building walls that bind

I am often surprised how long it takes to build large churches -- even in our own time.

I shouldn't be. We are surrounded by the evidence that magnificent buildings are not punched out like quarter-pounders.

We talked about one the other day (amo a zamora). The cathedral of Our Lady of Guadalupe (the patron saint of the Cristero war) in Zamora, Michoacán. It is as new as a 2019 Bentley Mulsanne. You inhale the new cathedral scent as you walk down the aisle. You find yourself looking for the theological tachometer.

The foundation stone was laid in 1898. And the finishing touches are still being added. Who knows how long it would have taken but for the socially-disruptive effects of the Revolution?

But that is far from the record time to build a big church. St. Peter's basilica took longer. Just barely. 144 years -- with Rex Harrison muttering in the background at its slow pace.

The longest? 252 years for York Minster cathedral. Its hulking presence in northern England echos its extended construction.

We do not have a cathedral in my barrio. For one good reason. A bishop's see is not here. That honors goes to Guadalajara.

But, we do have a parish church. A parroquia, as Spanish-speakers would have it. San Miguel de Allende does not have a trademark registration on the appellation.

Its name? San Felipe de Jesús. A local boy. At least, "local" in the sense that he was born in Mexico City in 1572. He is the barrio's patron saint. We share his patronage with Mexico City. We are generous like that.

The local church will never see the adjective "magnificent" in front of its name, other than by locals who will describe it in the same terms they use for their magically-talented grandchildren.

It currently has a not-quite-done look. Because it is not. That is it at the top of this essay. Money to build the church comes from the parishoners. So, it is built the same way a lot of my neighbors build their homes. When a few pesos are saved up, concrete will be purchased. A few bricks will be laid.

We photographers like wandering through construction sites -- even construction sites that are sanctified. I suspect that makes them even more interesting. After all, I doubt you would find boxes containing stations of the cross shoved up against the wall of a bungalo site as if they were nothing more than a basket of guanábanas.

I simply like the various textures of the shot.

The place does not seem the least bit strange to me. I grew up in money-strapped churches that were always under construction. I just thought that was the Pentecostal way.

The feast day of San Felipe de Jesús is 5 February. And because he is our patron saint, daily processions pass a block from my house for several days before (feting a local boy). Complete with his graven image and lots of joy-inducing cohetes. A religious procession without cohetes would be like a plate of poutine without cheese curds and brown gravy.
It also gives me an opportunity to visit the church. I shoot the procession at least two or three evenings each year. And we eventually end up at the church where I wander through to see if anything new is on offer.

On one future visit (should I live so long; Julius II didn't), the church will be finished, and the bell will not have to hang from a hole in the wall looking like a fast-food symbol. Parishioners will be called to mass from its new home in a bell tower -- or something a bit more dignified.

But, for now, it is perfectly Mexican. Utilitarian -- fit for the purpose people gather here. To worship their God and to ask for his beneficence in a world that direly needs it.