he whole time, a group of a dozen men and women sat in the front pews at the edge of the stage, where images coursed on the screen and the electronic musician fiddled with his dials and the flautist played. They held booklets and prayed aloud. At times one of them read a passage or a prayer, and then it was time for them all to pray together, aloud. Their voices blended into the rest of the noise inside, but sometimes there were spaces, brief pauses, and then the prayers, echoing off the stone, were all you heard. I sat there for probably close to an hour, watching, listening.
It wasn’t the manicured, curated space of a North American church building. It hummed, and it was thick with the sacred living in stones and wood shaped by human hands and choices. It was complicated because, well, it is.
The people who worked, played, wandered, practiced, and prayed that Thursday afternoon? There was no single reason for what anyone was doing — on the surface at least. They were here to earn some money, to honor the dead, to practice their craft, to see the sights, to fulfill a duty, to learn something, because they were tagging along, because they were curious, because they just needed some quiet. Praying hearts that day that had landed in that basket for countless reasons: habit, gratitude, fear, love, desperation, sorrow, confusion.
On the ground near the Jesus-plucking-hearts-from-the-basket tableau, there stood a small glass box. In the box was a painting representing the Trinity: Jesus on the cross, with white-bearded God the Father, arms outspread, over him, and the dove of the Holy Spirit underneath.
