It’s quite easy to be cynical about religion and spirituality in today’s world, and it doesn’t help that you’d be largely justified in your attitude.
Thanks to familial circumstances, I've rubbed elbows with priests and so-called holy men. I’ve subjected myself to (people who think of themselves as) philosophers discussing matters of Scripture and its interpretations in my attempts at obtaining a higher education. I’ve lost a friend - no, a brother - to the institution of the Church. And yet, I've never felt an ounce of grace or holiness in any of these places or within any of these men.
The person underneath this scruffy silhouette isn’t a priest but a groundskeeper. He cleans the wax drippings from the candle stands, he sweeps the floors, and, despite feeling quite uncomfortable about having to do so, he informs tourists that taking pictures is prohibited unless they’ve paid for a permit. And I had - it cost about the same as a hot dog - so I showed him the receipt, which lead to his apologising profusely and doing his best to stay out of my way. After speaking to him, however, I was no longer interested in photographing the Cathedral. I wanted was to take a photo of him, to somehow capture what I'd felt in his presence.
I didn’t ask for his name or his permission, but I couldn’t resist slicing off a moment of his life as I was heading for the exit. He was in the middle of lighting a candle for someone who is no longer among us, so I have mixed feelings about sharing this profoundly intimate moment here. These mixed feelings are precisely why I’m writing all of this out: I’m desperately grasping at some sort of moral which to impart, a means of justifying my trespass.
Thanks to familial circumstances, I've rubbed elbows with priests and so-called holy men. I’ve subjected myself to (people who think of themselves as) philosophers discussing matters of Scripture and its interpretations in my attempts at obtaining a higher education. I’ve lost a friend - no, a brother - to the institution of the Church. And yet, I've never felt an ounce of grace or holiness in any of these places or within any of these men.
The person underneath this scruffy silhouette isn’t a priest but a groundskeeper. He cleans the wax drippings from the candle stands, he sweeps the floors, and, despite feeling quite uncomfortable about having to do so, he informs tourists that taking pictures is prohibited unless they’ve paid for a permit. And I had - it cost about the same as a hot dog - so I showed him the receipt, which lead to his apologising profusely and doing his best to stay out of my way. After speaking to him, however, I was no longer interested in photographing the Cathedral. I wanted was to take a photo of him, to somehow capture what I'd felt in his presence.
I didn’t ask for his name or his permission, but I couldn’t resist slicing off a moment of his life as I was heading for the exit. He was in the middle of lighting a candle for someone who is no longer among us, so I have mixed feelings about sharing this profoundly intimate moment here. These mixed feelings are precisely why I’m writing all of this out: I’m desperately grasping at some sort of moral which to impart, a means of justifying my trespass.
So let it be this: Be what others pretend to be.
