a mass, and there we found the gleaming tile-floored, high ceiling-ed chapel, colored light splayed from stained glass falling on a pyramid of large votive candles. Of course we lit one for our son, and then were given the tour of the stained glass windows, each one devoted to a miracle involving Mary. Although the entire Shrine is named for Guadalupe, the vision seen by a (former) Aztec peasant that united the old faith and the new in the New World - thus making her the Marian saint of all the Americas - there were none to this aspect of Her. Instead, there were others - including one to "Our Lady of the Miraculous Medals," where a novice nun was given the vision of a medal to be struck which would give "great graces" to those who wore it. Of course we bought two, for $1.98 a piece, at the gift shop later, which I have now by the side of the computer. I could use some graces, really, although in many ways I already have an abundance.
The pyramid of candles was a reminder of the Aztec pyramids, where blood sacrifice of many humans was replaced by the single sacrifice of one man-god, Christ, so that the previous evils - and in fact all evils - could be dispensed with. This chapel, too, was cool, but it was a place to gaze at, not to meditate in, built for the movement of candle-lighters, not quiet prayer. We left and continued up the hill.
Heavily wooded and at places steep, we stopped at the statues to the saints along the way, and then walked through the paths designated for the Stations of the Cross, depicting scenes from Christ's acceptance of his sacrifice in the Garden of Gethsemane, to the trial, to the crucifixion, to the resurrection; as well as a section on meditations for praying the rosary (something that I have never learned - in my youth, that was reserved for old ladies. I think it still is). Neither were particularly spectacular, but they did teach you of the meaning of Biblical events in clear words and statue-pictures, set against a deep and hilly woods. It gets one in the mood.
Beyond is the church proper, large enough for a mid-sized city but visited only by those willing to walk the hill, and by the monks in the Friary (Friars in the Friary?), attached to the church. The view was magnificent, of the hills that stand against the Mississippi River, and the interior, of what we saw, was beyond what one would think of a church in the woods; new, high-arched ceilings, solid wood doors, tastefully glittering altar. We did not see more because mass, indeed, was in session, and time was getting to our feet. Instead, we went towards the top of the hill and terminus of the path, where an arabesque/Romanesque mall - with arched, thick surrounding walls and deep-set window-portals -opened to us, as a monument, in essence, to the unborn who were and are lost to abortion. Disagree with the doctrine or not, this plaza is impressive, a semi-circle looking something like a miniature Colosseum, headed by a large statue of Mary, her cloak flowing, her face in pathos for the unborn, three of which she cradles in her arms. Nearby is a wall set with blue mosaics depicting great scenes from the gospel, including my favorite, where Moses and Elijah join Jesus on a mountain in a blaze of glory while the disciples tremble. Ah, glory is not all fuzzy kindness!
It most certainly is not. At the bottom by the tourist building is also a statue of Mary, this in blackened bronze (or so it appears), where one approaches first from behind, seeing her robed back. At the monument to the unborn, one also approaches from behind, seeing the same sight, although she is in lighter color. But let me tell you, until one sees her face, in both cases there is a chill lent to the viewer. From behind she carries the aspect of the grim reaper, the symbol of death. I believe it is Kali who to the Hindus is the god/goddess of both creation and death. Although Catholics do not talk of her in the darker aspect, the statues do, just as the apparitions, to which this shrine is devoted, also do. There is fear lent to the blessed receivers from these apparitions, as well as enlightened joy, for she often speaks of humanity and its fate. We are doomed to death, all of us, after all, and through free will, are only granted eternal life through proper living and faith - and by grace, the last ace card for us sinners. The visions at Fatima in 1917, for instance, gave to poor Bernadette the burden of prophecy, many of them (for instance, the turn to evil and atheism in Russia) not pleasant at all. And she reminds us that through our individual and collective wills, it is WE who determine which future we will have, in the end.
A slap of darkness amid piety and light - that is the way of Catholicism and of most - perhaps all - of the true religions. How else could it be, given what we are? At Our Lady, everything is new and bright, the weight of heavy spirituality still not added to its bones, but, like an adolescent child, it is just a matter of time. A place worthy of a visit. And a place that made me think: what is it? What is it that the church, this or any other of the old and true religions, what is it that they need now? Something is lacking - not in the core, but in the dress, for we "moderns." The medal and other things that I bought, for instance; they are icons, meant for the coalescence of faith, but used by the peasants of another era as good-luck charms, like shark's teeth and rabbit's feet. For the peasant, they meant both, faith and good luck; for us, I don't know. Do we believe in either? How many visions of Mary would it take to convince us? Do we need the terror of the dark veiled-Mary before we can see the light? FK
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