Corpus Christi

From across the valley the bells of what the locals know as the Cathedral of the Highlands begin to clang. They start a little anxiously, ungainly at first, taking time to build into something like a communal sound. Though it is evening, the sun is still high and I imagine the bell-ringers, hot and impatient, swinging into action. Bystanders begin to gather outside the church. The doors of the houses are festooned with palm fronds arching over the ground laid with flowers and ferns; wild herbs–camomile and rosemary–throw out their fragrance as they are crushed underfoot. 

Standing at the open doors of the church looking in at the congregation, I confess that I am a little jealous. I observe the faithful bound in a symmetry of tradition and hope. Faith is something that requires only their presence. To be there. With each other. Nothing more. All the petty rivalries, neighbourly disputes, infidelities and secretly harboured desires washed away by the living blood of this celebration, the Corpus Christi. 

The band has been hanging about outside too, pulling at their uncomfortable uniforms. At a signal from within they strike up, brass bugles echoing through the narrow streets. The particular sound of a village band where melodious harmony submits to determined enthusiasm. High up in the Sierra de los Nieves, there is a haunting Arab inflection that hangs inside the notes of the music. As the procession leaves the church, the priest carries the ostensorium–a silver vessel with starburst rays containing a symbol of the living eucharist. The blood and wine made flesh. He walks under a canopy held aloft by the chosen few of the congregation. There seems to be a pecking order among the ladies who follow in their finery. The most pious first, teetering precariously on high heels as they carry candles and serious faces. Others follow, children processing in sailor suits or with wings on their backs, women in traditional high veils. Everyone kissing the monstrances round their necks. An acolyte has clipped his vape on the same purple lanyard, giving the impression his holy relic is giving out smoke. The crowds gather in behind as the church empties. An old lady in ill fitting shoes is supported by her daughter. She has lost her sight but cannot have the other families knowing. 

Since discovering my father’s family were originally Scots Catholics, my curiosity has been piqued. I find myself drawn to the theatre and symbolism of the church–the glitter and bling of it. But also the sheer humanity of penitence, the craven humbling to greater power.

Brought up in an especially dour religious home, where belief was an act of dry intellectual certainty, I think I would have flourished better where my many human frailties were confessed and forgiven. 

I have always been susceptible to the power of mystery, the unknowability of things. I can hear the thin wailing of Islamic El Andalus in the wonky music of the band as they bumble past. Something further back even, perhaps it is the pagan notes that linger.