Berkley Center

"¿Asista Ud. a la Misa?" "En las BBC: Bodas, bautizos y comuniones." ("Do you attend Mass?" "For the BBCs: weddings, baptisms, and communions.")

My first two weeks in Spain were spent exploring contemporary Spanish history, namely the implications of Francisco Franco's regime. Despite his supposed lack of intelligence and unappealing, squeaky voice, he managed to maintain his grip on the Spanish political system for 40 years. Francoist Spain was traditional, nationalist, and religious. I read first-hand a catechism for children that baldly stated that Spain was, above all, a Catholic nation. Jews, Masons, Muslims, communists, liberals, they were the enemies of Franco's people. For as long as I have learned about Spanish history, one factor has been constant: the influence of the Catholic Church. The only time its power wavered was during the short-lived Second Republic of the 1930s, characterized by an aggressive anticlerical movement and a constitutional commitment to secularism. This ended with the Spanish Civil War when Franco's forces reinstated the Church's power. Until the democratization of Spain, the Church forcefully retained its voice in Spanish affairs.

Spain is a Catholic nation, with close to 95 percent of the population baptized by the Church. However, once I arrived in Spain, I immediately wondered if Catholic Spain was a thing of the past.

Prior to my arrival, I wondered how I, a Jew, would explain to my host family that I didn't attend church, that I had no place to be on Sunday while the rest of the country was receiving communion. In fact, I planned to avoid the discussion if at all possible. The conversation never occurred. My host parents do not attend Mass. On occasion, they have attributed something to being "gracias a Dios" (thank God), but no more, no less. For my seminar I conducted a survey that included a section about religion. I asked basic questions: what religion do you consider yourself, do you attend services and how frequently, have you read the Bible. What I found was, essentially, a religious void. No, they told me. They didn't go to Mass; they hadn't read the Bible. The most telling response regarding Mass attendance revealed that one went to Mass "for the BBCs: bodas (weddings), bautizos (baptisms), y comuniones (communions)."

The greatest architectural masterpieces Spain has to offer are the churches and cathedrals. Its most important celebration is Semana Santa. Yet, when I enter La Catedral here in Sevilla, I wonder why no one is praying. When I walk past La Iglesia de San Salvador, I wonder why the square outside is filled with people drinking alcohol at all times of the day while the chapel inside is empty. I wonder if Catholic Spain is more of an ideal than a reality.

For me, what I have seen raises many questions about the fate of faith. I have seen this trend in Judaism as well—the tendency to go to synagogue only on the High Holy Days, the use of the term "Jewish" to imply a sense of belonging to a community, yet not to manifest itself in practice. I am myself guilty of it. Spain has in the past year been the object of scrutiny by the Catholic Church. The Partido Socialista Obrero Español (PSOE), the leading political party of Spain, has initiated intense dialogue regarding secularism. Some might call the falling rates of religious observance since Franco's regime counterculture. While I would consider it possible, it seems to be a worldwide phenomenon. Why? Why is the outward display of faith in decline? There is nothing inherently shameful about religion, nothing wrong with faith. Regardless, more and more people I find are making a distinction between faith and religious practice, particularly amongst people my own age.

In Judaism, failing to go to synagogue is not a sin. We have no Temple to pray in, only a crumbling wall as a symbol of an ancient religion's forgotten unity. I was once told synagogues are purposefully unattractive to avoid detracting from prayer. Regardless of whether this is true, I think that if I belonged to a synagogue that looked like the cathedrals here, I would enjoy practicing. I would enjoy prayer. I would take pride in my faith and not try to chain it in the back of my mind and recesses of my heart. Why do the Spaniards not see what is available to them?

La Catedral de Sevilla is in great condition. So are the churches, the shrines. I have seen nuns and monks in traditional habits for the first time in my life. Catholic faith is here, but it is quiet. The overwhelming sense of Catholic identity seems fictitious. I wonder, while the basic structures stand strong, is it faith or religious practice that has crumpled?