Eyes full of suffering fix on mine, guilt gags at the back of my throat, confusion quivers under my skin. Am I some how to blame? But for what? The beat of the drum changes, the trumpet’s wail intensifies, the paso continues its 45º turn and Christ’s eyes lock into someone else’s bewildered soul.
The Nazarenos follow in their white coned hats and black robes, their paschal candles illuminate the night. After all these years in Spain their covered faces are still sinister and anonymous to me like the Ku Klux Klan. The antique silver staff is tapped
three times on the pavement, the music ceases and the procession comes to a temporary rest. Spectators return to conversations, many weave in and out of the scene to get to a better spot, children try to cajole candle drippings from the silent Nazarenos to grow their wax ball like a snowball. Mistrust of these hidden penitents doesn’t exist for them.
I shift from leg to leg, rub my sore back, crane my neck to see if the Virgin is in sight yet. I think about Christ’s imploring eyes and wonder why I’m here. The trumpet thankfully interrupts, the drum beats again, brum brum, brum bum bum. A distant bell rings and the Nazarenos angle their candles towards each other forming a medieval-like arch over the street, they resume their silent shuffle. A slight hint of incense tickles my nose, the steady clanking of the swaying palio, (the canopy suspended over the statue) becomes clearer, flickering flames and the mourning Virgin finally appear in the distance above the white peaks. The second band, accompanying the Virgin, now marks the beat that the procession follows, sometimes slow and sorrowful, other times swift and exultant, but always steady and familiar. The costaleros (the men who carry the throne throughout the streets) sway the paso, gently rock it, inch it along or march it forward according to the music. The more frequently and elaborately they do this, the more the crowd applauds them. It is in hopes of seeing this spectacle that I wait so long for the Virgin to pass this corner I have staked as mine.
She is dressed in burgundy velvet, her black cloak, also velvet, is intricately embroidered in gold all the way to the end of it’s 4 meter train. The palio above her is embroidered to match. Her gilded halo shimmers in the night glow of candles and street lamps. The beautifully sculpted silver base overflows with white flowers: lilies, roses, carnations, freesias, gladiolas. She rests in front of us, I can hear the costaleros sigh in relief. A spontaneous saetero pays her homage, singing the traditional flamenco type song of pain and lament. At its end another admirer cheers Viva la Virgen, the crowd responds with Viva! They repeat this three times and the crowd breaks out in wild applause. The music begins again, the costaleros take their position and repay this homage with their beautiful display of maneuvers. As they progress down the street to the beat of the drum, the crowd’s applause lingers.
We have seen the entire procession, over sixty minutes standing still in the middle of a crowd, my body aches and I need air. I once again wonder why I do this, and why it means so much to me. My husband prods me on to the plaza to sit and have a drink. We watch the locals greet each other with kisses, and warm salutations and can’t help but notice the once-overs the women give each other in their show of new Spring fashions.
I ponder the contrast of the solemnity of Christ’s suffering paraded around town with this display of economic well-being, the full bars and restaurants, the festive atmosphere parading on the street corners.
Semana Santa in Andalucia, it simply magnifies what I have already concluded about the Catholic Church in Spain; it has become an institution of cultural rituals instead of spiritual support and moral guidance. What I find harder to conclude is what it has become for me.
The Nazarenos follow in their white coned hats and black robes, their paschal candles illuminate the night. After all these years in Spain their covered faces are still sinister and anonymous to me like the Ku Klux Klan. The antique silver staff is tapped
three times on the pavement, the music ceases and the procession comes to a temporary rest. Spectators return to conversations, many weave in and out of the scene to get to a better spot, children try to cajole candle drippings from the silent Nazarenos to grow their wax ball like a snowball. Mistrust of these hidden penitents doesn’t exist for them.
I shift from leg to leg, rub my sore back, crane my neck to see if the Virgin is in sight yet. I think about Christ’s imploring eyes and wonder why I’m here. The trumpet thankfully interrupts, the drum beats again, brum brum, brum bum bum. A distant bell rings and the Nazarenos angle their candles towards each other forming a medieval-like arch over the street, they resume their silent shuffle. A slight hint of incense tickles my nose, the steady clanking of the swaying palio, (the canopy suspended over the statue) becomes clearer, flickering flames and the mourning Virgin finally appear in the distance above the white peaks. The second band, accompanying the Virgin, now marks the beat that the procession follows, sometimes slow and sorrowful, other times swift and exultant, but always steady and familiar. The costaleros (the men who carry the throne throughout the streets) sway the paso, gently rock it, inch it along or march it forward according to the music. The more frequently and elaborately they do this, the more the crowd applauds them. It is in hopes of seeing this spectacle that I wait so long for the Virgin to pass this corner I have staked as mine.
She is dressed in burgundy velvet, her black cloak, also velvet, is intricately embroidered in gold all the way to the end of it’s 4 meter train. The palio above her is embroidered to match. Her gilded halo shimmers in the night glow of candles and street lamps. The beautifully sculpted silver base overflows with white flowers: lilies, roses, carnations, freesias, gladiolas. She rests in front of us, I can hear the costaleros sigh in relief. A spontaneous saetero pays her homage, singing the traditional flamenco type song of pain and lament. At its end another admirer cheers Viva la Virgen, the crowd responds with Viva! They repeat this three times and the crowd breaks out in wild applause. The music begins again, the costaleros take their position and repay this homage with their beautiful display of maneuvers. As they progress down the street to the beat of the drum, the crowd’s applause lingers.
We have seen the entire procession, over sixty minutes standing still in the middle of a crowd, my body aches and I need air. I once again wonder why I do this, and why it means so much to me. My husband prods me on to the plaza to sit and have a drink. We watch the locals greet each other with kisses, and warm salutations and can’t help but notice the once-overs the women give each other in their show of new Spring fashions.
I ponder the contrast of the solemnity of Christ’s suffering paraded around town with this display of economic well-being, the full bars and restaurants, the festive atmosphere parading on the street corners.
Semana Santa in Andalucia, it simply magnifies what I have already concluded about the Catholic Church in Spain; it has become an institution of cultural rituals instead of spiritual support and moral guidance. What I find harder to conclude is what it has become for me.
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2 comments:
oh. my. what an amazing description, Amy. there is no way i could ever be-there-see-this so i do indeed appreciate your post. at the first level, i totally agree and was thinking it well before i reached your conclusion: it is indeed a unique cultural expression of what we know very generally as catholicism.
as a meditator and a prayer of the silent kind, these displays amaze me. i never want to disparage the way people different from myself celebrate their faith; i hope to learn something from each encounter such as this. and i detected that you feel the same way.
but at the same time these efforts seem so very human (vs. spiritual) and certainly religious (because of the content) but more for show then for devotion. but who am i to know what is in the minds and hearts of people who think differently from me.
i do know that catholicism in spain has a very special history. i respect that but i am simultaneously not sure of it either. perhaps we see it from american eyes and miss subtle meanings. i truly do not know.
but i am glad that you were there and reported back for us to see through your eyes. thank you.
smiles,
Maggie Rose
Maggie, catholicism is Spain has lost so much of the spirtual side. People say they are Catholic, just not practicing (read, they don;t goto church) I perceive that most have a limited prayer/meditive life and don;t place their lives in God's hands. Of course there are some who are regular church goers and active in the parishes, but they are a minority. The rituals however maintain a strong presence in society: first communions, church weddings, holy week processions, elaborate nativity scenes at Christmas.
It has taken a great amount of getting used to. Lots to talk about on the subject. We need one of those coffees and pie get togethers!
Happy Easter, Love Amy
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