Wisecracking Across America - 56. Chapter 56

Wednesday July 7, 1999

The same day we saw the San Xaviar del Bac Mission, just south of Tucson, I glanced at an article in Smithsonian magazine---Tom's mom's a retired librarian and has an eclectic collection. The story explained why England is littered with the wrecks of cathedrals: basically, Henry VIII destroyed them all after breaking with the Catholic church. For the same reason, San Xaviar could now be a mound of clay: The church was founded by Jesuits, who, due to shifting politics, were soon replaced by Franciscans, who were then also banished. And it was owned, successively, by the warring Spanish, Mexicans, and Americans.

But the mission survived and is presently being restored, a huge and constant project. Because not only do the thick adobe walls have to endure Arizona's unrelenting summers---it was nearly one-hundred degrees that afternoon---but winters get just as nasty: Temperatures drop. Rain drips into the rafters, freezes, then rots the wood. Preservation also has to undo previous restorations, which, no matter how well-meant, damaged both the art and the architecture. In the early 1990's, this work was supervised for six years by the same group that saved the Sistine Chapel. More recently, to save money, it's been continued by local artisans trained by the earlier team.

As in Italy, the aim has been to repair, not embellish, though an orientation video gently fudges that---it shows paint being added to bald spots and decorative detail being created anew. The walls were chipping and muted. Now, the colors are brighter than you'd expect, though hardly garish. Work could go faster if it were better funded. But since the mission is church property, it can't qualify for federal aid. Even if it did, because the region is so hot most of the year, artists can only climb the thirty-foot scaffolds three months each winter.

From early on, Tucson has been a site for development, and the first church at del Bac would now be over three centuries old. It didn't last, partly because del bac means "where the water appears," and 300 years ago, before modern controls, when the Santa Cruz river emerged from underground it sometimes hit at full flood. The other part had to do with the Apaches, not always keen fans of church-goers. The present mission at San Xavier---which is supposedly pronounced hauv-e-air, though Tom says people in Tucson say a-veer---was started in 1783. It was finished fourteen years later and is a mix of styles: Some call it Moorish or Islamic. Others, Byzantine. A more accurate label might be Frontier Baroque, or, as the Church puts it, "Spanish mission as modified by local conditions."

The outside is white and looks like stucco, but it's actually some kind of native cactus juice/lime mix. The resulting glare got the place nicknamed the White Dove of the Desert. Inside, it's relatively small---a couple dozen feet wide by maybe four times that in length---and seems to have been frescoed on acid. The altar's an overwrought gold leaf, and the polychromed furnishings have the high religious fervor only a penitent could love. That's largely explained by the fact they were imported from Europe during the end game of the Inquisition. Still, the Papago indians, who the church was built for, have always been proud of the place, and as protective of it as it was of them---the inner courtyard was also designed to double as a fort. From 1827, when the Spanish missionaries were expelled by the Mexicans, to 1866, when the Franciscans came back, the mission was abandoned, and during that time, legend has it that the Papagos hid church furnishings in their homes, or buried them for protection.

There are other legends as well: Polka dots decorating some columns are reportedly the thumbprints of the original artists. Then there's The Mystery of the Unfinished Tower. An unexplained cat and mouse on the facade. Hidden Gold.

The dots might just be easy decoration---much of the art's folk inspired and created with unsophisticated tools. The cat and mouse are probably whimsey, secret friar in-jokes like Masonic handshakes. The second of the paired towers was no doubt unfinished due to lack of money, but there's also the rumor that someone was killed during construction, and other workers couldn't be lured back to the top. Finally, the story of hidden gold is easily undercut by historic inventories: they quickly prove the old mission's contents wouldn't have funded a decent rummage sale.

Today, the mission still isn't air-conditioned, and none of the handouts mention if it could be---again, the problem might simply be cash. The basement museum isn't air-conditioned, either, and contrary to what I'd supposed, the thick adobe walls did little to drop the temperature. Only the small gift shop is air-conditioned, maybe to encourage tourists to linger and buy. Or maybe it protects the tiny staff---considering the working conditions, they must be hard to replace.

Still, there's something bigger that stops constant renovation: this is a church---a working Catholic church---in a heavily-poor, Hispanic and Native American community. People here are largely uneducated, their willingness to believe made evident by an effigy of St. Francis Xaviar: Photos and messages are pinned to his robe. Prayers beg, at least for attention, sometimes for miracles.

There are also martyred saints in four-dozen niches, and not the bunch simply noted for their good works. Christ sets the tone, not hanging, as usual, serene and central, but impaled on a side wall, life-size, starving, near-naked, and bleeding. It's hard to get past that.

I retreated to the museum, as spartan as Jesus and detailing resurrection not renovation. An endlessly-looping video chronicles one of the local apprentices, formerly an aimless alcoholic, who found God, salvation, focus, and even love through his work---he married another restorer. Sitting there, as throughout the church, I felt like an intruder, yet other people seem able to distance their emotions. The Mission's a photographic icon, published everywhere. Its fourteen acres are the second-most documented site in Arizona, just behind the far larger Grand Canyon. And the state depends on this popularity, using the building's sentimental appeal to raise the steadily-needed restoration funds.

Across the plaza is another store, this one run by the Tohono O'odham Nation. We crossed the hot dirt hoping for local crafts, maybe the equivalent of Charleston's handmade sweetgrass baskets. Instead, there were knock-off souvenirs. I bought a Coke.