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Essays, Opinion, & Commentary |
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September 27, 2004
by Carol Hoenig
Unlike archeologists digging deep beneath the deserts in the Middle East for credible proof that the stories in the Bible were more than just that, my exploration is less physical and more mental and goes upward, far beyond into the blue heavens. However, because I am still earthbound, my resources are limited and somewhat single-minded. Still, after having immersed myself in the ambiance of Saint Patrick's Cathedral in Manhattan and other less notable churches, I made it a point while recently being in London to explore the world-renown houses of worship, Westminster Abbey and St. Paul's Cathedral. To be surrounded by such glorious artifacts, I couldn't help but think about beliefs, about the faith each of us have. Or don't have. Of course, these houses of worship are steeped in a history that goes beyond people's religious faith, but perhaps not beyond what they fervently believed. Perhaps Mary, queen of Scots, can explain this dichotomy better than I, when she said to her jailer, Sir Amyas Paulent in 1586, "As a sinner, I am truly conscious of having often offended my Creator and I beg him to forgive me, but as a Queen and Sovereign, I am aware of no fault or offence for which I have to render account to anyone here below." The remains of Mary, queen of Scots, along with other history makers, are buried in the depths of these churches, which stirs a wonder in me. I don't concern myself about the garments they wore or the food they ate. No, I am far more inquisitive wanting to know if the faith they'd practiced while living brought these souls to where they believed their final destination would be, or if it had been some horrible, empty surprise when they arrived elsewhere, if they'd arrived anywhere at all. I'm not thinking so much about heaven, hell or any place in between. No, it's more my curiosity about their tete-a-tete meeting with their Creator and less about where they have settled for eternity, far from the reverent surroundings their bodies were laid to rest. Did they discover their decreed persecutions in the name of religion were misguided, no matter how justified they thought they were in defending their faith? Or, upon their arrival did their Creator say, "Well done, thy good and faithful servant?" While spending time of solitude in these houses of worship, I tried to remain very still and exhume a modicum of the spirit represented on the monument, to glean an understanding or even a hint of some sort of answer. However, the only voices I heard were those respectful whispers of the living shuffling their way through the sanctuary. Any unrealistic longing to hear a voice, small or otherwise, from the other side telling me that the gold and grandeur that built the place for supplication are unimpressive to the maker was indeed unmet. Because, even though the craftsmanship and years upon years of confounding and tedious toil to build the magnificent structures in order to give praise to the God of all ages stirred an amazement and fascination in me, I wanted to confirm that God in His majestic kingdom prefers simplicity and uncluttered asceticism. That is to say, I want the one who demands my belief, also ask nothing more from me other than an uncomplicated faith -- a faith that can accept those who do not believe, or even a faith that does not need a quorum to be validated. It is a difficult longing when my eyes looked up to see mosaics of prophets and saints dedicated to a time when religious persecution was prevalent, when it is prevalent still today. From the meticulous murals to the marble pillars there is evidence in a passion to create a space in an attempt to approach the unapproachable, to worship the one who no man has seen and yet, every man is left to seek in his or her own way. However, far above the vaulted ceilings is where I have my focus, my heart trained in hopes of getting an answer, if not from the spirits who have passed on but from the one who built the very foundations of the heavens and earth. An arrogant thought, to be sure. So, I again return to thinking about the voices from beyond that I emphatically long to hear and wonder would they now be forgiving and contrite or would their tones be harsh still, their manner autocratic, their pious will unyielding? Or, with their passing, have they finally heard that one voice demanding, "Be still and know that I am God"?
Carol Hoenig has had a short story selected for the anthology Drive, She Said and a "slice of life" story selected for another anthology yet to be published, entitled Wild Horses and Young Stallions. Woman This Month, a publication based out of Bahrain, has recently acquired her essay, "Old Friends" and another essay was published in Raw Story. Her short story, "Monster Truck," was published by Pindeldyboz publication. She has been published in the Long Island Historical Journal, and for over a year wrote a monthly book review column for Long Island Voices. Besides writing essays and commentaries, she is working on her third novel. This essay is copyright (c) 2004 by Carol Hoenig. Published here by permission of the author. Enrich your life with a book about religion... Enrich your life with a religion magazine...
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