Reliquarys and the soul

Italy has its own wonderful language, of course, but so does Catholicism. This bald man is St. Peter--well, some sculptor's impression of what Peter might have looked like. Without a doubt, every bit of his apparel has specific meaning--who are the figures on the breastplace?--but I didn't stay around and study long enough to learn what all of it was meant to teach. 

Busto Reliquiario de san Petro the little sign beside this work says and then thoughtfully translates for those of us who don't know the language--"Reliquary bust of St. Peter," which is helpful, but not totally clarifying if you don't know the language of Roman Catholicism, yet another tongue spoken throughout the country. 

If you haven't guessed, don't be alarmed. Took me forever, too. See that little hole in St. Peter's chest?--it contains something, I'm not sure what exactly, but something, something really significant, a relic. Maybe something of the robe St. Peter was wearing when he was martyred--I honestly don't know. But it's a relic, and the entire bust is called a "reliquary" because its function is to store the relic, or relics, while honoring them and him as well. What's inside the bust, in other words, is vastly more to be cherished than the bust itself. 

All of this--and more--I had to learn in Italy, in a half-dozen cathedrals and basilicas, each of which could have been studied and analyzed for a semester and more. There across the room and over St. Peter's shoulder is yet another reliquaries (I'm not sure how to spell the plural)--see the case? And here's another from the same room.

Once again, I'm not sure what's inside, but be assured it's precious. 

The thing is, even if you're a Protestant and you don't necessarily long to be Roman Catholic, when you're in the presence of reliquaries, the only mode is silence.  Nobody parties in cemeteries, after all, and anything spoken in a room full of relics like this one is done is whispers.

I've got a number of Zuni fetishes up behind me on a shelf. They're perfectly beautiful little animals. I don't worship them, but they are, in the basement, rather prominently displayed a shelf above the buffalo skull, which has very little beauty itself on its own. But the skull is a kind of "relic" too. That's blasphemy to some, I know, but stay with me. My much beloved buffalo skull is unrelated to the disciples or the apostles or the life of scripture, but obviously I honor it by its prominence in the room. If you have doubts about my faith, be sure that just across the room there's picture of a hippy Christ and a crucifix, a big one, in fact. 

My grandpa's Navajo rug up on the wall here too, and up on the top shelf behind me is a little sign from my childhood bedroom, something I'm sure my mother put there, a sign that has stayed with me for most of my own 70 years: "The Lord is My Shepherd" it says, in whitish letters that once upon a time glowed in the dark.

All of us hold tight to that we believe precious. Last night, a whole circle of French people sang something, some hymn maybe, each of them knew by heart as they watched Notre Dame burn. This morning, I'm sure if you google, you'll find dozens of breathtaking, almost unearthly pictures of the flames amid the ruins.

It's hard to estimate the loss of whatever is gone in that world treasure. To put it in monetary terms--no matter how many zeros you tally, the amount will always somehow come up short because yesterday in Paris, something of the human heart was lost, something, really, of the soul.

We--all of us really--lost something of our soul yesterday.

The good news, this Easter week, is that still there remains so much more to know, so much more to honor, so much more to worship. No matter what burned, the soul remains. Thanks be to God.