On this feast, it’s traditional to exalt the Eucharist and the church settings in which liturgies occur. Here’s a different take: the church of Sao Domingo in Lisbon, Portugal. It’s located cringingly close to the building, now a theatre, which was once headquarters of the Inquisition, but its inside is refreshingly damaged. With little of the gold that gleams from many Mediterranean churches, this one is scorched and battered. After two earthquakes and a fire, someone decided to leave it unrepaired. (Imagine the committee meeting discussing that decision!) While there’s still a bit of the obligatory glitz, it’s nicely offset by the wreckage. Statues of saints look worn and scruffy—no ruby collars nor jewel-encrusted robes.
Perhaps the appeal lies in its silent response to the question many of us have, seeing other overwrought and opulent sanctuaries: what about the children starving while the church money poured into marble decorations? Or maybe we recognize a kindred spirit, knowing ourselves to also be as battered and bruised as these columns and walls. When we’re honest, we see how we can be a quirky, beloved mess. If the church reflects that inner state, we feel more at home there, instead of feeling unfit, like the klutz out of place in a spiffy setting.
We come to this feast, or to any Eucharist out of need, not self-glorification. Jesus knew exactly what to give us: not another code of law, gleaming sword or eloquent book, but the simple nutrition of bread and wine. Then as he accomplishes his work in us, we are often unaware. See photos of the dinged church, its tattered beauty for yourself:
Kathy Coffey 