As soon as I step inside the
darkened church, the anxiety I feel over the looming war fades. My
thoughts focus on God and the beauty surrounding me rather than Iraq
and increased threats of terrorist attack.
I notice the congregation singing. I
can barely make out the words, when the chant repeats they become loud
enough to hear.
"Ubi caritas et amor,
Ubi caritas Deus ibi est."
I get a song sheet and slip into a
pew. I allow the music to wash over me. With each new chant, my
thoughts focus on the words.
"In God alone my soul can find
rest and peace, in God my peace and joy."
While I sing, I study my
surroundings. Brightly colored stained-glass windows dramatizing
Biblical scenes grace the sanctuary. Murals of angels and saints
decorate the vaulted ceilings. Stations of the cross adorn the walls.
An altarpiece holding a crucifix and statues of saints is at the East
end of the church. In the middle of the sanctuary a fountain shaped
like a cross softly gurgles. A mahogany altar in a Tau shape stands on
a circular platform in front of the pews. A crude wooden cross is
propped against it. Two rows of vigil candles lead to the cross.
"Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia,
Alleluia."
When
I hear these words, my attention is drawn to a woman sitting on the
floor in front of the cross. She begins reading the gospel;
"Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of
heaven…"
After the reading, several minutes
of silence follow, the gospeler invites the congregation to name
people or things they want to pray for.
"Pray for peace in the
world."
When the prayers end there another
period of silence, then the chanting resumes. I watch a man ascend the
steps to the altar, light a stick of incense, pick up the cross, carry
it down the stairs, and place it on the floor. Several people gather
around: kneeling, they touch the cross with their forehead, place
their hands on it, and remain in this position for several minutes.
As the chanting ends, lights
brighten signaling the end of the service. I put my coat on and
walk into the night.
Once inside my car I turn on the
radio: "About 90 minutes after the lapse of the 48-hour deadline,
explosions were heard in Baghdad."
When I hear these words, I shiver.
In the span of a few minutes, I journeyed from a place filled with
serenity and peace into a world filled with war and violence.
fading sun
day is done
melancholic
Magazine