The faces of Madonna and Child bear down on me with a mixed look of carved piety and compassion. Their matte painted eyes void; having no glint of light. I see my eyes as theirs, lacking luster, for my inner light at this moment dwindles like the dying flickering solitary candelabras hidden in remote corners where the glory of the stained glasses reflection has no reach; no effect; where the hopefulness of color is sin and the strangulating dullness of the enveloping darkness is manifest destiny.
But, this is not so, it can't be so, this is just for today, right now, right God? God?
In nomine Patris et fillii et Spiritus Sancti.
"How ghastly", I think. To be in church in such a display of lack of faith, dramatic woe-to-me attitudes, and such inner conflicts but then again, I imagine that it is a very Catholic demeanor towards life and spirituality. And what an appropriate stage this is; surrounded by settings of virgin mothers, stigmata, martyrs, and suffering contorted images, all reinforcing the pious suffrage of life, as a means towards life ever after.
I imagine the Monsignor cringing, closing his eyes, and praying on my behalf should he again have to hear my cynical view of the culture of Catholicism.
Despite, having received so many of the sacraments and attending mass and communion as often as I presently do, am I even allowed to call my self Catholic? I wonder at times. So often it is that I chant the mantras of the Far East. So often it is that I reenact tradition that those African enslaved forefathers brought from Nigeria and Congo. So often it is that I shamefully remember the historical atrocities of the Vatican against "heathen", the lower cast of past feudal systems, think on the inquisition, the abuse of the indulgences, of children, the bloodshed of the Knights Templar, Papal greed, consider institutional power vs. spiritual vessel, the genocide of the indigenous Americans, etc etc.
It, the Church, however, has been a life long venue of salvation for me, a place of reverence, and a commitment to the perpetuation of ancestral ritual which creates as much conflict within, as it does the provision of solace. It is one of those paradigms of identity in which I stand in the middle of and am torn by opposite sides.
"Focus", I tell myself this is not the proper battlefield for such contemplation.
Credo in [...] ecclesium catholicam [...] in remissionem peccatorum [...]
Kneeling at the pew at St. Vincent Ferrer, through prayer, I reflect on my attitude of hopelessness and the path of temptation I here and there lose my self to and tread. I meditate on the observation of Lent, the forty days spent by Jesus in the desert, where he endured the temptations of Satan. These I assume are my desert-days, my opportunity to learn, to become a stronger Christian, my opportunity for reconciliation.
Why do I wake with so much anger in my heart? Why are so many around me tainted by the frivolous makings of their own non elevated shortcomings and equivocal lost ways? Why am I inclined to judge them? And why am I allowing said poison taint and tarnish my being? Why do I feel cheated by a universe which despite present limits, sets none? Why? Why? Why...so many questions, so few answers, and such misguided blame?
God forgive me.
Pater noster qui es-
I interrupt ritual and revert back to speaking to God directly. I tend to speak to him at times in a very familiar tone as if he were a close friend. During others, I insist on the use of words the likes of, Thou, whilst, & Thee but have known my self to also use words which would incite some mothers make children bite down on a bar of soap. Yet, it's my personal relationship with God, by all means not ecclesiastical in nature but nonetheless mine. It is my personal covenant with Him, Dominum nostrum.
My throat aches from the tightness one feels during despair or at the urge of crying, yet is unable to. Waves surge through and my neck tingles from goosebumps normally attributed to the Holy Spirit during such moments.
Why? I ask, and reflect on Job's biblical strife. Despite the protesting of his plight he always fell short of accusing God of injustice. So different than that of some of the past few days when I to have imagined "the day perish wherein I was born, and the night in which it was said, there is a man child conceived", days in which I have audaciously questioned and insolently forgotten my place.
-fiat voluntas tua [...] dimmitte nobis debita nostra [...] Sed libera nos a malo....Amen
I say these last words and take notice of the fact that I have been reciting old Latin creeds and prayers without advancing forward on the beads of my rosary, yet I refuse to start over and am well aware of the fact that I may have perhaps been inclined to chant a few om-mana-pad-mi-ohms. I blame the grandeur of the small cathedral's gothic vaulted ceilings which now thwart my concentration as my imagination begins to roam and I wonder how Gregorian chants would carry and amplify in such space. I close my eyes and imagine myself sitting in such as space, in a life past; although we Catholics shouldn't buy into such Easterly notions; entranced by the pitch of young castratos with cherub like voices, slowly elevating my inner Godhead towards the heavens.
I refocus, slide the next rosary bead across my fingers, and allow the energy of the Ghost consume me and deliver me from self consumption.
That's how u r supposed to feel . therefore is called Catholic guilt. "Por tu culpa , por tu culpa , por tu gran culpa".
Yusef, as far as i've read, you seem far from self consumed. Proud yes, self consumed no. I too am torn between being Christian, learning Islam, and the guilt lifting satisfaction that devout Muslims seem to have on a daily basis. How it would be nice to live as they do in the east, putting self, second. You don't have to feel "Catholic guilt", and as youve said to me, "just pay a little extra attention to the day to day". Just apply that spirituality. :+)