The Canticle of Brother Sun and Sister Moon
An Agnostic Reconciles with the Judgement of an Old God
The halls of the basilica echoed with the light taps of tip-toeing tourists. I, among them, wandered in awe at the height and glory of the structure. You did not need to believe in God to feel the piercing grace of His eye beneath the dome of St. Stephen’s Basilica. It was plain in every face and every hushed whisper.
Hundreds of statues inhabit Budapest, but those that adorn St. Stephens Basilica hold a heavier weight than most. Their stone-closed mouths seemed to hum a unified, deep Om. A note that resonated from the very foundation of the building.
A siren’s song released like steam from a kettle, drawing me both closer and farther from that moment in space and time.
My parents raised me as a Catholic and, even at my most Agnostic, I cannot shake the superstitions that shaped me. On holy days, I find myself at ease. If I wake at 3:00 am, I turn on a light to ward away whatever may lurk within the folds of the witching hour. But despite this susceptibility, my second thoughts are those of a skeptic. Whatever notion of God I may encounter, it is the Universe disguised.
In the Basilica, I felt the marble eyes of the saints upon what one might call my soul. Underneath the…
