The Student
Saturday, January 30, 2010 at 18:55 There’s something fascinating about a lighted candle, especially in the darkness of church. I am the proverbial moth inclined to light one; holding the half-inch piece of wax in its container of cheap foil awkwardly upside down over the open flame of another. The wick catches and I place it with the others on the metal frame, the collective setting resembling a Christmas tree of sorts whose lights paint the immediate walls with shadows steady and a soft orange glow.
The altar to the front/center of the room is barricaded in black burglar proofing forged in repetitive patterns of four circles fused into a somewhat diamond shape, the very top of which is embellished with sharp curved tips resembling the points of spears used in medieval times. The rounded posts located two meters apart throughout the altar area form the corners of one or more imaginary squares when viewed from above; and the arches connecting them run from left to right, front to back, and diagonally across, dividing the ceiling contained in each of those very squares into four triangular sections, each section adorned with a painting of the mother or son, or some other important biblical personality in faded colours of red, gold, and aquamarine. And just then I am distracted by a holy man walking past. Preparations for the service to begin shortly are underway.
There are four of them; all clad in white fleece robes with sleeves wide enough to fall to their waists if their arms were held horizontally outstretched. One of them switches on the lights - and electricity seems so absurdly out of place in this setting. Two others set about flipping through holy books binded in hardcovers of red, the exposed edges of their pages appearing two shades lighter. And the last shushes two persons in the front left pew; the gesture reminding me of a skit with Mr. Bean doing likewise whilst playing with figurines in a storefront Christmas display.
Eventually a hush falls as the service begins. Three of the holy men are positioned against the curved wall at the back of the altar with two of them standing in little wooden frames - similar to those metal cages that thrill-seekers secure themselves to in those amusement park rides before being spun wildly up into the air. They read in unison, as if singing almost, but not quite, pausing for up to five seconds or more between verses as if each were waiting on the other to start the next line. Then they all fall in. They chant in Latin, or so other foreign language cos' I understand not; but that combined with the richness of their voices echoing throughout this ancient sunken chamber only adds to the experience. To the side of the altar are maybe six persons seated in dining chairs, all in casual wear, some of them strolling in minutes after the session has started, all reciting on cue as per the pamphlets taken from a wooden box up front.
I look at this, somehow in awe of it all cos’ I have never witnessed this before. I am not religious but I have respect for it, and that involves at minimum embracing the desire to better understand it. Cos’ I am a student of life. I am here to learn. And I sit quietly in the second pew on the right next to the main aisle, watching, listening. It makes sense to do so.
Reader Comments (3)
Nice entry...
it may not have been latin....if the mass was in latin the priest would have had his back turned to the congregation.
Happy you lit a candle..you did more than listen and learn you know...cause by doing these two things you became a part of it
heh.. there is something about churches.. sacred spaces, that create the same hush, the same silence that makes you silent inside... mostly anyway. unless you're spontaneously combusting.
Brilliant! Your writing style is wonderful! I feel like I was there! A student of life... I like it! It is true... we learn until we die.