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Keeping Sabbath in the City of Light |  |
By Corban Addison Klug
On the east end of Île de la Cité in the heart of what is arguably the most beautiful city in the world lies one of the most famous Gothic landmarks of Old Europe—the Cathedral Notre Dame de Paris. With its grand and intricately wrought flying buttresses, lofty bell towers, vaulted spires, and petaled rose windows, the cathedral is a monument to premodern architectural ingenuity and to the ascendant faith of its progenitors. Surrounding the cathedral in every direction are the bustling twenty-first century accoutrements of France’s cosmopolitan capital—boulevards, hotels, residential apartment buildings, museums and cafés; yet standing at the cathedral’s midsection along the quiet banks of a divided Seine, it is easy enough to imagine a scene from eight hundred years ago, when the last generation of builders gathered together with the resonant excitement of children to worship the God of their fathers and to celebrate the cathedral’s long-awaited completion.
Three weeks ago, on the first Sunday in August, my wife and I walked from our small hotel in Paris’ Opera District across to the Left Bank of the Seine and down to Île de la Cité to attend an evening chamber choir service at the cathedral. Although by upbringing we are Protestant, by choice we are among those who bless God for the revolution of Spirit-inspired ecumenism that slowly but surely is eroding the walls that men, beset by pride and fear, have erected to divide the Church. We made the Cathedral Notre Dame our destination that evening because, even on vacation, we wished to honor God and keep the Sabbath. That the cathedral is a Catholic house of worship did not give us pause. Nor did the fact that many modern Catholics would, if they discovered our Protestant heritage, exclude us from their fellowship as a result of our “heresy.” In deciding to worship at the Cathedral Notre Dame, we meant both to acknowledge that the Spirit of God is still alive in the Catholic Church and to contribute in our small way to the ultimate harmony of souls swept up in the ageless and cosmic work of redemption being accomplished in history by Jesus Christ.
We arrived at the expansive plaza at the foot of the cathedral just before five-thirty. Thronged with visitors snapping photographs and beribboned by long lines leading to the cathedral’s entrance, the plaza was a picture of the tourist element of Paris we had hoped to avoid. Nevertheless, we took our place in line and I distracted myself from the intemperate hubbub by studying the cathedral’s dramatic carved-stone façade. Between enormous wooden double-doors at the center thereof stood a marvelously detailed, life-sized relief sculpture of Jesus. Flanking the doors, as if listening to a sermon, were the twelve disciples, each with distinct features and a different expression on his face. Above the rendition of Jesus and the disciples and beneath the terraced arch into which the cathedral’s skilled stonecutters had carved rank upon rank of busts, presumably of saints, was another relief that blended a scene from Jesus’ birth, a scene from his death, and a scene from his resurrection and exaltation. Of the plenitude of carvings adorning the cathedral’s façade, those surrounding the central entrance were the most strikingly lovely. Taking them in, I could almost hear the songs of the saints from ages past, their voices swelling upon an ancient tide of love for the only Savior powerful enough to rescue the goodness of the world from the tyranny of sin and madness.
At long last, we reached the head of the line and were ushered into the dusky darkness of the cathedral. Finding a path through the horde of milling tourists, we made our way into the great hall and caught our breath at the sight. The interior of the cathedral is so magnificent and architecturally complex that, save for the genius of Victor Hugo, it would simply defy description. Beside us the arch-studded walls of the hall, illumined by candelabra, sought the heavens and joined with the ceiling a hundred and fifty feet overhead. Before us, the black and white parquet floor stretched at least the length of a football field, providing room for a thousand seats set out in preparation for the chamber choir service. Having heard from many quarters that the Church in Western Europe is a frail relic floating upon the sea of bland secularism and decadent nihilism, I could not imagine that so many seats would be populated by parishioners in Paris of all places. That instinctive judgment, among many others, turned out to be quite wrong. As I watched, amazed, the faithful gathered and greeted one another. The air, moreover, charged as it was with all the mystery and grandeur of the medieval world, seemed alive and redolent with expectation. I have felt such a feeling before. It is the feeling that accompanies the intuition that one is walking on holy ground.
As we were fairly early to the service, we took seats close enough to the nave of the cathedral to afford us a clear line of sight to the elevated altar. Minutes passed as my wife and I surveyed the innards of the place. To say I was awestruck by it would be a monumental understatement. Its resplendence stirred me in the depths of my soul. Everywhere the cathedral brimmed with symbolism as rich and variegated as the stories of Scripture. Symmetry proclaimed the ubiquity and governance of divine order in the cosmos. Detail proclaimed the interest of God in the infinite intricacies of life. Light swimming in cavernous shadows harkened back to the dawn of Creation when light was spoken forth out of darkness. Too, the light spoke of Advent and the coming of the promised Messiah into a world that knew him not. Even the physical layout of the cathedral bespoke symbolic intentionality: The great hall formed the main beam of a giant cross whose crossbeam was a smaller, perpendicular hall that intersected with the great hall where the altar lay, silent and exalted. The profundity and piety of such an architectural achievement struck me with the force of epiphany. Working in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, the builders of the Cathedral Notre Dame de Paris knew nothing of modern construction technology, nothing of CAD drawings and digitized blueprints and heavy-lifting machines. Every carving, every relief, every window of stained glass, every cornice and pillar and arch and vault, was designed and wrought by the hands of men wielding hammers and chisels. Like the stonecutters, masons and carpenters of King Solomon, they were craftsmen without number yet in pursuit of a common purpose—to build a sanctuary for the Lord and his people in the most glorious city in the Western world.
By six o’clock in the evening, most of the seats in the great hall were occupied. Around the rim of the hall, tourists continued to mill, snapping photographs and, from the insipid conversations I overheard, generally missing the vivid God-centered symbolism of the place. Alas, such is the state of our humanistic, material age. In the cramped confines of our self-absorbed imaginations, there is little room for the patience of sustained thought, let alone for the cultivation of transcendent visions and other-worldly expectations. Nevertheless, much to my delight the parishioners around me demonstrated by their seriousness and solemnity that faith in Christ is not totally moribund in Europe. Indeed, from the number of young people I saw sitting in the silence of waiting, some with their parents, others with their peers, I felt a degree of hope for the soul of the West. Who but God knows the heart of any man? Yet in a city as quintessentially worldly as Paris, with an infinitude of distractions and vain pursuits available to the wayfaring soul, attendance at church is at best unnecessary and at worst unfashionable. The mere presence of so many young people at mass, therefore, constituted a reason for genuine optimism about the future of Christianity in Europe. Perhaps God, in his boundless mercy, has not yet given the Old World over to its own pretensions, immorality and deceptive musings. Perhaps revival shall come once again to the lands of Aquinas, Boniface, Bonhoeffer, Calvin and Francis of Assisi. If nothing else, God will always have his remnant.
After a fresh-faced acolyte lit two tapered candelabras on either side of the altar, the chamber choir service began with the arrival of a priest dressed in white and two young men in blue robes. The priest said a few words of greeting in French and then the young men took their places behind microphones. At once, the organ came alive and filled the air with the dark strains of a medieval requiem. Accustomed as I am to the notes and cadences of modern music, and, moreover, to the celebratory air of Protestant offertories, it took me a moment to appreciate the melancholy tones and broken strides of the organ prelude. Yet once the chamber choir began to sing, I comprehended the beauty of the piece. The organ spoke of the storm of the world, of despair before hope, of death before resurrection. At first the choir joined the organ in the sadness of mourning. But then, all at once, the key shifted and the choir ushered in the light. Their baritone voices, singing with the crisp diction of Latin and accompanied by a now-brighter offertory on the organ, were like incense ascending upon the thermals of Heaven. At once I realized that the genius of the cathedral’s builders was not merely architectural but also acoustical. The great hall was a cradle of sound. Closing my eyes, it was not hard to imagine the angels serenading the throne room of God with such music.
Fifteen minutes passed in the rapture of choir-led worship. To my surprise, the priest played a very small role in the chamber choir service. There was no homily, no Eucharist, no benediction—just the beatitude of song. At six-fifteen, the choir and priest departed and I believed the service had concluded. However, the people around me remained in place and in the ensuing minutes others appeared and filled every empty chair. Soon I realized that the chamber choir service was a merely prelude to evening mass. At six-thirty the priest appeared again with a larger choir in tow (now two young women joined the young men). This time, however, the priest was accompanied by three other priests, one of which appeared by his attire to be a bishop. Taking their places around the altar, the priests led the assembled congregation in the rites of mass. As a Protestant and speaking very little French, I had a difficult time following what was being said, but from the written order of worship, some of which was translated into English, I was able to understand the general trajectory of the service. The bishop, I found, was a true pastor, full of the fire of conviction and the kindness of compassion. Despite the language barrier, I felt the truth of his homily on Jesus’ transfiguration in that place in my heart where language and logic are mere trappings. I knew in my spirit that he was speaking of the God of Creation and Scripture and seeking to bring him glory. With the bishop, therefore, I united in the bonds of brotherhood and peace.
For me, the most memorable element of the mass was the celebration of the Eucharist. I have taken communion a hundred times in my life, but being Protestant I was enthralled by the Catholic ceremony. The priests gathered around the altar and the bishop prayed with face uplifted toward Heaven for the blessing of the Lord to rest upon the elements. Setting aside the age-old dispute about transubstantiation, I perceived great beauty and piety in this feature of the Eucharist. The prayer of the bishop evinced such gravity and holiness that, like few times before in my life, I actually felt connected to the historical event of the Last Supper. I could almost hear Christ himself speak the words: “This is my body given for you; do this in remembrance of me.” And: “This cup is the new covenant in my blood, which is poured out for you.”
After the priestly blessing, the most extraordinary thing (at least to my Protestant mind) occurred. The bishop opened his arms in invitation and beckoned the entire congregation to come forward and receive the elements. As one hundreds of parishioners stood and made their way to the altar, their progress entirely bereft of any formal order yet nevertheless imbued with the organic life of camaraderie and spiritual union. Out of respect for the Catholic tradition and our unfamiliarity with this form of the Eucharist, my wife and I decided not to partake. Instead we devoted ourselves to prayer while our brethren streamed forward to meet the Lord and be filled. Watching the people return to their seats, the joy of spiritual satisfaction alight in their eyes, I recognized again what I had sensed upon entering the cathedral—the eternal fragrance of faith and expectation. The Spirit of Christ was present there in that gloriously anachronistic medieval sanctuary situated in the beating heart of Paris, just as he is in the whole of the world wherever two or more are gathered in his name.
At about seven o’clock, the mass concluded with the benediction. Soon thereafter the giant bells in both towers tolled the hour. In time, my wife and I followed the parishioners out the front door of the cathedral and into the soft embrace of a Parisian twilight. Following the well-worn path along the Seine, we made our way around the southern side of cathedral to the lushly foliated park at its rear and then, stomachs growling, crossed over the bridge to the famous neighborhood of shops and restaurants on Île St. Louis. After a block or so, we wandered into a tastefully lit Moroccan restaurant decorated in the burnished colors of the desert and took a table near the street. It was our first night in Paris and, despite being married three years, we were aglow with the effervescence of newlyweds. Amazingly, however, over dinner we talked about little more than the experience of worshipping God alongside a thousand French Catholics in the Cathedral Notre Dame. In those moments, the darkened world, stained as it is by sin and shame, seemed noticeably brighter, for the light we had beheld in the midst of the cathedral and in the shining faces of the saints was not merely the temporal glory of the City of Light but the everlasting glory of God who is Light and Life and who, through Jesus, has come to redeem.
Comments:
I am also greatly blessed when I worship with my Catholic brothers and sisters at their churches. May the Spirit of Jesus who is Light and Life unite us in true fellowship as we worship in Spirit and Truth.
10/10/06 @ 17:09 Comments are closed for this post.
