the cost of salvation

There are all sorts of memory triggers ~ sounds, smells, light, taste ~ that can hit you at strange times and call forth all sorts of remembrances. Venice really does have a magical light. I didn't believe it until I actually saw it. Florence, too. Paris has a smell; it's a mix of auto exhaust, bread, Galoise, coffee and mildew. I have only sniffed it one time outside of that city. In San Francisco while walking from the Ferry Building to the SFMOMA. I was stunned when it registered. Then there's the smell of Kenya; a distinctive sweet smell of burning acacia wood, the most popular and prevalent fuel used for cooking. Having been raised around a lot of churches, the scent of candle wax takes me right back to my childhood. I used to go with my father to a candle factory in the denizens of Olivera Street in Los Angeles where he bought the candles used in his parish. Another is the scent of certain flowers, stock in particular. These pungent, musky blooms that come in pastel shades of pink and lilac put me right back in the reception room in my parents' very large rectory in Coronado. They were nauseous then and still hit me the same way. There would frequently be a big bouquet of stock and gladiola ~ white or a sickly pink shade ~ on the mantle, the remnants of a funeral held in the church next door. I came to loathe the smell of stock and I'm still on the fence about glads. My father was not a "smells and bells" kind of priest so I didn't have to suffer through incense at services. Low church, you know.

When we were out at Tzintzuntzan on Thursday and went into the little church I was instantly alert to the fact that there were no candles burning, no smell of wax, no glow in the dark recesses of the nave. Anyone who has traveled anywhere in a Catholic country and has been dragged into at least one basilica, cathedral or small church has seen the banks of flickering votive candles representing the faith and hope of believers, or even non-believers (show me a miracle and I might believe so I'm lighting this candle to give You a chance). The first time Vicky and I went to Paris we traipsed through probably 15 churches of varying size and importance, from Notre Dame to the tiny chapel on our street. At each place we lit a candle and gave thanks for whatever we felt gratitude for at the time, "Thank You for the Louvre, Thank You for that delicious Cotes du Rhone last night, and Thank You God for everything." (That last bit was the first mealtime blessing we learned as children.) We picked up a long wax taper, lit it from one of the burning candles, lit a new one, blew out the taper, put our coin in the box, admired the beautiful, shimmering light, and went on our way until we found another church and thought of other things for which we were thankful. Mostly for being in Paris at all.


But such a ritual has changed. Now what you find are these battery-operated votives with a slot for your coins which, depending on how much you drop in, will keep one of these abominations going for the amount of time you have paid for.

I stood in this little church astounded at what I saw. No lovely flickering candles, no aura of light against the old adobe walls, no smell of candle wax to tickle the synapses, no mess of melted candle wax all over the place, and no sight of burned down candles to indicate how many prayers have been sent off in search of succor.

I am aghast at what the Pope has allowed.