Remembering

Remembering by Wild Bill

In a small village in the Azores, a Portuguese island off the west coast of Europe, there is an ancient church on a hill overlooking the town square. The wind battered building was made by the local farmers and their families before Columbus discovered America. That's how things got made in those early days. Religion was the heart of the tiny community and this beaten structure had survived many Atlantic storms in its past history.

I enjoyed the warm breeze coming up the rugged coast from the turbulent ocean below as I day dreamed in this tranquil setting. It was then I first noticed the weary, body-bent, farmer heading for the church doorway. Laced behind his head were his shoes which he pulled on before entering the chapel. His worn bare feet were the colour of burnished leather, with deep folds of wrinkles folding under, crowned with ivory covered toenails, larger than I had ever seen before.

He disappeared into the church, which I decided I should visit also. He was on his knees, his head and shoulders bent in prayer. His devotional pose got my attention first, then it happened. I saw that the entire sanctuary was filled with a primitive depiction of Hell damnation, with a crucified Christ rising out of the scorching mass of naked bodies struggling to reach their Saviour.

Suddenly the entire epic thrust me back in time to my first experience with the horrors of damnation which we Catholic kids were made to experience. I was six years old and our grade one teacher was showing us a large illustration of a fiery pool filled with naked sinners crying out for help. Sitting on the edge of this mass of burning flesh were angels complete with wings, holding chalices filled with holy water which they sprayed on the suffering souls. The young nun stressed the fact that this was not Hell. This was Purgatory, and if we led good lives we might be lucky enough to go there before entering Heaven. And if this is not Hell, can you imagine how horrible Hell must be?

I don't know what made me remember this early lesson in morality, but I am convinced that at six years of age, I was having a genuine example of child abuse.