When Bells Ring

October 2, 2011

We are flying south from Quito towards Cuenta, as one great snow clad volcano after another appears out the left hand window. They are nearly perfect cones, like Mounts Ranier and Shasta, made even more beautiful by the slanting rays of thesetting  sun. I can see why the great Prussan explorer, Alexander von Humboltd, traveling  through Ecuador in the 1700s in search of the tallest mountain in the world, christened  this part of the Andes “The Avenue of the Volcanoes.” Humboldt’s name should sound familiar to most of you Californians because many places in our state have been named in his honor-Humboltd County, Humboldt State University, the Humboldt Trail, Humboldt Peak , to name a few. Down here in South America, the cool waters of the Humboldt Current  moving north from the southern reaches of the continent  that allow penquins to live on the equator in Galapagos.   

Thoughts of penquins and Humboldt  fade away as the plane’s wheels  touch down in Cuenca, the most colonial and beautiful of Ecuador’s cities. Jeri and I are not particularly fond of cities, but Cuenca immediately won us over. Red tile roofs, a beautiful river, narrow streets, peaceful plazas, and a people proud of their heritage and way of life. The place is also full of churches. On the way in from the airport, our taxi driver described the residents of Cuenca in an interesting way. He said they are “very Catholic.” And that they are.  There are 52 churches here, one for every week of the year.  And what churches they are- huge cathedrals, neighborhood chapels, blue -domed basilicas- all very old and beautifully crafted by fine artisans and builders.  Spain, itself, couldn’t be any more impressive.

After settling in in our hotel by the river, I found myself in Cuenca’s main plaza, admiring its plants and people- subtropical trees covered with yellow and blue blossoms, huge Norfolk pines, even azaelas in bloom. Rufous-colared sparrows forage in the trees, as teenage girls walk by in their school uniforms, giggling as only teen age girls do.  It is spring here in the southern hemisphere. Sitting and strolling in this beautiful square is like visiting another time- slow, quiet, and pensive, in a word, civilized. 

I wander over to the corner of the plaza to a flower market where the indigenous ladies are as colorful as the bouquets they are selling.  Bells begin to ring in the tower above, then stop, and resume again.  It says Santuario Mariano above the large carved wooden doors on the church’s entrance. People walking by who do not go into the church cross themselves, then raise their fingers to their lips and walk on. Those who enter do the same, and I follow them in. The narrow high ceilinged space is decorated to the nines with statues and murals and filigree. There is gold ( or gold paint) everywhere. I notice signs listing the times for confession. 

As I wait on a hard bottomed pew, half way towards the altar, the church slowly and quietly fills with worshipers. It is 11 o’clock on a Wednesday  morning, no special occasion as far as I can tell. The audience is mixed- old timers in need of hip transplants, conservatively dressed middle-aged men and women , nuns with downcast eyes, the successful, the poor, the serene, and the sad. There are indigenous ladies with their dark hair covered by bright while shawls, and backpackers who have suddenly found their religious roots. This is a functioning, everyday place of worship, not like the empty cathedrals of Europe, or the churches of our country, locked 6 days out of  7.

The mass begins with singing-lovely women’s voices accompanied by an organ. The acoustics are nearly perfect, and the music settles the audience and focuses their attention.  People in the pews sing along. Up front a very old priest, wearing a beanie and clad in white, is helped out of his chair by a junior attendant, and the service begins. There are many prayers, readings, and what I gather is a sermon. It’s all in Spanish, so I really don’t know what is going on, although I do recognize “Glory, Glory, Hallelujah,”  and the frequent use of the word “Senior,” which I presume refers to the Man upstairs. At one point, the priest gives a command and the fellow in front of me turns and shakes my hand. I do the same with the lady to the left, and the couple behind. These gestures seem to be genuine expressions of welcome, and I half expect one of them to say “Namaste,” as they do in Nepal, meaning “I greet the god within you.” It’s now time for communion, and nearly all of the worshipers walk forward to have a wafer placed on their tongue by the priest. Once this is done, the music and singing begin again. Everyone stands and listened, many lost in their own thoughts.  As they leave the church, their face seem relieved of their burdens, ready once again for the world outside.  Below the altar, with its flying angels, and the statue of Jesus suffering on the cross, the priest kneels for several minutes with his head bowed. An hour has passed and the service is over.

 So what do I make of all this? I am not a Catholic, not even a Protestant. Long separated from the hellfire and brimstone of my Baptist youth, the kindest thing you can say about me is that I am a sincere un-believer.  Yet on this morning, in this church, watching these people, I felt something special. Some of you will say it was God, others will say that it was the mood of the place, with its tinted windows and arches and beautiful art work, and the rest of you will simply conclude that I have gone bonkers. What I do know is those beautiful volcanoes I saw from the plane evoked similar feelings. In my view, the churches and the mountains towering above them are all sacred places.

Volcan Cotapoxi roughly 19,000 feet

Flower Market outside El Carmen de la Asuncion

Mass inside El Carmen de la Asuncion

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