Mazarife

I was going to go to the pilgrim mass at the cathedral at 7:30 before leaving Leon, but I got there early and, not being willing to wait 20 minutes before hitting the road, I decided to just take a picture for you before heading out of town. I had spent a few hours in the cathedral yesterday, praying and thinking and admiring the amazing artistry of the human hand in the stained glass, the frescos, and the sculptures, but the churches here give me an overwhelming sadness. Maybe a few of the artisans did their work to the glory of God, but mostly these churches, and especially the cathedrals, seemed to have been built to the glory of kings, queens, bishops, and conquerors of one sort and another. All trying to gain immortality in this world, puffed up with importance, but ultimately, like all of us, our bodies at least, just dust in the wind. And where in all this earthly splendor are the teachings of that gentle rabbi, Jesus? He who taught us to simply love God and each other and not concern ourselves with earthly treasures? Oh yes, you can find a gruesome crucifixion scene or two. But the living Christ I do not find. In all of the Spain that I have seen, and admittedly this is limited, the churches are museums struggling to maintain their ancient walls, most busy for a wedding or funeral, attended on Sunday by a few old women and men. I have seen one newly built church which startled me into noticing that I had seen no other. Then I think of our little church in Brandenburg, bursting with life and bustling with energy almost every day of the week, busy with people about their Father's business. What a contrast! I put two photos here, one of the Rose window of the cathedral, (truly gorgeous on the inside with the light shining through). And one of the graffiti that was directly across the street that the travel posters never show. I was glad to get back into the countryside and the wee villages! One more little thing to tell you that made my heart glad: as I walked through a village I met a man with a huge scythe over his shoulder strolling in from the fields. He smiled when he saw me and said, "Vene a Santiago?" When I nodded and said, "Si," he held his palm out, checking for rain and looking up at the sky. (It was sputtering rain.) "Poco a poco," he said. "Si, poco a poco, little by little," I nodded. That's how you get there.
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