Black Madonna
Another face of the Mother
Spain
One of my sisters posted some pictures from a hiking trip in Northern Spain. Among them was one of the Black Madonna in the Basilica of Montserrat, a monumental church perched high on a mountain, not far from Barcelona.
It brought back memories of my own visit to the place: how scary the steep, winding road had been, how awe-inspiring the building and its rock-strewn surroundings, shrouded in clouds; how enchanting the youth choir’s Evensong in Latin, and finally, how mesmerizing the statue of La Moreneta on her throne, with a globe in her right hand and the infant Jesus sitting on her lap.
After the Vesper service, believers silently filed past the statue to reverently touch or kiss the hand holding the globe, through a circular cutout in the glass screen. They reminded me of worshipers in a Hindu temple — only the elation and the offerings of flowers and sweets were missing. In a Catholic church, solemnity reigns.
At the time I was a rationalist, not spiritual at all. Yet somehow, I couldn’t help feeling something in the air that invited to contemplation, an awareness of another dimension.
