shopping trip proved to be an unearned benefit that she chose not to squander.
Less than 10 minutes later, I arrived at the chapel. I couldn’t believe the crowd. Cars filled the parking lot and buses lined the road. Over a hundred tourists milled about on the ramp, in the courtyard, in the chapel, and in the gift shop. I’d never seen so many people at the chapel.
The exterior of the Chapel of the Holy Cross hadn’t changed over the last 40 years. The structure had weathered the elements and the altitude. The spiritual nature of the site, on the other hand, had changed dramatically.
Inside the chapel, I was shocked by the absence of the Christus. It felt empty and cold. I knew the figure wouldn’t be there. I thought I’d prepared myself.
Seeing the bare, sterile cross, framed against the stunning backdrop of the red sandstone buttes, made me angry. As beautiful as the architecture of the chapel is and as breathtaking as the view from the site, I no longer felt the transcendent experience that I’d felt every other time I’d been inside the sanctuary. The Church had lost, mislaid, or forgotten a treasure of incalculable value.
I felt uncomfortable in a place that had once provided a peace that carried me through a year’s worth of fear and fatigue in a deadly combat zone. I couldn’t disguise my torment.
“You look upset, fella,” a tourist from Massachusetts said, as I stood and stared at the barren cross. I could tell he was from New England by his accent.
“I am.”
“Why? This place is serene and beautiful. I’ve never seen anything quite like it and I’ve been all over the world.”
“I grew up around here. There used to be a figure of Christ on that cross. It’s different in here now.”
“How’s it different?” The man asked, as he took a picture of the inside with his iPhone.
“It used to be a real church. My parents and I went to mass here. Now, it’s a barren tourist attraction. They took the Sistine Chapel and made it into a bingo hall.”
“Forgive me, fella. I’m not Catholic. Tell the truth, I’m an agnostic. I think there’s intelligence out there, but I have a hard time believing in an anthropomorphic divinity that lives in the clouds and interacts with humanity. I’m glad the Catholics decided to be reasonable about this place. It’s too valuable to be a church.”
“What?” I said, not believing what I’d heard.
“You been downstairs to the gift shop?” The man asked, as he put his phone away.
“Not yet.”
“Well, my Catholic friend, take your credit card. It’s pricey down there. I’m sure the Pope makes a ton from the proceeds for those trinkets.”
“The new Pope is a Jesuit, my agnostic friend. He’s the first in the five-hundred-year history of the Order. He took a vow of poverty. He won’t see a penny.”
“Sure, he won’t,” the man said, as his wife pulled him away to catch the tour bus at the bottom of the ramp.
“Harry, we’ll be late. We’re going to the Asylum for dinna,” she said in her own Bostonian manner.
The Asylum is a restaurant in Jerome, an old mining town southwest of Sedona on State Road 89A. The restaurant used to be a loony bin. Or if that’s too insensitive: a sanctuary for the mentally ill. Seemed like a good place for the New Englanders.
I did go down to the gift shop. The man was right. The Church had attached a healthy bump to the cost of their products. After ten minutes in the shop, I noticed a youthful, quite striking, Hispanic woman behind the counter.
She had long, black, silky hair, deep-brown eyes, a prominent nose—reminiscent of the Aztecs—and a lovely olive-brown complexion. As I watched her, she waited on the customers with an enthusiasm bordering on flirtation.
I smiled, walked over to the counter, waited for her to free up, and then asked her if the gift shop carried any items related to the Christus.
“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what you mean.”
I told her of the story of the
Less than 10 minutes later, I arrived at the chapel. I couldn’t believe the crowd. Cars filled the parking lot and buses lined the road. Over a hundred tourists milled about on the ramp, in the courtyard, in the chapel, and in the gift shop. I’d never seen so many people at the chapel.
The exterior of the Chapel of the Holy Cross hadn’t changed over the last 40 years. The structure had weathered the elements and the altitude. The spiritual nature of the site, on the other hand, had changed dramatically.
Inside the chapel, I was shocked by the absence of the Christus. It felt empty and cold. I knew the figure wouldn’t be there. I thought I’d prepared myself.
Seeing the bare, sterile cross, framed against the stunning backdrop of the red sandstone buttes, made me angry. As beautiful as the architecture of the chapel is and as breathtaking as the view from the site, I no longer felt the transcendent experience that I’d felt every other time I’d been inside the sanctuary. The Church had lost, mislaid, or forgotten a treasure of incalculable value.
I felt uncomfortable in a place that had once provided a peace that carried me through a year’s worth of fear and fatigue in a deadly combat zone. I couldn’t disguise my torment.
“You look upset, fella,” a tourist from Massachusetts said, as I stood and stared at the barren cross. I could tell he was from New England by his accent.
“I am.”
“Why? This place is serene and beautiful. I’ve never seen anything quite like it and I’ve been all over the world.”
“I grew up around here. There used to be a figure of Christ on that cross. It’s different in here now.”
“How’s it different?” The man asked, as he took a picture of the inside with his iPhone.
“It used to be a real church. My parents and I went to mass here. Now, it’s a barren tourist attraction. They took the Sistine Chapel and made it into a bingo hall.”
“Forgive me, fella. I’m not Catholic. Tell the truth, I’m an agnostic. I think there’s intelligence out there, but I have a hard time believing in an anthropomorphic divinity that lives in the clouds and interacts with humanity. I’m glad the Catholics decided to be reasonable about this place. It’s too valuable to be a church.”
“What?” I said, not believing what I’d heard.
“You been downstairs to the gift shop?” The man asked, as he put his phone away.
“Not yet.”
“Well, my Catholic friend, take your credit card. It’s pricey down there. I’m sure the Pope makes a ton from the proceeds for those trinkets.”
“The new Pope is a Jesuit, my agnostic friend. He’s the first in the five-hundred-year history of the Order. He took a vow of poverty. He won’t see a penny.”
“Sure, he won’t,” the man said, as his wife pulled him away to catch the tour bus at the bottom of the ramp.
“Harry, we’ll be late. We’re going to the Asylum for dinna,” she said in her own Bostonian manner.
The Asylum is a restaurant in Jerome, an old mining town southwest of Sedona on State Road 89A. The restaurant used to be a loony bin. Or if that’s too insensitive: a sanctuary for the mentally ill. Seemed like a good place for the New Englanders.
I did go down to the gift shop. The man was right. The Church had attached a healthy bump to the cost of their products. After ten minutes in the shop, I noticed a youthful, quite striking, Hispanic woman behind the counter.
She had long, black, silky hair, deep-brown eyes, a prominent nose—reminiscent of the Aztecs—and a lovely olive-brown complexion. As I watched her, she waited on the customers with an enthusiasm bordering on flirtation.
I smiled, walked over to the counter, waited for her to free up, and then asked her if the gift shop carried any items related to the Christus.
“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what you mean.”
I told her of the story of the
Similar Books
