“ ‘Pray to your Father in secret’ ” (Matthew 6:6).
Lent has begun, here in Bolivia and in all Christian communities all over the world. At Maryknoll, in lieu of our Wednesday morning conference, we observed Ash Wednesday with a prayer service led by the director of the Maryknoll Mission Center, Padre Alejandro Luis Marina. All students and all staff gathered in the mission center chapel and listened as Padre Alejandro offered an interpretation of the meaning of Lent. He broke it down into three parts; caminar, or walking alongside the poor who have been sinned against and suffered; convertir, or total change of heart and mind away from sin and destructive behavior, leading to group change and social transformation; and solidaridad, a profound sense and state of identity with our neighbors, especially the poor, and with all created things, leading to reconciliation and unity.
We did not merely listen to Padre Alejandro expound on these meanings of Lent. We enacted these meanings in ritual, gathered as we were in the chapel. First, for caminar, each of us wrote down on colored sheets of paper the evils that the peoples in our respective countries suffer. Second, for convertir, we named the evils we had just recorded. One side of the chapel would name the evil, and the other side would respond with the refrain, “Conviertas.” After this call and response, for solidaridad, we stepped out briefly from the chapel into the mission center garden to touch Mother Earth. Some of us caressed the flowers, grass, or leaves. I stooped to the ground and scraped out of it half a palmful of soil, still moist from the thunderstorm that flashed over two hours before. As I contemplated my dirty dusty fingers in the chapel, Padre Alejandro pronounced upon us the Church’s ancient formula of cosmic solidarity: “You are dust, and you are dust, and to dust you will return.” Then we anointed one another with blessed ashes, each one anointed taking the dish and anointing the next one. It’s the first time I have put a smudge on someone else’s forehead—usually I’m getting the business from a priest—but I did it, and I recited the formula in Spanish. With a final benediction from Padre Alejandro, we went on our way. Several of us remained afterward for the midday celebration of Eucharist with Padre Juan, another Maryknoll priest in residence at the mission center.
Then I returned to the convent. My school day is done, but my fast will continue until 8 o’clock, when the friars have dinner. While I take a siesta this afternoon, I will contemplate the Church’s program of social action for this penitential season—prayer, fasting, and giving. And, returning to the themes of yesterday’s post, I will ponder how to declare, in spirit and truth, “I have given up everything and followed you.” Today’s Gospel gives good counsel: begin to say this by saying it in secret to the One who is with me in secret.
Wednesday, March 6, 2019
Tuesday, March 5, 2019
La Vida Cotidiana
“Peter began to say to Jesus, ‘We have given up everything and followed you’ ” (Mark 10:28).
A more personal post today.
Ash Wednesday is tomorrow. But I woke up today with a Lenten melancholy after a night of worried sleep. In the chapel during morning prayer a surge of sadness surprised me, and there I was fighting back tears while we recited the Psalms. What was going on? I knew what was going on. Was it homesickness? No, it was not that; I do not want to go back to the United States right now. (Calm down, fellow Yanks. And don’t worry, Boston—you’ll always be Number One.) No, it is something else, not homesickness. I’ll invent a word for it: timesickness. What is this? Timesickness is wishing you could return to a time other than the present and do then what you are doing now. Or it is wishing the person you were at that time could be willing and doing what the person you are now wills and does. Finally, and worst of all, it can be the old person and the old person’s ways intruding on the present and undermining the new person who is striving to be and become. I feel a little bit of each of these.
Why do I feel timesick today? I am forty-one years old. I wish it had not taken me so long to get to this point in my life where I could embrace Jesus Christ and the Gospel and have a journey like this. I think of my friends who took the leap of faith when they were much, much younger and went abroad for language and cultural immersion, diving in from the deep end. Today I stand in awe of them for their courage, their faith, and their love … and their adventurous spirit. I think of the Confessions of St. Augustine and his ecstatic yet regretful exclamation: “Late have I loved you, O Beauty, ever ancient, ever new, late have I loved you.” I am timesick for the friends I never made. I am timesick for the love I never gave or received, or which I recognized too late.
There is something else, too, in this sadness, another dawning of awareness. It is not only a mourning for years spent not living the Gospel with abandon or embracing the extraordinary encounters it brings. It is also a lament for a lack of consciousness, a consciousness that prepares us for living “the joy of the Gospel,” to borrow Pope Francis’ phrase. This is a consciousness that is attuned to the joy and simplicity of everyday life, what some Latina mujerista theologians call la vida cotidiana. Today I think God and my guardian angels are trying to tell me not to underestimate the value of the good things in life, en la vida cotidiana, that I have left behind, or never had, to follow Jesus. Like Augustine, I am late to recognize the ultimate goodness of all created things in God, their ultimate beauty by virtue of the imprint of God’s holy name in them; and, in the breath of every living thing, an echo of the whisper of the Spirit who says, “Beloved.” But as I sit in this bus to Tarata, with Laguna Angostura, the Andes, and the Bolivian sky in my eye, I know I am also unlike Augustine. For I am even later in loving the beauty of things in themselves, or of people in themselves. How I have failed to appreciate the loveliness of life in itself, before or without the light of grace. Was the light of nature not enough for me? Which brings me back to the timesickness and that tugging, hollow feeling. How immature my renunciations for Christ seem today. It is one thing to give up things you don’t know, you don’t want, you don’t love. It is another to give up things you know, things you want, things you love. Doing the former is doing nothing at all. Doing the latter is everything, everything.
This brings me to today’s Gospel reading and my lectio, which hits home: “Peter began to say to Jesus, ‘We have given up everything and followed you.’ ” I never noticed that word, began, before. Peter began to say. Dear God, by your grace and mercy I think I am beginning to be able to say, “We have given up everything,” and really mean it, because now I know better the value of what I am leaving or have left. I value these things because God has put a love in my heart for these beloved ordinary things, these beloved ordinary people. I am beginning to say, “I have given up everything,” and it hurts. I don’t need to make a resolution to give up particular things this Lent. I feel a consciousness rising of everyone and everything I love. That’s enough to put me into a spirit of penitence—penitence for indifference, penitence for inattention, penitence for ignorance. To these dear ones and dear things I say, I am sorry I did not acknowledge you, I am sorry I did not appreciate you, I am sorry I did not attend to you. I missed the moment—I missed you—and in God’s name I am sorry, because now I have to go, and I do not have the right to carry you with me.
As for Peter, I wish to say to him, I have empathy for you. Often I have dismissed his declaration as pride: See, we did what the rich young man could not do. But I have a different impression of him now, today. Suppose Peter says what he says not to boast, but to express surprise and sorrow: surprise at discovering the real costliness of this grace, and sorrow because it hurts. He really is losing everything. Is Peter sad, is he longing, is he afraid? Well, I am trying to say what he is saying to Jesus, and this is what I feel, all of it.
Jesus’ response is unbelievable, yet so real and merciful. Peter will now receive everything he has given up and many times over, in joy and pain, in this life and eternal life. There is more behind these lines of Scripture. Up to now you have not been immersed in the love of God. So what. You are now. Give up. Live in this love.
No one gets to do over the past. The do-over is today. Dear God, thank you for bringing me this deeper consciousness, though it is bittersweet. Don’t let the old person overtake the new person you are creating. Keep fear and prolonged sadness away. Ease my timesickness and give me the courage and good cheer to do over yesterday with today, to rise to whatever arises in my life. Amen.
Postscript: I misunderstood what we were going to be doing today in Tarata. I thought we were going to have a k’oa for the celebration of ch’alla. Rather we visited the Franciscan fraternity that resides there and runs a retreat house. This morning we had a spiritual conference given by an Italian friar in residence. At midday we had a prayer service led by the student friars with a reflection on mercy, an examination of conscience, a call to repentance, and a renewal of our baptismal vows through a renunciation of old ways. Fitting, very fitting, but I confess my wandering mind was elsewhere. But I was brought back to attention, and to tears, by the solidarity of these brothers with one another, and by their convivencia. They are sharing life together, not only in the realm of grace, but also in the everyday, la vida cotidiana.
I finish this day’s entry under the shade of palm trees in the cloister garden at Tarata. I have wandered the ample grounds of this retreat house. I have seen a peacock; I have prayed at a wishing well; I was tempted to pluck the oranges and peaches from the trees. Lord, have mercy. Saint Augustine, pray with us.
Ash Wednesday is tomorrow. But I woke up today with a Lenten melancholy after a night of worried sleep. In the chapel during morning prayer a surge of sadness surprised me, and there I was fighting back tears while we recited the Psalms. What was going on? I knew what was going on. Was it homesickness? No, it was not that; I do not want to go back to the United States right now. (Calm down, fellow Yanks. And don’t worry, Boston—you’ll always be Number One.) No, it is something else, not homesickness. I’ll invent a word for it: timesickness. What is this? Timesickness is wishing you could return to a time other than the present and do then what you are doing now. Or it is wishing the person you were at that time could be willing and doing what the person you are now wills and does. Finally, and worst of all, it can be the old person and the old person’s ways intruding on the present and undermining the new person who is striving to be and become. I feel a little bit of each of these.
Why do I feel timesick today? I am forty-one years old. I wish it had not taken me so long to get to this point in my life where I could embrace Jesus Christ and the Gospel and have a journey like this. I think of my friends who took the leap of faith when they were much, much younger and went abroad for language and cultural immersion, diving in from the deep end. Today I stand in awe of them for their courage, their faith, and their love … and their adventurous spirit. I think of the Confessions of St. Augustine and his ecstatic yet regretful exclamation: “Late have I loved you, O Beauty, ever ancient, ever new, late have I loved you.” I am timesick for the friends I never made. I am timesick for the love I never gave or received, or which I recognized too late.
There is something else, too, in this sadness, another dawning of awareness. It is not only a mourning for years spent not living the Gospel with abandon or embracing the extraordinary encounters it brings. It is also a lament for a lack of consciousness, a consciousness that prepares us for living “the joy of the Gospel,” to borrow Pope Francis’ phrase. This is a consciousness that is attuned to the joy and simplicity of everyday life, what some Latina mujerista theologians call la vida cotidiana. Today I think God and my guardian angels are trying to tell me not to underestimate the value of the good things in life, en la vida cotidiana, that I have left behind, or never had, to follow Jesus. Like Augustine, I am late to recognize the ultimate goodness of all created things in God, their ultimate beauty by virtue of the imprint of God’s holy name in them; and, in the breath of every living thing, an echo of the whisper of the Spirit who says, “Beloved.” But as I sit in this bus to Tarata, with Laguna Angostura, the Andes, and the Bolivian sky in my eye, I know I am also unlike Augustine. For I am even later in loving the beauty of things in themselves, or of people in themselves. How I have failed to appreciate the loveliness of life in itself, before or without the light of grace. Was the light of nature not enough for me? Which brings me back to the timesickness and that tugging, hollow feeling. How immature my renunciations for Christ seem today. It is one thing to give up things you don’t know, you don’t want, you don’t love. It is another to give up things you know, things you want, things you love. Doing the former is doing nothing at all. Doing the latter is everything, everything.
This brings me to today’s Gospel reading and my lectio, which hits home: “Peter began to say to Jesus, ‘We have given up everything and followed you.’ ” I never noticed that word, began, before. Peter began to say. Dear God, by your grace and mercy I think I am beginning to be able to say, “We have given up everything,” and really mean it, because now I know better the value of what I am leaving or have left. I value these things because God has put a love in my heart for these beloved ordinary things, these beloved ordinary people. I am beginning to say, “I have given up everything,” and it hurts. I don’t need to make a resolution to give up particular things this Lent. I feel a consciousness rising of everyone and everything I love. That’s enough to put me into a spirit of penitence—penitence for indifference, penitence for inattention, penitence for ignorance. To these dear ones and dear things I say, I am sorry I did not acknowledge you, I am sorry I did not appreciate you, I am sorry I did not attend to you. I missed the moment—I missed you—and in God’s name I am sorry, because now I have to go, and I do not have the right to carry you with me.
As for Peter, I wish to say to him, I have empathy for you. Often I have dismissed his declaration as pride: See, we did what the rich young man could not do. But I have a different impression of him now, today. Suppose Peter says what he says not to boast, but to express surprise and sorrow: surprise at discovering the real costliness of this grace, and sorrow because it hurts. He really is losing everything. Is Peter sad, is he longing, is he afraid? Well, I am trying to say what he is saying to Jesus, and this is what I feel, all of it.
Jesus’ response is unbelievable, yet so real and merciful. Peter will now receive everything he has given up and many times over, in joy and pain, in this life and eternal life. There is more behind these lines of Scripture. Up to now you have not been immersed in the love of God. So what. You are now. Give up. Live in this love.
No one gets to do over the past. The do-over is today. Dear God, thank you for bringing me this deeper consciousness, though it is bittersweet. Don’t let the old person overtake the new person you are creating. Keep fear and prolonged sadness away. Ease my timesickness and give me the courage and good cheer to do over yesterday with today, to rise to whatever arises in my life. Amen.
Postscript: I misunderstood what we were going to be doing today in Tarata. I thought we were going to have a k’oa for the celebration of ch’alla. Rather we visited the Franciscan fraternity that resides there and runs a retreat house. This morning we had a spiritual conference given by an Italian friar in residence. At midday we had a prayer service led by the student friars with a reflection on mercy, an examination of conscience, a call to repentance, and a renewal of our baptismal vows through a renunciation of old ways. Fitting, very fitting, but I confess my wandering mind was elsewhere. But I was brought back to attention, and to tears, by the solidarity of these brothers with one another, and by their convivencia. They are sharing life together, not only in the realm of grace, but also in the everyday, la vida cotidiana.
I finish this day’s entry under the shade of palm trees in the cloister garden at Tarata. I have wandered the ample grounds of this retreat house. I have seen a peacock; I have prayed at a wishing well; I was tempted to pluck the oranges and peaches from the trees. Lord, have mercy. Saint Augustine, pray with us.
Monday, March 4, 2019
Tarata
I am cheating and pre-writing Tuesday’s post today. I may not have the time or energy to send you a dispatch tomorrow. That is because the friars are taking a day trip to the city of Tarata, which is located 35 kilometers southwest of the city of Cochabamba (that’s almost 22 miles for us, the remnant who use the imperial system). We are going to observe the ch’alla celebration, which is actually the same k’oa ritual that I participated in last Friday at Maryknoll. In addition to the first Friday k’oa rituals across Bolivia, ch’alla is always observed with great solemnity on the final Tuesday of Carnaval before Lent commences.
All of the friars in our household, the students, the padres, and brothers, are from Bolivia. Tuesday is another feriado, or national holiday. Of course they are going to celebrate ch’alla. And of course I am going with them to Tarata. This will likely be the most intense day of immersion yet for me, because I’ll be with the friars all day long, not only at appointed hours for prayer, meals, and social time. A continuous saturation in the language and culture of a people at a time of year when they crest the peak of pride in their identity, their country, and their customs. I imagine it will be fun, frustrating, invigorating, tiring, and moving, both by turns and all at once.
We leave at 9 a.m. from the convent—ah, a reasonable and godly hour! The bus will get us there in about an hour. We will return by 5 p.m. I asked Padre Juan Carlos and Padre Kasper, do I need to bring my breviary? No, but we will have prayers; I assume we will simply follow along with the k’oa of ch’alla. Do I need to bring money? No, but we will have lunch. (Who said there’s no such thing as a free lunch in life?) Do I need to wear my habit? No, está libre: you are free this day. When we return to the convent there will be no common activities that evening, either prayer, Mass, or a meal. If I am not fatigued, then I will send you a recap.
Pray that we have a safe journey to Tarata and back. Pray that God’s fiery spirit continues to make its dancing descent, coming close enough to bring light to my eyes and to sear my lips, shocking me into speech.
All of the friars in our household, the students, the padres, and brothers, are from Bolivia. Tuesday is another feriado, or national holiday. Of course they are going to celebrate ch’alla. And of course I am going with them to Tarata. This will likely be the most intense day of immersion yet for me, because I’ll be with the friars all day long, not only at appointed hours for prayer, meals, and social time. A continuous saturation in the language and culture of a people at a time of year when they crest the peak of pride in their identity, their country, and their customs. I imagine it will be fun, frustrating, invigorating, tiring, and moving, both by turns and all at once.
We leave at 9 a.m. from the convent—ah, a reasonable and godly hour! The bus will get us there in about an hour. We will return by 5 p.m. I asked Padre Juan Carlos and Padre Kasper, do I need to bring my breviary? No, but we will have prayers; I assume we will simply follow along with the k’oa of ch’alla. Do I need to bring money? No, but we will have lunch. (Who said there’s no such thing as a free lunch in life?) Do I need to wear my habit? No, está libre: you are free this day. When we return to the convent there will be no common activities that evening, either prayer, Mass, or a meal. If I am not fatigued, then I will send you a recap.
Pray that we have a safe journey to Tarata and back. Pray that God’s fiery spirit continues to make its dancing descent, coming close enough to bring light to my eyes and to sear my lips, shocking me into speech.
Las Iglesias
Here follows the post I promised you about three of the churches located here in downtown Cochabamba. Feel free to skip it if it reads too much like a grocery list.
Metropolitan Cathedral of Saint Sebastian
Catedral Metropolitana de San Sebastián
This is the mother church of what is today the Archdiocese of Cochabamba. It was founded in 1571. But the current structure dates to 1701-1735 and was built on previous foundations.
It is built in the baroque style common to Spanish colonial architecture. The church is grand in size. The building is shaped like a Latin cross, with a nave and flanking aisles forming the vertical bar of the cross, and a transept forming the horizontal bar. The church is covered with ribbed barrel vaults and a cupola or dome over the sanctuary. The interior is constructed with stone and adobe. The walls are covered in whitewash and its architectural details are gilded with gold paint. The vaults are adorned with vivid murals and filigree.
Let me walk you through the church and describe its iconography. In the south transept there is a niche with a statue of Christ crucified with figures of Mary, John, Mary of Magdala, and a friar looking on. Another niche holds a statue of Christ, Lord of Good Hope (Señor de la Buena Esperanza). A picture of Jesus the Divine Mercy, common throughout the Church, is present, as well as a figure of the Immaculate Heart of Mary. Finally, there is a picture of a local saint, St. Nazaria Ignacia March. In the north transept is a statue of St. Mary of the Holy Spirit (Santa María del Espíritu Santo), a statue of Nuestra Señora de las Mercedes (Our Lady of Favors), a picture of Our Lady of Guadalupe, and a picture of St. Expeditus, popular in South America. Behind the sanctuary altar is Christ crucified and statues of archangels. Down the aisles we find statues, bas reliefs, and images of the following: the Stations of the Cross; the Sacred Heart of Jesus and the Immaculate Heart of Mary; St. Catherine of Siena; St. Joseph; Our Lady of Lourdes (in an impressive grotto); two bishop-apostles; Pope St. John XXIII and Pope St. John Paul II; St. Rita of Bascia; St. Anthony of Padua; Christ scourged at the pillar; the Divine Mercy; St. Michael the Archangel; and St. Sebastian, patron of the cathedral. Miscellaneous: there is a cross from a fraternal group, Caballeros de la Santa Cruz; and two very old-fashioned-looking confessional stalls in which you sit or kneel facing the priest.
There are two entrances, at the west façade and the south transept, but the west façade is gated and locked, making the south transept, which faces Plaza 14 de Septiembre, the only way in and out.
The western exterior is constructed mostly of rough-hewn stone, with very few windows and little glass or brick. The bell tower appears to be of more modern construction, of adobe and stone, but I am not sure. The large wooden doors are carved with images of grapevines, palms, and shells. Two very small gardens front the façade. The southern exterior is built in two stories with a gallery and arcade with Corinthian columns. It is built with cut stone. It features a rose window. The northern exterior, facing away from the plaza, is a windowless wall of rough-hewn stone.
There are memorial tablets to the bishops of Cochabamba. I believe the bishops are buried at the cathedral.
The cathedral needs repairs. A development campaign to renovate the church is underway.
Church of Saint Dominic
Templo Santo Domingo
Metropolitan Cathedral of Saint Sebastian
Catedral Metropolitana de San Sebastián
This is the mother church of what is today the Archdiocese of Cochabamba. It was founded in 1571. But the current structure dates to 1701-1735 and was built on previous foundations.
It is built in the baroque style common to Spanish colonial architecture. The church is grand in size. The building is shaped like a Latin cross, with a nave and flanking aisles forming the vertical bar of the cross, and a transept forming the horizontal bar. The church is covered with ribbed barrel vaults and a cupola or dome over the sanctuary. The interior is constructed with stone and adobe. The walls are covered in whitewash and its architectural details are gilded with gold paint. The vaults are adorned with vivid murals and filigree.
Let me walk you through the church and describe its iconography. In the south transept there is a niche with a statue of Christ crucified with figures of Mary, John, Mary of Magdala, and a friar looking on. Another niche holds a statue of Christ, Lord of Good Hope (Señor de la Buena Esperanza). A picture of Jesus the Divine Mercy, common throughout the Church, is present, as well as a figure of the Immaculate Heart of Mary. Finally, there is a picture of a local saint, St. Nazaria Ignacia March. In the north transept is a statue of St. Mary of the Holy Spirit (Santa María del Espíritu Santo), a statue of Nuestra Señora de las Mercedes (Our Lady of Favors), a picture of Our Lady of Guadalupe, and a picture of St. Expeditus, popular in South America. Behind the sanctuary altar is Christ crucified and statues of archangels. Down the aisles we find statues, bas reliefs, and images of the following: the Stations of the Cross; the Sacred Heart of Jesus and the Immaculate Heart of Mary; St. Catherine of Siena; St. Joseph; Our Lady of Lourdes (in an impressive grotto); two bishop-apostles; Pope St. John XXIII and Pope St. John Paul II; St. Rita of Bascia; St. Anthony of Padua; Christ scourged at the pillar; the Divine Mercy; St. Michael the Archangel; and St. Sebastian, patron of the cathedral. Miscellaneous: there is a cross from a fraternal group, Caballeros de la Santa Cruz; and two very old-fashioned-looking confessional stalls in which you sit or kneel facing the priest.
There are two entrances, at the west façade and the south transept, but the west façade is gated and locked, making the south transept, which faces Plaza 14 de Septiembre, the only way in and out.
The western exterior is constructed mostly of rough-hewn stone, with very few windows and little glass or brick. The bell tower appears to be of more modern construction, of adobe and stone, but I am not sure. The large wooden doors are carved with images of grapevines, palms, and shells. Two very small gardens front the façade. The southern exterior is built in two stories with a gallery and arcade with Corinthian columns. It is built with cut stone. It features a rose window. The northern exterior, facing away from the plaza, is a windowless wall of rough-hewn stone.
There are memorial tablets to the bishops of Cochabamba. I believe the bishops are buried at the cathedral.
The cathedral needs repairs. A development campaign to renovate the church is underway.
Church of Saint Dominic
Templo Santo Domingo
The church was established in 1612 by the Dominican friars, the oldest establishment by a Dominican convent in the city. The present church was built in 1778-1794, replacing two earlier structures. The façade is made of carved stone and cut stone, with some brick. The portal features ancient wooden doors. There is also a bell tower, which may be of later construction. The rest of the exterior is built of brick, and carved stone, cut stone, and rough-hewn stone. The transept entrance also features enormous ancient wooden doors.
The interior is whitewashed adobe and rough-hewn stone. Again, very few windows and little glass. There is one nave with no flanking aisles, covered by barrel vaults. There is a small choir loft. There is a cupola or dome over the sanctuary. There is a fine baldacchino for the tabernacle behind the simple sanctuary altar. There is an ancient confessional stall and a modern confessional booth. This church is smaller than the cathedral. There is much less decoration and ornamentation in here than in the cathedral.
The interior is whitewashed adobe and rough-hewn stone. Again, very few windows and little glass. There is one nave with no flanking aisles, covered by barrel vaults. There is a small choir loft. There is a cupola or dome over the sanctuary. There is a fine baldacchino for the tabernacle behind the simple sanctuary altar. There is an ancient confessional stall and a modern confessional booth. This church is smaller than the cathedral. There is much less decoration and ornamentation in here than in the cathedral.
Let’s walk through the church and identify its iconography. In the nave you can find these statues and images: the Stations of the Cross; the Divine Mercy; St. Peter; the Sacred Heart of Jesus; Jesus carrying the cross; St. Catherine of Siena; St. Expeditus; St. Jude; St. Anthony of Padua; an unidentified saint; the Holy Trinity with flanking angels; St. John Vianney; St. Martin de Porres; the Holy Family; and a bishop-apostle. In the transept you can find the following: a statue of the Virgin of the Rosary (la Virgen del Rosario); a Byzantine icon of Madonna and Child; a statue of Jesus Christ the victorious Lamb of God; a statue of St. Dominic Guzman, founder of the Order of Preachers; and a figure of Our Lady of Sorrows.
Church of St. Francis
Templo San Francisco
Church of St. Francis
Templo San Francisco
The church is in the custody of the Order of Friars Minor (Franciscan friars). The church and convent are among the oldest buildings in Cochabamba. The church was first built in 1581 in a Renaissance baroque style. According to the Franciscans, it was rebuilt in 1782 and renovated in 1926. The current church has a single nave from the atrium to the sanctuary. There are two side altars. It featured a ribbed barrel vault in the neo-classical style with cupola before the sanctuary. There is a transept chapel dedicated to the Blessed Virgin Mary near the atrium.
The well-preserved exterior is adobe and stone and brightly whitewashed. A bell wall stands between the church and convent.
The showcase of the interior is an exquisite altarpiece carved in wood and painted with gold leaf. It is organized into three stories of ornate niches with the following figures: God the Father, St. Francis Solanus (San Francisco Solano), St. Dominic, the Immaculate Conception, Christ Crucified, St. Francis of Assisi, and St. Clare of Assisi. There is also a pulpit located halfway down the nave. It is also carved in wood and gilded in gold leaf.
The interior is very simple in appearance. It is built of adobe and stone has been painted to imitate the look of marble. There is a simple wooden choir loft. Within the ample sanctuary are three deacons’ chairs that have been restored. There is also a painting to commemorate the Franciscan mission to the whole world.
Let’s catalogue the rest of the iconography found in the church. In the nave, there are Stations of the Cross; an enormous statue of Saint Anthony of Padua; a statue of the Sacred Heart of Jesus; a statue of Mary Immaculate; a Madonna and Child flanked by two friars; the Virgin of Carmel; St. Benito of Palermo; St. Bonaventure; St. Jude; St. Sylvester; St. Joseph; St. Therese of Lisieux; St. Rose of Viterbo; St. James of Alcala; and St. Francis embracing Christ on the Cross. In the Marian transept chapel is another large statue of Saint Anthony of Padua and a statue of Our Lady Queen of Heaven with paintings of the Madonna and Child and also the Divine Child (el Divino Niño). On the other side of the transept are modern confessional booths, above which hang two intense-looking paintings depicting the divine inspiration of the Franciscan movement and its triumph with Christianity in the colonial conquest of the New World. Those paintings were made in different times with a different imagination for who God, Jesus Christ, and the Holy Spirit were and what God desired of Jesus’ followers.
Did I give you the picture you were hoping see? Forgive me if I did not. You can find photos of the Metropolitan Cathedral here, Templo Santo Domingo here, and Templo San Francisco here.
The well-preserved exterior is adobe and stone and brightly whitewashed. A bell wall stands between the church and convent.
The showcase of the interior is an exquisite altarpiece carved in wood and painted with gold leaf. It is organized into three stories of ornate niches with the following figures: God the Father, St. Francis Solanus (San Francisco Solano), St. Dominic, the Immaculate Conception, Christ Crucified, St. Francis of Assisi, and St. Clare of Assisi. There is also a pulpit located halfway down the nave. It is also carved in wood and gilded in gold leaf.
The interior is very simple in appearance. It is built of adobe and stone has been painted to imitate the look of marble. There is a simple wooden choir loft. Within the ample sanctuary are three deacons’ chairs that have been restored. There is also a painting to commemorate the Franciscan mission to the whole world.
Let’s catalogue the rest of the iconography found in the church. In the nave, there are Stations of the Cross; an enormous statue of Saint Anthony of Padua; a statue of the Sacred Heart of Jesus; a statue of Mary Immaculate; a Madonna and Child flanked by two friars; the Virgin of Carmel; St. Benito of Palermo; St. Bonaventure; St. Jude; St. Sylvester; St. Joseph; St. Therese of Lisieux; St. Rose of Viterbo; St. James of Alcala; and St. Francis embracing Christ on the Cross. In the Marian transept chapel is another large statue of Saint Anthony of Padua and a statue of Our Lady Queen of Heaven with paintings of the Madonna and Child and also the Divine Child (el Divino Niño). On the other side of the transept are modern confessional booths, above which hang two intense-looking paintings depicting the divine inspiration of the Franciscan movement and its triumph with Christianity in the colonial conquest of the New World. Those paintings were made in different times with a different imagination for who God, Jesus Christ, and the Holy Spirit were and what God desired of Jesus’ followers.
Did I give you the picture you were hoping see? Forgive me if I did not. You can find photos of the Metropolitan Cathedral here, Templo Santo Domingo here, and Templo San Francisco here.
Sunday, March 3, 2019
Corso
Yesterday a number of my fellow language students went to Oruro on a day trip to celebrate Carnaval. I opted not to join them on this excursion because you had to leave at 4 a.m. from Maryknoll to catch one of those intercity buses. No sleep, no deal. Also, I felt the cost of the trip was a little high. There will be other excursions in the offering in the weeks to come. When the day trip to Salar de Uyuni, one of the largest salt flats on earth, is announced, I will be there.
Anyway, from where I stand, Carnaval is everywhere this weekend. And this morning all I had to do was walk out the door of the convent, cross one block over from Calle 25 de Mayo to Calle San Martin, go up a couple of blocks toward Plaza Colón and El Prado, the promenade, and behold, there it was.
As you may know by now, Carnaval is not encapsulated in a single spectacle. It is a spectacle of spectacles. We had the feast of Compadres, the feast of Comadres, and the k’oa ritual at Maryknoll, and every city and town all over Bolivia has held or will hold parades and processions. Among these are the corsos, which are a grand spectacle of feasting, dancing, marching, merriment, and pranking. Downtown, the city of Cochabamba sponsors several corsos every Carnaval. This morning was the Corso Infantil, or Children’s Corso. Here’s a brief news article, but let me try in words to show you what I saw.
Babies, boys and girls, teenagers, young adults. Hundreds on the streets. All of them costumed or masked. Bumblebees and butterflies. Fairies and princesses. Clowns and harlequins. Every superhero, every supervillain. Lego figures and action figures. If you can imagine it, you could see it in the Corso Infantil. In additional to the masquerading children, many girls and young women, and boys and young men, paraded resplendent in the traditional clothing of the Aymara and Quechua folk. The children on the corso were accompanied by their parents; by the nursery, pre-kindergarten, or school to which they belonged; by the church they attended; or by other civic, fraternal, or social groups.
Did I mention that the name of the game was Soak and Get Soaked? And more than that: Spray and Get Sprayed. It is the custom for the children to throw water at each other, and you could see both adults and children armed with toy water guns. The weather happily complied with the mischief, as it rained steadily from mid-morning to late morning. But getting wet was nothing compared to getting sprayed with foam. Oh, yes, my friends: this is the highlight, indeed, the point of the corso. No matter what else is going on, whatever groups are dancing or marching up El Prado, the foam is flying everywhere. Everyone is armed with aerosol cans of espuma. The bystanders had espuma. The marchers had espuma. The kids, the teens, the young adults: everyone was a sniper, everyone was a target. (The most popular brand of choice was Rey Momo, which appears to be manufactured just for Carnaval. By the way, Rey Momo means King Momus, who is the king of carnivals in many Latin American countries.) So picture, if you will, the streets sprinkled white with foam; picture the gutters with runnels of white water; picture the espuma vendors keeping clean and dry in their ponchillos, trundling cases of aerosol spray cans. Sometimes the ground looked like the floor of a dirty bathtub or shower stall; and the people, tourists from Niagara Falls.
Does this sound a little like Halloween to you? Yes, I second that emotion. But it’s Carnaval, so it’s also a circus (I saw jugglers), an amusement park (I saw a carousel and dozens of concession stands selling every finger food and every beverage), a soapbox (thank you, dear children, who wore placards to protest violence against youth and promote the protection of water rights) and a concert (marching bands and las chacareras blasting from speakers on trucks). The lines between spectator and player are really thin. Everyone dresses up a little, even if only wearing a ponchillo. The pets were masked or costumed. Even the cars and trucks pacing the corso were masked or costumed. I was expecting to be pelted with water and espuma. Didn’t get a drop on me. Oh well?
Carnaval is a carnival, meaning everything is for sale, including the rows and rows of dirty, wet, plastic chairs lining the sidewalks of El Prado, on which you could have the privilege of sitting for 10 bolivianos. At first, I didn’t understand what the seat vendors were saying to me. Then they were waving a ten-boliviano note in front of me. Huh? Then they pointed the bill at the chair, and my dim bulb lit. I was indignant and thought they were scamming me. I asked a police officer, who confirmed that you had to shell out to sit down. No, thank you.
The sun is shining once again, the music has been silenced, and the aerosol cans are empty. So goes another corso in the city of Cochabamba. Although the sobriety of Lent will soon settle upon the city, and with it a different kind of cycle of spectacles, the corsos of Carnaval will continue for a few more weeks. I’d like to think that the overlap exists, peacefully, to remind us that the joyful mysteries of life have as much staying power, if not in fact more, than the sorrowful mysteries of life; and both of them are ultimately bound up together in the eternal and glorious mysteries of undying life.
Anyway, from where I stand, Carnaval is everywhere this weekend. And this morning all I had to do was walk out the door of the convent, cross one block over from Calle 25 de Mayo to Calle San Martin, go up a couple of blocks toward Plaza Colón and El Prado, the promenade, and behold, there it was.
As you may know by now, Carnaval is not encapsulated in a single spectacle. It is a spectacle of spectacles. We had the feast of Compadres, the feast of Comadres, and the k’oa ritual at Maryknoll, and every city and town all over Bolivia has held or will hold parades and processions. Among these are the corsos, which are a grand spectacle of feasting, dancing, marching, merriment, and pranking. Downtown, the city of Cochabamba sponsors several corsos every Carnaval. This morning was the Corso Infantil, or Children’s Corso. Here’s a brief news article, but let me try in words to show you what I saw.
Babies, boys and girls, teenagers, young adults. Hundreds on the streets. All of them costumed or masked. Bumblebees and butterflies. Fairies and princesses. Clowns and harlequins. Every superhero, every supervillain. Lego figures and action figures. If you can imagine it, you could see it in the Corso Infantil. In additional to the masquerading children, many girls and young women, and boys and young men, paraded resplendent in the traditional clothing of the Aymara and Quechua folk. The children on the corso were accompanied by their parents; by the nursery, pre-kindergarten, or school to which they belonged; by the church they attended; or by other civic, fraternal, or social groups.
Did I mention that the name of the game was Soak and Get Soaked? And more than that: Spray and Get Sprayed. It is the custom for the children to throw water at each other, and you could see both adults and children armed with toy water guns. The weather happily complied with the mischief, as it rained steadily from mid-morning to late morning. But getting wet was nothing compared to getting sprayed with foam. Oh, yes, my friends: this is the highlight, indeed, the point of the corso. No matter what else is going on, whatever groups are dancing or marching up El Prado, the foam is flying everywhere. Everyone is armed with aerosol cans of espuma. The bystanders had espuma. The marchers had espuma. The kids, the teens, the young adults: everyone was a sniper, everyone was a target. (The most popular brand of choice was Rey Momo, which appears to be manufactured just for Carnaval. By the way, Rey Momo means King Momus, who is the king of carnivals in many Latin American countries.) So picture, if you will, the streets sprinkled white with foam; picture the gutters with runnels of white water; picture the espuma vendors keeping clean and dry in their ponchillos, trundling cases of aerosol spray cans. Sometimes the ground looked like the floor of a dirty bathtub or shower stall; and the people, tourists from Niagara Falls.
Does this sound a little like Halloween to you? Yes, I second that emotion. But it’s Carnaval, so it’s also a circus (I saw jugglers), an amusement park (I saw a carousel and dozens of concession stands selling every finger food and every beverage), a soapbox (thank you, dear children, who wore placards to protest violence against youth and promote the protection of water rights) and a concert (marching bands and las chacareras blasting from speakers on trucks). The lines between spectator and player are really thin. Everyone dresses up a little, even if only wearing a ponchillo. The pets were masked or costumed. Even the cars and trucks pacing the corso were masked or costumed. I was expecting to be pelted with water and espuma. Didn’t get a drop on me. Oh well?
Carnaval is a carnival, meaning everything is for sale, including the rows and rows of dirty, wet, plastic chairs lining the sidewalks of El Prado, on which you could have the privilege of sitting for 10 bolivianos. At first, I didn’t understand what the seat vendors were saying to me. Then they were waving a ten-boliviano note in front of me. Huh? Then they pointed the bill at the chair, and my dim bulb lit. I was indignant and thought they were scamming me. I asked a police officer, who confirmed that you had to shell out to sit down. No, thank you.
The sun is shining once again, the music has been silenced, and the aerosol cans are empty. So goes another corso in the city of Cochabamba. Although the sobriety of Lent will soon settle upon the city, and with it a different kind of cycle of spectacles, the corsos of Carnaval will continue for a few more weeks. I’d like to think that the overlap exists, peacefully, to remind us that the joyful mysteries of life have as much staying power, if not in fact more, than the sorrowful mysteries of life; and both of them are ultimately bound up together in the eternal and glorious mysteries of undying life.
Saturday, March 2, 2019
Por el Momento
Some odds and ends for the moment:
After some uncertainty among the staff, it is now clear that my classes will move from the afternoon to the morning next week, March 4, not the week after. Six of the sixteen students among us are now finished with their course of study; yes, this happens even in the middle of a six-week term. Five of the students are missionaries with the Mennonite Central Committee; they will now begin their two-year assignments in La Paz and Santa Cruz. At least I think they have a two-year commitment. Too bad to see them go; I was just beginning to befriend a couple of them. The other departing student is a nun from Korea. There are enough teachers available in the morning for the five of us students who were in the afternoon shift to switch.
What is still unclear is whether I will rotate to new profesores with the time shift next week, or keep my tutors one more week. The rotation of tutors usually occurs at mid-term, after three weeks. We are only two weeks in.
Another heads-up: Monday and Tuesday are national holidays—Carnaval is on! Thus the Maryknoll Mission Center is closed, and there are no classes. I have yet to have a five-day week of classes. An easy yoke and light burden, indeed. This circumstance could make me complacent, then lethargic. Will my night owl’s body be willing to rise early enough to shower before morning prayer, gobble breakfast quickly, and make the commute via bus to Maryknoll, and be alert for four hours, until noon? We shall see.
The ten students who remain include the two Maryknoll seminarians from Kenya; two Maryknoll Lay Missioners from the United States; a priest from India; the other Korean sister; three lay persons (Ireland and United States); and me. A small but mighty group.
This morning and afternoon: homework and housework. I wrote several sentences about the attractions of Bolivia, cultural and natural, that make it superlative among the nations of South America and the world. I returned to the Metropolitan Cathedral and Templo Santo Domingo to gaze longer at the churches, inside and out, taking illegible notes in Spanglish to be rendered now into intelligible basic Spanish. As for Templo San Francisco, I can open the church at any time to look more deeply at the interior and prepare my description for Wednesday’s class. On my way through the neighborhood to the churches I passed at least five beggars, men and women, all of them native and not at all Hispanic in their appearance. I had toted a bag full of bread just for this trip, knowing I would encounter many poor. I gave away all the rolls I had. They understood pan and Dios te bendiga. But not all of them could see me. Dear God, how shiny and cloudy their sunken eyes! I’ve never seen blindness look as sickly as this. It’s scary. My own eyes were astonished, and my heart was moved with pity.
Back now at the convent with laundry hanging to dry and sharing with you all the things I see and hear. I promise to write about the churches in an extra post—I’ve got a four-day weekend—but I will write about them for my profesores first.
After some uncertainty among the staff, it is now clear that my classes will move from the afternoon to the morning next week, March 4, not the week after. Six of the sixteen students among us are now finished with their course of study; yes, this happens even in the middle of a six-week term. Five of the students are missionaries with the Mennonite Central Committee; they will now begin their two-year assignments in La Paz and Santa Cruz. At least I think they have a two-year commitment. Too bad to see them go; I was just beginning to befriend a couple of them. The other departing student is a nun from Korea. There are enough teachers available in the morning for the five of us students who were in the afternoon shift to switch.
What is still unclear is whether I will rotate to new profesores with the time shift next week, or keep my tutors one more week. The rotation of tutors usually occurs at mid-term, after three weeks. We are only two weeks in.
Another heads-up: Monday and Tuesday are national holidays—Carnaval is on! Thus the Maryknoll Mission Center is closed, and there are no classes. I have yet to have a five-day week of classes. An easy yoke and light burden, indeed. This circumstance could make me complacent, then lethargic. Will my night owl’s body be willing to rise early enough to shower before morning prayer, gobble breakfast quickly, and make the commute via bus to Maryknoll, and be alert for four hours, until noon? We shall see.
The ten students who remain include the two Maryknoll seminarians from Kenya; two Maryknoll Lay Missioners from the United States; a priest from India; the other Korean sister; three lay persons (Ireland and United States); and me. A small but mighty group.
This morning and afternoon: homework and housework. I wrote several sentences about the attractions of Bolivia, cultural and natural, that make it superlative among the nations of South America and the world. I returned to the Metropolitan Cathedral and Templo Santo Domingo to gaze longer at the churches, inside and out, taking illegible notes in Spanglish to be rendered now into intelligible basic Spanish. As for Templo San Francisco, I can open the church at any time to look more deeply at the interior and prepare my description for Wednesday’s class. On my way through the neighborhood to the churches I passed at least five beggars, men and women, all of them native and not at all Hispanic in their appearance. I had toted a bag full of bread just for this trip, knowing I would encounter many poor. I gave away all the rolls I had. They understood pan and Dios te bendiga. But not all of them could see me. Dear God, how shiny and cloudy their sunken eyes! I’ve never seen blindness look as sickly as this. It’s scary. My own eyes were astonished, and my heart was moved with pity.
Back now at the convent with laundry hanging to dry and sharing with you all the things I see and hear. I promise to write about the churches in an extra post—I’ve got a four-day weekend—but I will write about them for my profesores first.
Friday, March 1, 2019
Amigos Fieles
“Faithful friends are a sturdy shelter; whoever finds one find a treasure” (Sirach 6:14).
The season of Carnaval is reaching its peak in Bolivia. Our lesson at the Maryknoll Mission Center was to celebrate it, so there were no afternoon classes. Rather, all the students assembled at 11 in the morning to begin our festivities with the k’oa ritual.
K’oa in itself is not founded in Carnaval but in the Andean native tradition of reverence of Mother Earth, Pachamama, who has nurtured the peoples and given them every good thing. K’oa is a form of thanksgiving for the fruits of the earth, for the blessing of good homes, and the plenitude of material goods. The ritual itself takes the form of a burnt offering to the spirits that ensure the prosperity of the land and the people. So it is a practice that corresponds with the agricultural seasons, and in fact the k’oa is performed nowadays on the first Friday every month across Bolivia. But with the coincidence of Carnaval and the first fruits of the annual harvest, the k’oa of March takes on greater festivity.
We were given an explanation of the ritual offering by the Maryknoll staff. It was a little complex for me, but we learned the meaning by doing what the others did. In the garden of the mission center we prepared the mesa on which the offerings would be burned. On a flat surface laid over kindling, we spread an aromatic soil, and then we placed numerous dulces or sweets to symbolize the many little blessings of life. There were also laid upon the mesa larger confections to represent the major blessings of home, labor, wisdom, and the natural world from its surface to its depths. To this we added our own deseos or intentions, written on scraps of paper. Finally, the stillborn fetus of an animal (I don’t recall—maybe it was a llama) was placed atop the mesa. Before lighting the pyre we recited an Our Father and asked pardon for our sins, adding to the syncretism. Once the mesa was set afire, each person in turn poured chicha, a fermented drink made from corn, at all four direction points of the mesa while facing the sun. Each also took a drink of the chicha from the libation bowls.
From the garden we proceeded with music and dance to the gate of the mission center, where we raised plumes of incense, scattered candies, and set off firecrackers. We proceeded back to the language school, which we decorated that morning with streamers and balloons. After incensing every room of the building, we sat down to a hearty meal called puchero, made with lamb, potato, cabbage, and rice. (Yes, I ate a vegetarian version.) There was plenty of cinnamon water and cerveza at every table. Then the music and dance continued for a couple of hours. Your correspondent, who was bummed out yesterday because he could not play the bombo for the Comadres, got his satisfaction today! There were no musicians, only a DJ playing las chacareras and pop music from Latin America and the United States. I grabbed the bombo and banged on the drum in rhythm with the recordings, while everyone danced and had a joyful time.
My takeaway from today is that the k’oa is an act of reciprocity. It is our way of being faithful friends of the earth. It is a holy sacrifice acceptable to the earth that has given so much to us, to God its creator and protector, and to Christ, the first fruits of all creation, who dwells in every molecule of matter.
The season of Carnaval is reaching its peak in Bolivia. Our lesson at the Maryknoll Mission Center was to celebrate it, so there were no afternoon classes. Rather, all the students assembled at 11 in the morning to begin our festivities with the k’oa ritual.
K’oa in itself is not founded in Carnaval but in the Andean native tradition of reverence of Mother Earth, Pachamama, who has nurtured the peoples and given them every good thing. K’oa is a form of thanksgiving for the fruits of the earth, for the blessing of good homes, and the plenitude of material goods. The ritual itself takes the form of a burnt offering to the spirits that ensure the prosperity of the land and the people. So it is a practice that corresponds with the agricultural seasons, and in fact the k’oa is performed nowadays on the first Friday every month across Bolivia. But with the coincidence of Carnaval and the first fruits of the annual harvest, the k’oa of March takes on greater festivity.
We were given an explanation of the ritual offering by the Maryknoll staff. It was a little complex for me, but we learned the meaning by doing what the others did. In the garden of the mission center we prepared the mesa on which the offerings would be burned. On a flat surface laid over kindling, we spread an aromatic soil, and then we placed numerous dulces or sweets to symbolize the many little blessings of life. There were also laid upon the mesa larger confections to represent the major blessings of home, labor, wisdom, and the natural world from its surface to its depths. To this we added our own deseos or intentions, written on scraps of paper. Finally, the stillborn fetus of an animal (I don’t recall—maybe it was a llama) was placed atop the mesa. Before lighting the pyre we recited an Our Father and asked pardon for our sins, adding to the syncretism. Once the mesa was set afire, each person in turn poured chicha, a fermented drink made from corn, at all four direction points of the mesa while facing the sun. Each also took a drink of the chicha from the libation bowls.
From the garden we proceeded with music and dance to the gate of the mission center, where we raised plumes of incense, scattered candies, and set off firecrackers. We proceeded back to the language school, which we decorated that morning with streamers and balloons. After incensing every room of the building, we sat down to a hearty meal called puchero, made with lamb, potato, cabbage, and rice. (Yes, I ate a vegetarian version.) There was plenty of cinnamon water and cerveza at every table. Then the music and dance continued for a couple of hours. Your correspondent, who was bummed out yesterday because he could not play the bombo for the Comadres, got his satisfaction today! There were no musicians, only a DJ playing las chacareras and pop music from Latin America and the United States. I grabbed the bombo and banged on the drum in rhythm with the recordings, while everyone danced and had a joyful time.
My takeaway from today is that the k’oa is an act of reciprocity. It is our way of being faithful friends of the earth. It is a holy sacrifice acceptable to the earth that has given so much to us, to God its creator and protector, and to Christ, the first fruits of all creation, who dwells in every molecule of matter.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)