Cofradia fiesta

I was surprised to hear from my sister June this morning that a large sized  envelope of art post cards from the Museo de Revello de Toro, sent on Wednesday, had arrived already. As it happens, there's a smaller envelope of cards from yesterday's visit the Museo Jorge Rando, so I'll send it to her today. The barrio post office is only a couple of hundred metres across the road from the apartment. This is such a convenient place to live. It'll be interesting to see if the second letter takes that much longer over a weekend.

This afternoon, there was a choir rehearsal for an anthem to be sung at the Ascension Day service, at which Bishop David will confirm eight new members. Before and after, there were other jobs to be done, preparing for a 'Book and Marmalade Sale' with outside tables after church tomorrow. An essential income generator for ex-pat congregations, which I recall from Geneva days, is a regular second hand book bookstall, plus home made marmalade, cooked with bitter Seville oranges to UK recipe standards.

It may sound daft, but even the best, most expensive shop bought comestible doesn't come anywhere near the British home cooked product, beloved of ex-pats. In Spain, the value added element in Spain is the range of marmalades (not to mention chutneys and pickles) cooked from whatever citrous fruit, or blend is available to the cook, from their own finca or that of a neighbour or friend, who often cannot be bothered to benefit from this natural abundance. I'm working my way through my third jar of home made marmalade since my arrival.

To prepare for the set up of Book and Marmalade stalls outside the church, I needed to move the car. Eight days since I last used it, and a fortnight after the last battery crisis, once more it wouldn't start. Fortunately Rosella had a set of jump leads in her car. With some difficulty, considering how long it is since I last had to do this, (nobody else present had ever done more than call out the grua on their home start car insurance), we got the car to start, and I left it running, hopefully recharging, while we rehearsed, and on into the evening. Fall-back arrangements were made for me to get to Velez Malaga for the service there, just in case it fails tomorrow. This way I can sleep without anxiety about deadlines.

The port had no visiting cruise ships, when I made my evening paseo. The sun was setting when I went up the seventy odd steps and through the tunnel to the Old Town, wondering which streets to wander through. It's my exercise route, good for strengthening the knees, more interesting than any gym apparatus, as it has views, flowers, people being normal, not straining themselves for health. I love the views from above of town and port.

As I descended the slope to Calle Victoria the other side of the pedestrian tunnel, I heard open air party noises emanating from Calle Alcazabilla again. Different music. More lightweight Spanish pop disco stuff. In the vicinity of the casa cofradia de Estudiantes, opposite the entrance to the Alcazaba, there was a large crowd, of all ages, not just students.

It was a different set up from the previous couple of fiesta days in Calle Alcazabilla. Hundreds of people crammed together, talking, dancing, threading their ways through the crowd carrying drinks to a place at one of the round tables laid out on the patio before the opened doors of the casa cofradia. The tronas used for the procession of Christ's burial and of Our Lady of Sorrows were revealed, and the party flowed around them. Sacred and secular aren't quarantined here. It's quite natural. Something I love.

The atmosphere was relaxed and convivial. Passing through the crowd took time and patience, as so many were evidently comfortable and safe about being crammed into a limited space with close, but always respectful, physical contact. I had this experience first in Semana Santa spectator crowds. It's in stark contrast to being in any crowd back home, where I always feel nervous. It's part of what makes Spain special to me. No shortage of individuality, but also no shortage of togetherness.

In two more weeks, my face will be set for home, and an entirely different set of familiar urban and domestic experiences. How, I wonder, will I have changed when I encounter them?

Festal Weekend, Day Two

All went to plan going to Velez Malaga this morning. I was there by ten but overshot my destination and had to double back. Finding a parking place nearby without disorientating myself in streets still unfamiliar gave me some trouble, so I lost twenty minutes finding a place, but arrived with enough time in hand to start punctually.

There were twenty two present, an enthusiastic and cheerful gathering, attentive and enjoying the singing. Three people shared in leading the intercessions, which was unusual, but it worked. I couldn't help noticing that the lady who read the Hospitality of Abraham story expressively did so using her hands as she spoke. It was far from being a mannerism, the story-teller's instinct was in evidence here. That takes confidence, but also calls for finding a certain pleasure in valuing the story element in reading scripture.

The little bar where we gathered for coffee and fellowship after the service when I was here last September has now closed, due to lease expiry, so we had to walk a few extra pace to the Bar El Tomate on the corner of the block. It's full of light and has simple modern decor. It was crowded and busy, clearly a well used Sunday meeting place in this barrio. 

After a drink and a chat, I drove back to Malaga, cooked lunch and had a siesta before making my way to the Cathedral for the evening's Blessed Sacrament procession. On any evening the streets are crowded with walkers and diners, but tonight an even greater crowd, as people from parishes across the city converged on the Cathedral. Diocesan clergy, Cathedral Canons, seminarians, and various guilds formed the main body of the procession, with some lay people following and more watching, taking photos from the side. It must have been quite difficult for tourists going against the flow of the procession, and perhaps not rally understanding what was going on. I noticed uncomfortable and awkward looks on the faces of some passing by in the opposite direction.

The silver clad flower bedecked trona carrying the Holy Sacrament in a large golden monstrance was not borne by a squad of portadores on this occasion. It was mounted on wheels and pushed by a handful of people. I'd love to know the reason why. Street altars were set up outside the Cathedral, in the Calle Marquesa de Larios, the main luxury shopping area and at a junction of several streets in between. Apparently the number of altars has been reduced in recent years. It it for convenience, faced with the dominant demands made on these streets by visitors? Or is it for practical reasons? 

The custom used to be to stop at a street altar for prayers. Nowadays, prayers and devotional songs go on throughout the time of the procession, aided by a portable public address system using a wireless microphone for the prayer leader. Songs were familiar and sung unaccompanied by heart as we processed slowly. There were a couple of bands, which played intermittently, but accompanying a walking singing crowd would not come naturally to their performance style. I imagine change of this nature doesn't come easy to cofradias that invest such time and energy in maintaining their tradition. What's impressive is the degree of participation by local people. It doesn't feel like a show but a genuine expressing of religious life which succeeds in binding people together.

The procession ended with the Archbishop receiving the Holy Sacrament from the Trona to carry into the Cathedral through the great west door. After leading the final devotions and Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament at the high altar, for the first time since the procession began, Don Jesus Catala donned his episcopal mitre to deliver a brief address to the multitude filling the nave. In the procession he walked bareheaded like all the other clergy, behind the Trona, holding his episcopal crozier, symbol of his pastoral authority in the church and in the wider community. Having the last word, as a preacher of the Gospel in the Apostles' succession, he puts on his teacher's hat. Nice and simple. I wish more Anglican bishops would take note, and parade their mitres in public less often.

It was hot. It was tiring. But joining in the procession, not as a robed cleric but among the people took me back to my young, and reminded me what pilgrimage feels like at the grass roots. It's quite possible to miss out on that experience when you're organising or overseeing a liturgical occasion. So grateful I don't have to undertake those kind of duties any longer.

  

Festal Weekend, Day One

This morning, I completed my Sunday sermon, and found liturgical material in my web archive to send to a couple whose wedding blessing at Verbier in September I have to prepare for by email. It is never possible to know until there's a meeting how much understanding a couple may have of the church wedding ceremony in order to select readings and music. When they work with a wedding arranger there's always a risk that they will be sold a pre-conceived notion of what is the right thing to do, which can sometimes devalue the nature of the ceremony and undermine its dignity. 

Having said that, the earlier the preparation process is fully informed by a copy of the authorised liturgy and the texts of scripture readings to choose from, the better it works out on the day. There are suitable pieces of poetry that can be read, but there's also stuff devised by a relative or a friend that's more appropriate for the wedding reception than the ceremony. Devising the explanatory email to accompany liturgical attachments took a lot longer than tracking down material to send.

During the day, I could hear the sound of un-amplified live music and conversation rising from the alley next to the apartment block. When I went out to do some weekend food shopping, I noticed a small blackboard with a notice handwritten in chalk declaring 'La Rueda Morada Festa', and could see several people standing around eating and drinking outside the front door of a house in the Calle Girona. A quick Google search took me to a Facebook page of the same name. 

This informed me that it's part of a series of open house alternative grassroots cultural events held in the city which are advertised by social networking. The music I could hear was a guitar and 'cello duo improvising in flamenco fusion mode. Delightful. I suppose I could have dropped in as a vecino, and tried out my Spanish, but most of the people at the gathering were less than half my age, and knowing where to start a conversation and what to talk about would not be easy, even if I had the words. It's not just the generation gap, but also the manner of speech, plus the likelihood that some would be only too willing to practice their English on me! So, call me a coward if you must, but I just stayed in and enjoyed the music through the open window while I worked instead. 

After shopping, cooking lunch and a siesta, I walked to the Old Town in search of what promised to be a big religious procession, or two. This weekend is the Fiesta of Malaga's two patron saints, the martys Cirico and Paula, as well as the deferred observance of Corpus Christi. Finding out what happens when was initially difficult, the information in the media was a bit vague, although the Archdiocesan website led me in the right direction. Dos Santos is an important civic occasion, thus attended by city processional guilds, and marching bands. A Corpus Christi procession around the streets of the Old Town, centering on the Cathedral is bound to be a diocesan event. Therein lies a conflict of interest for many of the processional guilds, I suspect, and a need for diplomacy to sort out who does what. I was amused to learn on-line that the Dos Santos procession has to start half an hour later than advertised due to a wedding booking which escaped the information loop.

It took me a little while to recall exactly where the Iglesia de los Dos Santos is located in the warren of Old Town back streets, which I visited only a few days ago. Tonight all streets were crowded with smartly dressed people, making their paseo, going out to dine or headed for church, and everywhere looks different when it's full of people. Eventually I heard the sound of a band down a streets with a gathering crowd. The procession had just begun to leave the church, and it involved hundred of people dressed in their Sunday best, or in uniforms or vestments, many were carry staves of office holders in their various guilds. 

When the huge trona, bearing the image of the two Martyrs emerged from the church, carried by a squad of fifty white shirted men, there was a loud fanfare of trumpets and applause from onlookers. A group of women of a certain age in white dresses with fragrant white flowers in their hair sang a traditional cancion in honour of the saints and the city, and one of them danced with great pride and elegance. It was a moment of great joy and delight. I stayed until the church doors were shut behind the procession, then made my way back to the Cathedral, as I'd read about the Corpus Christi Festa starting at nine this evening in a special way.

Shortly after the appointed hour a team of trumpeters in old style uniforms with plumed hats began to appear from a door on a balcony at the corner of the south west tower (the one never completed), and one by one, they gingerly made their way to the central part of the balcony, some thirty metres up on the facade of the Cathedral west front. A dizzy height from which to play a series of fanfares to announce the start of the Blessed Sacrament vigil, which concludes with tomorrow evening's procession. I'm not surprised that the playing exhibited a certain nervousness. The Cathedral west plaza is another five metres down steps below the west door. An ordeal for the inexperienced.

After this, I realised I hadn't eaten enough, and was tired after several hours of walking, so I headed slowly back to the apartment, starting to think about the logistics of the trip to Velez Malaga to celebrate the Eucharist tomorrow. The Festa in Calle Girona must have finished on time, as all was as quiet as usual when I got back.

      

Not yet Corpus Christi

Apart from shopping and cooking, I spent much time reading through news articles learning about events in the aftermath of the Grenfell Tower fire in London. The compassionate response of many people to the plight of survivors has been remarkable, likewise the differing responses of political leaders, now being scrutinised carefully, while they try to figure out what to do for the best. I still cannot fathom why a composite building material was permitted with flammable components. 

The finger has already been pointed at a hydrocarbon based material melting and catching fire. It may be 51 years since I graduated in Chemistry, but I recall that the aluminium used in the skin of the composite is also combustible if it reaches a high enough temperature, so it doesn't just buckle, but burns at around its melting point, 2200C. In the context of a fire in vertical cladding, updraughts of air speeding the spread of the fire might push temperatures higher than expected, and make it just about impossible to halt. 

But, there are so many interlocking factors which combined perversely to produce this catastrophe. Failures in regulatory oversight, housing policy, cost saving measures due to spending cuts, all providing a backdrop of circumstances vulnerable to precipitate a crisis from what might have started as a relatively minor incident or accident. Now everyone is left wondering where else might be equally vulnerable, what is going to be done about it and how soon. Added to uncertainty coming from the election outcome and the imminent start of brexit negotiations, which process seems to be losing public support and credibility, these are troubling times for Britain..

Daytime temperatures here are starting to climb now, so I am grateful the apartment doesn't heat up, standing, as it does, in the shade for much of the day. I went for a walk in the hours before sunset, through the old town, and called in to the local parish church of St Gabriel in time for the evening Mass, and today is Corpus Christi. In fact, I was early enough to be present with 30-40 others for half an hour of devotion before the Blessed Sacrament exposed. To my surprise, the Mass following was that of the day in Ordinary Time, not the Solemnity of Corpus Christi, which I think is deferred until the weekend. Certainly, Malaga Cathedral's procession is Sunday evening, and there's another on Saturday too, in honour of Los Dos Santos Martires, Patrons of the city. A far cry from British soul searching at this time. But this is a city which has known war, and destructive earthquakes over the centuries. Their fiestas defy the darkness in life with joy and dignity.

  

Day of Prayer and Fuengirola Fiesta

A leak in the bathroom shower tray revealed itself by producing a small hole in the ceiling and a pool of water on the floor by the window. A plumber came and diagnosed the problem on Monday, then went away to obtain a spare part, but didn't return, or ndicate when he would.

Ten of us came together at the Hammonds' house in La Cala this morning for the autumn Day of Prayer, which I led with a series of short addresses on the ministry of angels in the Bible. The reason for this was that the original date for the occasion was the feast of the Holy Guardian Angels, but later the date was changed, but not the theme.

Today is the fiesta of our Lady of the Rosary, the patroness of the municpality's parish church and a public holiday. No sign of the return of the plumber. There's a fun fair in the recinto ferial, which has taken several days to construct. It started last night, and continues for a week. The noise emanating from the site continued until four in the morning. The fair ground can't be seen from the chaplaincy house, as it's behind a hill, but sound echoed off tall apartment buildings. I'd hate to be living closer.

Our quiet day finished mid afternoon with a Eucharist, and on my return journey I drove through the town centre, to see if I could find out about the day's Flamenco Mass as I'd seen no advertisement for it anywhere. There were many women out and about clad in beautiful flamenco dresses. All were walking away from the square in front of the Ajuntamiento, which told me all I needed to know. 

I was disappointed to find that the Mass and procession were already over. For the participants in the Day of Prayer, the municipal fiesta is no longer a matter of interest, more of endurance, so the clash of dates was a matter of indifference, and I am after all, not a tourist but a sojourner here to serve their needs. 

Now it's averagely several degrees cooler along the coast, it's possible to hold an open air service in the middle of the day, rather than in the cool of evening. After the event, people all dressed up were heading for the fun fair, mothers and daughters and occasionally grandmas in their party clothes. A delightful sight. I was too tired to join them at the fair. Holding an audience and delivering five brief addresses I found more taxing than the days of quiet preparation required to create them.