God’s comic

On the cathedral there is a statue of a woman. She holds a pilgrim’s staff in one hand, in the other a torch. Her eyes are wrapped in cloth so she cannot see. Our tour guide, Sandra, with her red umbrella, small Madonna mic and red speaker swinging from her belt, who we followed for two hours around Santiago yesterday, told us the statue represents faith.

Now, inside the church, I wait for mass to start. You and your Mum are currently lining up to view the tomb of St James, to kiss his statue, something I have already done. Well, not the kissing part, but I did place my forehead against the cold stone shell on his back. That’s all you get to see when you file past because the front of him is facing outwards into the cathedral and the path, which goes under the altar to the tomb then weaves around behind it, is separated from the rest of the space by wooden bars.

It’s a strange procession, an antline inching down into dark stone passages, up narrow stairs, looking out into the vastness of the cathedral through railings and secret vantage points. As though we’d stolen our way back there, furtively, carefully, lining up to steal a secret kiss from a saint.

Now I want to reiterate again that I didn’t kiss the saint, I’m not Madonna (a reference that will be explained when you see the Like a Prayer music video). I just laid my brow on the shell on the back of his head. But I did linger. I felt the pull of the experience, as though my head were being drawn down, and I took time to reflect on the path we’d taken to reach that place. Not the antline, but the longer one that stretched out across the last month like a ribbon pulled out of me. We’d followed the same shell for weeks, finding it crudely swiped in yellow paint onto rocks and buildings, on the road beneath out feet, or nailed to a tree, painted on a piece of tin. It was a symbol I didn’t know much about when we started but which came to represent everything about the camino by the time I finished.

I became aware of the person shuffling behind me when I laid my head upon the sculpted stone. The antline was waiting for me to move on and the church had positioned someone there to monitor our progress, ready I guess to ask people to move on, in case anyone might linger too long or become too emotional with the back of this saint’s bust. Like I said that person wasn’t me but as I lowered my head I wanted to feel something. I wanted to stop there for a while, to not disregard this procession, this object, this act of devotion. I pressed my forehead to the cold stone and felt the vertiginous pull of the shell as I yoked myself to the memory of our journey and I wanted to stay but, after what seemed like only a breath, I straightened up and moved on.

Saint James. Saint Jacques in French. Iago in Italian. In Spanish it’s the same, hence Santiago. The city is named for him. So said Sandra of the Madonna mic yesterday, in her tinny amplified voice as we raised our heads to observe the paths of stars and statues and saints and hermits and apostles and kings lining the streets and buildings around us. She said this city exists because of the pilgrimage, it is built for pilgrims.

During the tour we felt proud because the group was a mix of tourists and peregrinos and Sandra mentioned the efforts of the pilgrims often. She honoured our travels and our commitment to the journey we had taken, and we saw that the city did too when she revealed it to us.

And I think,

we have inched our way here, across the face of the earth, through deep dirt paths.

Like worms.

Worms are blind, so is the statue of the woman who represents faith, is that what we are? Or aspire to be? One hole for eating, the other for shitting, not much in between, coiling ourselves through the earth, prostrated before something we cannot see, can barely imagine.

The church is filling with the faithful. And the less so. Tourists gawk at everything like it’s a sideshow and I feel strangely protective of the devoted among us. I watch you return from the crypt and climb in next to me on our wooden pew. I shuffle over until I come into contact with the person next to me, head bowed already, hands clasping the wood of the seat in front. The pews are filling up and I’m glad we got here early because we are in a great position to watch the mighty Botafumeiro incense burner swing, if it does swing today.

Sandra of the red umbrella told us the Botafumeiro stands at over a metre tall and takes eight men to swing it. It reaches speeds of over seventy kilometres per hour as it passes over the altar and was built originally to fumigate the noxious odours of the pilgrims, to cleanse them because they were so filthy from their travels. It swings side to side across the transept of the church which means it will pass, if they swing it today, directly above our heads.

It’s not scheduled to do so, but that doesn’t necessarily matter. They only swing it on special days of the year but when Sandra of the red belt asked the group if anyone had already seen it, they all seemed to say yes. That’s because you can pay 400 euros for the privilege and in a church as packed as this one is, with large groups who have travelled halfway across the world and walked at least 100 kms to get here, like crawling, creeping worms, chances are not bad that someone will cough up.

There is an excitement building as more and more people enter. We got here early, originally thinking we would just have a look and then leave, but you’ve been pretty enthralled with the glamour of it all, so we stayed for midday mass. Every now and again, when the excitement translates into too many voices, a nun steps up to a microphone behind the small wooden fence that separates the altar from the rest of us, and declares “Silencio”. Her amplified voice pushes out into every part of the cathedral, that enormous cross of stone, and I lean over and and ask you how the crypt was. “Pretty good” you tell me. I ask if you hugged the bust of the saint and you say you put your hands on it “like this,” putting your hands forward, palms facing up.

We have a short whispered conversation about God and I mention a book I once read called The Name of The Rose, by Umberto Eco which, apart from being a medieval murder mystery, also debates whether Christ had a sense of humour. Together we try to make up some Jesus jokes without being sacrilegious.

Jesus doing stand up on the cross, you offer as a suggestion. Or the devil to his demons, “hot in here or what?” You catch yourself and look around. “Is that ok?” You worry. I reassure you it’s fine although, to be honest, who knows?

The mass will start soon. The nun is lighting candles, her voice rings out “Silencio”, the lights are changed to draw attention towards the altar. Everything is sombre, charged with ritual older than I can imagine. Above us I see the Botafumeiro hanging from its platted rope getting ready to perform its duties, we hope. To purify, to cleanse. As Sandra of the squeaking speaker pointed out yesterday, the camino might have been difficult and uncomfortable for us, but in the middle ages many pilgrims would die along the route and by the time the survivors arrived in the city they were diseased, filthy, nearly destroyed by their efforts. There were no alburgues on their path, no donativos, cafes, ice creams, cafe con leches, foot massages, luggage services, horses. Only suffering and exaltation.

You look up at the ceiling. We’ve been in here for nearly three hours but, surprisingly, you are still into it. You tell me it’s one of the most amazing places you’ve ever been. Apparently the graphic nature of Spanish Catholic symbolism and storytelling appeals to you.

“Does God have a sense of humour?” you ask.

“I think so.” I say.

You think about it. A voice calls “Silencio” and the chatter in the cathedral dips. The air is rife with symbolism, anticipation, the charged nature of ritual. In the quiet you lean over to whisper into my ear.

“Living eternally,” you tell me, “you’d want to have a sense of humour.”