I have a relationship with historic sites and museums that resembles how my friend, Diane, approaches blind dates: I ought to know better.
But after several days of driving to and around L.A., catering to the desires of sixteen-year-old males (which, to be fair, sometimes intersect with my own), I dropped them at Six Flags and headed off for the San Fernando Mission.
I liked the church. It was old and ornate and full of character. I stood there and imagined all the hopes and sorrows it had soaked up over the past two centuries.
Having taught western and Native American history several times, I knew that the California missions were the site of great piety and exploitation and suffering. I didn't expect the site to resolve those paradoxes, but I hoped to explore and experience them more deeply.
But I learned very little about the broader context of the mission or the thousands of Indians who had lived there, the texture of their lives and faith. I got a pretty good idea of how the elite of the mission lived. The gift shop had several picture books on the missions but no scholarly ones. There were lots of memorials to European saints and the usual flotsam of generic tourist items. On the grounds itself, tucked away in the corner of a large garden. there was a small memorial for the thousands of Indians who had been buried at the mission. This was an incidental theme, however, as the garden was dedicated to the memory and the grave of Bob Hope.
Unlike most academics--and liberals--I have a lot of respect for the Roman Catholic Church. But what a waste and what a shame: "Jesus wept."
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