I huddle in the corner of an old damp ruin with my red votive candle hoping the little light and warmth will show me the way.
Old Church ruins are damp, cold and heavy. Sometimes I wonder if the dampness is the tears of the people who prayed in these walls. As the stones fall the tears are released weeping.
I feel a deep sense here of peering into the past and maybe into the future. Building made of stone still at least partially standing. Was that how their faith was constructed too? Standing strong in the hardships of life, the stones weeping with them. Absorbing their prayers, their pain, and holding it.
Now Churches are made from Butler buildings dressed up with a stone facade, or wooden structures set at diagonals – very modern in the 1970’s. Music then was grand Masses and Oratorios by great composers, now guitar music designed to touch emotion.
Is that why faith seems as disposable as the buildings that contain it?
I will keep wandering ruins, hiding in the corners, touching the walls. I admittedly wander confused about my faith caught seemingly between worlds. And I do hope my red votive shows me a path, likely dim and seldom walked, but a path none the less.