March 20, 2007
Dear First Church Friends,In Spanish, the strong sweet smell of the orange blossom is called azahar. It’s a beautiful word with Arabic roots that fills the mouth when you say it, much in the same way that the scent of the orange tree in bloom fills the strong southern breeze at this time of year.
Nearly all Seville’s streets are lined with orange trees, and the few that are not will soon be getting them! The city is alive with public works projects—parks and plazas are getting a facelift, a new Metro is being built, and the cathedral with its famous bell-tower (formerly the minaret of the great mosque that once stood on this site), is being cleaned of centuries of grime. The city is opening up like the orange blossoms. The flowering fountained patios normally hidden behind heavy wooden doors, the tall shuttered windows of the sober mansions in the center of the old town—everything is flung open now. Seville is filled with invitation. Always a gracious, happy place, the city seems brighter than ever, its people more happy to be sevillanos than ever! And every morning, when I step out into the sunlight, I can hardly believe that for a little while it’s my city too!
It’s been two weeks since I arrived. I’ve been busy settling in to this new neighborhood with its small shops (it turns out to be the bridal district—who knew?), its bar-cafes (the Europa is my favorite), and its parish churches (there are 4 within a one-minute walk, and—God forgive me—terrible preaching in every one of them! Oh how I long to hear Dan Smith again!). I live on Calle Siete Revueltas—the street with seven turns—narrow and winding, a mark of its medieval past. My neighbors include a muttering man with a wooden flute and a mangy mongrel; a large friendly fellow who runs a business in the flat below, hand-sewing traditional riding costumes and flamenco dresses; and a harried waiter who works at the Europa at the end of the street.
And children! Every evening before supper (supper is at 10 p.m.), a band of kids whoops it up in the narrow plaza around the corner from me. They kick soccer balls off the security grilles of store-fronts, while their parents sip sherry at the Europa and sort of keep an eye on them—and I do mean sort of. Spanish kids rule the roost. Their parents drool over them. They are welcome in the snootiest restaurants, even when they do nothing but wail. Practically the only shops in my district that aren’t in the wedding business are kids clothing stores. The clothes are sophisticated, adorable, expensive, and the shops are always full of mothers. (It is the height of sad irony that Spain is the country with the highest incidence of child pornography in the European Union, and (behind Italy) the second lowest birthrate.)
My daily routine has time for prayer, housekeeping, long exploratory walks, grocery shopping, preparing meals, afternoon naps and evening strolls—and books. I’ve been reading one about the history of Jews and their ultimate repression in Seville, and another in Spanish about the repression of just about everybody under Franco. Neither tells a particularly happy story, but both have me riveted. I’ve connected with old friends at the Casa de la Memoria, and made plans to attend a concert of Sephardic music there this weekend. Iíve also learned about a local organization called La Fundacion de las Tres Culturas. As its name suggests, it’s dedicated to studying the Muslim, Jewish and Christian cultures as they interacted in Spain long ago and continue to interact today. Last week they sponsored a lecture series and a medieval festival that I was able to participate in. To my delight, I also discovered that Sunday morning programming on Spanish TV now includes a program about Judaism put together by the national Jewish confederation headquartered in Madrid, and another featuring a coalition of Muslim groups helping Christian Spaniards learn about Islam, and Muslims living in Spain become “good citizens.” I watch with fascination, take lots of notes, and plan personal follow-up.
The Sevillian in the Street, however, is not as preoccupied with interfaith relations right now as with the fortunes of Betis (the leftist, more working class of its two futbol clubs) and Seville (the rightist, more upper class team) in the European Union championships. Seville just beat Betis and will advance—their success a mirror, perhaps, of the trend in Spanish politics. The conservatives of the Partido Popular have for the past year been undermining the ruling Socialists by fomenting mass street demonstrations, protesting, among other things, the government’s policies on negotiations with the Basque Nationalists, the ETA. The latest protest over the commutation of the sentence of an ETA assassin drew about 750,000 people to Madrid, and among all the flags and placards were a few symbols of the old fascist party, the falange. All this is going on while the trial of eleven men charged with the Madrid train bombings of March 11, 2004, is being publicly televised, and while several instances of acrimony between the Catholic hierarchy and the government over social issues like the new law of gender equality, mandatory citizenship education, the shape of the family, and the legitimacy of euthanasia are making daily headlines. Figuring out how to be a pluralistic democracy is hard work in Spain, even after 30 years!
Sevillians talk politics day and night. But their attention will soon turn to Holy Week, Semana Santa, when another kind of “demonstration” will rule the streets. Dramatic floats with scenes from the Passion will be carried on the shoulders of the members of medieval brotherhoods through the city streets for the seven days (and nights) leading up to Easter, accompanied by huge crowds of devotees. These hermandades have been gearing up for weeks, polishing carts and candlesticks, mapping new routes to avoid the perils of construction, buying nazareno outfits (including tall pointed hoods that, unfortunately, remind you of the Klan), and engaging in unseemly public feuds about priority, while the archbishop calls for a truce, and the owners of restaurants and hotels dream of many Euros. But more about Holy Week as it draws nearer…
I know that First Church has been having a wonderful Lent. The grapevine says that the interfaith forum has been a great success! Congratulations and thanks to everyone who worked so hard to make it happen! I hope that it will be a sign of things to come for our community, as we grow in respect and admiration for our sisters and brothers, all of us children of Abraham. I am keeping you in prayer as Holy Week approaches, trusting that you are remembering me as well. This is a rich time for me, and my heart is full of thanks to you for giving it to me, and to the Lilly Endowment for financing it. But as you can imagine, I continue to experience the joy of these days with an undercurrent of sadness, missing Anne a lot. We have been in almost daily contact, and that makes it easier, but it also reminds us every day that things were “not supposed to be this way.” It continues to amaze me that after all our planning and dreaming, I am here, and she is not!
The good thing about the way things have turned out is you—I mean the way First Church has surrounded Anne (and by extension, me) with love and daily assistance. We are both humbled by it and cannot thank you enough for what you are doing to make this separation less painful by helping her and relieving me of worry. Dan, staff, deacons, meal-and-ride-providers, cat-caretakers, grocery-shoppers, nurses, PTs and OTs, and all you prayerful soulsÖ.Thanks, thanks, thanks.
More news later! Until then, que Dios les bendiga y cuide a todos! Y un abrazo fuerte,
Mary