Today, I had the privilege of visiting a most unique shrine with the most touching story, a living tribute to not just one saint, but two—Maria Goretti and her unlikely acolyte, Raya Chidiac.
It was an honor to be greeted by Raya’s mother, Marie, who has made it her ministry to share St. Goretti’s message of universal forgiveness through the heartbreak of losing her daughter Raya in a cruel parallel across centuries. And when she says “through” Raya, she means it quite literally: it was Raya who came to a stranger in a dream, asking for a shrine to be made in honor of a saint no one knew—certainly not her parents—as a sanctuary for voiceless women. “Go tell my mother.” That’s been her favored means of communications since passing on, we’ve been told.
The visit was special in manifold ways; to be Marie’s guest, to hear Raya’s message first hand, to step into a living story of beatification from below—but it was especially poignant to be here with my sister and Christine. One knew Raya as a friend; the other has become a friend to saints like her.
The background to this shrine is tragic, but that shadow is far from the rosy center of the story you step into when you walk through these doors.
The building is shaped like a rose and its interior has an acoustic resonance like no other, giving the space an otherworldly feel extenuated by the vast ceiling fresco ringing the room with a crown of thorns representing the suffering of this world on our spiritual ascent.
Christ is at the center. Surrounding him is a cloud of witnesses—seraphim and cherubim, saints and patriarchs of this land, with Raya in their company five times—a number of some mysterious significance that Raya has communicated in dreams—at five different stages of her young life.
It’s like being inside an icon; a miraculous bridge between this world and the next. And I don’t use that word “miracle” lightly. Whatever your theology—whatever you may think of life after death—a miracle took place in the heart of this grieving mother. She took the bitter thorns of her pain and planted a rose of fragrant hope and reconciliation. In Mizraya. Against all odds.
All saints are mirrors of our deepest longings: they would not become saints if their stories did not satisfy some communal need. And they would not be remembered if that longing were some parochial idiosyncrasy, locked up forever in some distant place and time. We would not see ourselves reflected back in their faces if their stories did not carry something of us all.
And yet, not all stories are remembered equally in death, just as not all needs are met justly in life. That’s why women saints are mirrors of special kind. That’s what @christine.bingham.art has been working on for so long. And that’s what we stepped into so intimately and so viscerally today: a real-life story wanting to be told, right here, right now, and we are a part of its telling. How awesome is that?
On our way to visit Maria Goretti’s shrine, we stopped at Our Lady of Miziara, Mother of Mercies, a Marian shrine built in 1979 surrounded by a sculpture park depicting the life of Christ. There is a sign here that insists that “everything is forbidden except prayer and contemplation” in this place.
This shrine was apparently the vision of one man: “It is said that a certain Marcel Shaghoury had a vision leading him to fulfill a vow. Sculptors and masons set to work to produce a number of representations in white limestone, forming an impressive collection on the hillside giving on to the distant mountains of the Zghorta district. Inside the park there is a church, a bold structure dedicated to the Holy Virgin Mother of Mercy. In this way the garden has become not merely a public attraction but also a site conducive to prayer, where among abundant greenery one finds long stretches adorned with sculpture.” (‘Miziara, Highways and Byways’)
Walking around this curious space makes for a fascinating theological experience: how each moment in Christ’s life and ministry is depicted, where they are placed in the park, how one tours the windings paths, etc. – all of it adds something to your exegesis.
I don’t think I felt the hallowedness intended by this park’s engineers, but I was definitely stimulated by their depth of devotion.
We didn’t really plan to spend so much time in North Lebanon; our points of interest simply took us this way. Here’s a selection of drive-by captures from the road taken with my old PowerShot digicam in all its blurry and blown-out glory.
Rationing my Fuji’s battery turned out to be a blessing in disguise, as I’ve really enjoyed using this old Canon digicam; its size means it draws very little attention, allowing for a lot more candid street photography than I tend to feel comfortable trying to get away with using a larger camera. Its seven megapixels also strike a good balance between quality and that low-fidelity look that frees you up to worry less and shoot more. It’s like a Holga but even more fun.