A spiritual loss (net gain?)

One day I went to church in Pescosolido, which is a nice little jaunt up the hill from Le Mogli. I woke early, took a spongebath, put on a dress I found at the farm, borrowed a peacoat from my roommate, and went off with confidence that only a Jew can go to church with (will they know I don't belong? who says I don't belong? God belongs to everybody, etc). Church in Pescosolido starts at 7, not 8. So I was there for only 20 minutes. Which turned out to be a good thing. I didn't know any of the words (not really a bad thing, but I got some glares for not singing during hymns). I was seated next to the electric heater, which was blasting a hell-threat into my face. I wanted to take my coat off, but everybody else was still wearing theirs. I didn't want to rustle. And I couldn't pray because I couldn't take my eyes off Jesus's bloody knees. But I guess that's sort of the Catolico experience.

I went because I thought the church was lovely and elegant, and from the outside it is. I thought it would be peaceful to be around other believers. But the Jew in me says that these Catholics are idolators. There were statues of bishops and pictures of popes. And there he was, this man in 3D with blood on his knees, and around his scalp, blood, and his thin wrists and feet nailed to a cross. I couldn't take my eyes off. How are you supposed to pray with all this other stuff going on? But that's just it--you are not supposed pray, only to believe and eat styrofoam wafers.

Which brings me to my confession (how appropriate--Jews only ever confess to themselves). I tasted Jesus's flesh even though I have never been baptized, communioned, or confirmed. It was sort of an anthropological question. I have to say this. Why would Catholics want to believe that Christ tastes like styrofoam? OK, in America, the land of styrofoam food, this is excusable. But you would think Italians would want, even expect God to taste good. And why hasn't the church, which is losing membership, think about this? What if you went to church, and communion tasted like biscotti? You would have a little incentive to put on the leather shoes and get dolled up for father, son, and holy ghost.

But here's where I found my religion this morning. Here's why getting up at 6 am rocks. Half the country is in the daylight, half is still in night (moon)light. It's particularly dramatic because to get to Pescosolido, the road I walk on is a ridge between two valleys--to my left the morning, to my right, the night. The moon and one last star are fading into the soft blue glow of first light, and to the east a sunrise full of pink--the effects are such that you can imagine the day is in reverse. Stray animals bark and skulk away through brambles. I feel the cold air begin to warm. I am the only one outside. I feel like a witness and I want to testify--I can't believe the world is missing this moment. That is one of the reasons for writing, I suppose.