Atheist Meditations

Yesterday my work took me to a place that I never thought I would see - the inside of a nunnery.

As a survivor of catholic schooling, to be back inside an institution of the catholic faith was a trip on the way-back machine for me. The iconography, the silence so thick it clings to you as you soft shoe down the long hallways. There is something special about a convent, like the culture of catholicism has been taken to a whole new level. These women have devoted their lives to an Idea, and they have devoted their lives to a power structure that is decidedly top down.

The chapel in this convent really is stunning. We were working in the 'cloisters' (I don't know if we got the term right) which are the two hallways that slant up towards the balcony behind the chapel. The balcony is home to the enormous pipe organ, along with a built in risers for a legion of choir. A few rows of pews overlook the chapel proper. Down in the chapel, a small stained glass window brings a pure blue light of the Madonna down onto the altar, illuminateing a cavernous chamber of dark wood. There is nothing quite like the power of catholic architecture.

I've always been able to comprehend catholics. With ancient churches and the knowledge of the masons devoted to creating spaces that awe the soul, I can understand how someone might participate in a mass at St. Peter's cathedral and feel a honest connection to something bigger and more powerful them oneself.

That's why I don't get the evags - they just gather in some big warehouse space - now a MegaMcChurch - and watch their minister on a T.V. screen. Beware of any 'man of God' who wants to use television!

So anyways, I don't have any problem working for a bunch of sisters. One code to life that I've never had reason to question be 'Respect your elders.' I may not agree with their world-view, but the combination of receiving payment and elder status means that I'll be shutting my damn mouth for the next few days.

This was particularily difficult when I wandered down the wrong hallway and gazed at the collection of artwork generated by the sister's of the order over the last few generations. There was an innocence and purity in the subjects of these works; farms, pastoral woodlands, flowers, groovy seventies patterns. But Sigmund Freud would have had to let out a snicker when he walked by - the images were just goofily blatent. Penis, penis, vagina, vagina, penis, penis, vagina . . . Is that a farm's silo or is it a giant yellow dildo?

Consciousness sure is amusing.