The Faith of a Nation

Catholicism, like coffee, is omnipresent in this nation. It is subtle and unobtrusive, so that its piety soaks into my hair and skin without me noticing, and I imagine I will only realize it – like the smell of coffee that infuses my clothes, when I am back home in the States. 

The Spanish conquistadors left a glorious legacy in their stone churches, convents and monasteries. Nearly all of these structures are crumbling today, but the profundity of the original monuments cannot be ignored. With my language school, we visit La Merced, whose three-story edifice is decorated in bright yellow and startling white. The grand church has been destroyed by earthquakes and rebuilt several times, so that her current incarnation is centuries apart from the initial construction. Still, the structure carries a proud elegance, and we marvel at her beauty as we walk the central aisle. Along the sidewalls and tucked into naves, we admire the wooden statuary from the years of Spanish occupation. We visit the former convent and look in on ceramic vessels that once held ceremonial wine, dating to the 16th century. There is a fountain that adorns the central courtyard and a living area for monks. 

For all its splendor, La Merced is only one of the more than 50 churches spread across this colonial city. At every turn, I seem to come across more church ruins, from the petite structure of Hermano Pedro to the Romanesque ruins on the eastern rim of the city. My favorite is an unassuming set of ruins less than half a block from my host family's home. During the day, the structure is unremarkable, especially compared to the bright flamboyancy of La Merced. At night, lights highlight the stone exterior, but even then my little church is hardly noticeable. It is when the lights go off, sometime near midnight, that the spot transforms. In the dark, the stone outline of the church is highlighted against the black night, and the shadows that lurk in bare windows and somber doorways carry the mystery of the Catholic faith. 

After a late-night movie, a friend walked me home and we stopped at the stone fence surrounding the church. We gazed into the dim interior, imagining the souls who once walked its marble floors. 

“Do you believe in ghosts?” I asked. My friend laughed but didn't answer. Together, we stared at the crumbling walls, each of us awash in the invisible faith that saturates this nation.