Chiesa del Carmine

Scott Nelson

11 July 2018

Yesterday I walked into a church somewhere in Lecce. It wasn’t the first I had visited that day, let alone that trip, nor was it the last. At first it was ordinary in every way: it was moderately sized with six shrines in the aisles, three on each side. But then I would slowly come to realize there were no tourists inside. I looked first to my left and caught the sideways glance of a tanned old man, murmuring his prayers. I couldn’t make out the words and I wasn’t particularly interested in making the effort, especially as he looked momentarily offended by my sudden presence, not to mention that I did not kneel and make the sign of the cross upon entering the house of the Lord. To my right was a shrine whose centrepiece was a carving of St George slaying the dragon with the words “QUIS UT DEUS” encircling his head. I’m still perplexed as to the significance of the image’s juxtaposition with the message.

I made my way down the right aisle and stopped at the second shrine to see it was missing a painting in the centre. What was its purpose then and who or what was meant to be the object of veneration? In place of a painting there were old religious trinkets behind a pane of glass. I paused for a minute to reflect on the notion of paying respect to idols and objects, before then remarking to myself that this is probably how Islam views Christian worship of imperfect images of its holy figures…but I didn’t have the energy to embark on another endless line of inquiry, so I continued onward toward the altar.

An old man dressed in black with a white collar was shuffling about the altar. He appeared to be arranging and rearranging various items. He wore sandles and his robe was short enough that his feet could be seen clearly. I paid him little attention until he flicked a switch and I noticed that the candle lights all around the church buzzed to life. They shed little light that hadn’t been there before – I had arrived late afternoon and so the interior was still brightly illuminated by natural light – but somehow I began to see more clearly. Several of the light bulbs failed to turn on and needed to be replaced. The old priest scuffled to a seat at the side of the altar where he slowly and carefully set himself down, glancing periodically in the direction of the pews.

As I strolled casually around the church I began to notice just how run down it was. I brushed one of the walls with my hand and part of the surface crumbled as I made contact. My eyes crept upwards along the wall, carefully, lest my very gaze should cause the structure undue stress, before they were captured by the organ pipes above. Many pipes were in shoddy condition, cracked, bent, or outright broken.. It seemed doubtful that such pieces of crooked timber could produce any harmony. I then turned to the altar, pristine in comparison, but bedecked with plastic flowers. From a distance, when I entered, they lent the entire place a vivacity with their vibrant red colour; up close they appeared almost clownish in their artificiality. Behind the otherwise magnificent altar hung a great white and blue sheet, not quite successfully concealing the dilapidated sanctuary. I proceeded to the other aisle and began to walk back to the entrance. The shrine nearest the altar was a tomb for a family whose name I’ve since forgotten. It was barren of inscription and ornament, save for two potted plants in the centre. Unlike the altar flowers the plants were real but wilted. I continued on my path and came to a rusty box implanted awkwardly in the wall. The message above indicated it was a donation bank for needy children. I fished around for what little loose change was still swimming in my pocket and pushed it through the slit in the box, wondering as I did which needy children would receive help and what kind of help they would receive.

When I came full circle to the entrance of the church I turned around to survey it once more in its entirety. The old tanned man was still murmuring. There was another old man with a noticeable hunchback in one of the pews at the front. Old ladies – some so short and feeble that they must have been scarcely taller than my waist – moved reverently about from shrine to shrine. One of them kept approaching a piece of writing on the wall in the left aisle before returning to a shrine and then once again to the writing. My simmering curiosity was brought to a boil when she did this for a third time. I waited politely but a bit impatiently for her to leave so I could inspect more closely this mesmerizing piece of writing. The writing was in a footprint positioned above her line of sight so she had to arch her neck upward to decipher it while I had to stoop to make it out. The script was small and it explained that the footprint was a replica of the Virgin Mary’s footprint, whose original (mold, cast?) was somewhere in Spain. The text went on to inform me that if I kissed it thrice I would be given 300 years indulgence in the afterlife. I smirked with compassion and disgust, sympathy and haughtiness as I recalled the Church’s shameless sale of indulgences throughout history. I could not hate the institution with all of its arcane traditions and practices since it still brought peace to some souls, but the souls were all old and close to expiring, at least in this church. Another old woman then walked into the church with a look of consternation. The priest, now dressed all in white, came down from the altar, his bare feet still visible in the sandles, and proceeded to the woman. He clasped her hands warmly and spoke in tones soft and inaudible, wearing compassion, serenity, and boundless charity on his face. He now interacted with others of the congregation. There were not many but they all seemed to feel at home in one way or another. There were three rows of pews followed by several rows of chairs – 19 rows in all. Should the congregation swell beyond expectation there were extra chairs stacked all around in various corners of the church. With only a few elderly people indulging in tradition in an unkempt church, would these additional chairs ever be needed?

The year 1956 was carved into the floor at the entrance. Why 1956? I could not possibly reconcile the meaning of this crucial year with a small church in southern Italy. In 1956 Britain, France, and Israel launch an unsuccessful campaign to reclaim the Suez Canal from the Egyptian Arab nationalist, Gamal Abdel Nasser. The United States intervenes against this display of imperialism, and the European states’ hopes of recovering their past glory are lost forever. China initiates the Hundred Flowers Campaign, ostensibly designed to signal a radical shift in policy and promote free speech and criticism of Mao’s regime. In reality it serves only to expose the most outspoken and free thinking critics of the regime, and they are then promptly annihilated. Khrushchev gives his “Secret Speech” at the 20th Party Congress of the Soviet Union, divorcing Soviet policy from the revolutionary terror and personality cult of the Stalin years. When Hungary, desirous to return to its proud national tradition, revolts against the USSR later in the year, around the same time as Suez, Khrushchev rolls into Budapest with tanks to suppress it. Many commentators in the West are preoccupied with Suez and overlook this naked display of old-fashioned Russian imperialism.

I emerged from the tired church to the sounds of cheering and church bells, but they were coming from elsewhere. As I walked around the block I saw a group of cars gathered around another church. Wedding guests poured outside to congregate around the young, happy couple. I stopped for a moment to watch them throw rice on the newlyweds and then I continued on my way, the jovial cries slowly fading behind me.