A simple building fire
provokes world-wide grief.
Mere minutes after the spire
of Notre-Dame toppled in flames, a TV journalist asks a by-standing historian
about the importance of the cathedral’s treasures. During her reply he suddenly interrupts: “We’re
just getting some sobering news. The
firefighters now say they may not be able to save the cathedral.”
“What?!?” Is the stunned reply.
He repeats himself; what
follows is deep long silence. The
eyewitness is literally struck dumb by the prospect of losing Notre-Dame de Paris.
In the end, the building was
saved after the roof was lost. And no
one died.
Objectively, this was not the
worst tragedy of recent days. The Sri
Lanka Easter Sunday attacks, the Christchurch mosque shootings--these cost
human lives. France’s Yellow Vests even protested
the idea of spending one billion Euros to rebuild Notre-Dame while they
struggled to pay their monthly bills in an unequal society. One commentator even complained about people
“whining over an old church.”
This begs a basic question:
why such an outpouring of grief over this fire?
Why so many Facebook posts proclaiming a broken heart?
It has taken me more than a
week to name why. The answer is less
objective but no less real. Global communications frequently gives us horrific
images of tragedies happening halfway round the world, but that suffering and
loss--even the deaths--mainly touch those who know the people or places involved.
Notre-Dame is different: as a simple matter of fact, millions of
people took it personally. They took the
fire itself as a personal emergency,
took the prospect of losing the whole building as a personal tragedy, and took the building’s final rescue as a personal existential relief. And even so, for millions the sight of the
smoking ruins remains heartbreaking. As one American Paris resident put it: “I felt as if I were losing a loved one,
member of my family.”
Such global personal
reactions are rare. In my memory, only a
sudden shocking loss of life has triggered such widespread heartache: The assassinations of John F. Kennedy, Bobby
Kennedy, and Martin Luther King, Jr. The
death of Princess Diana. The collapse of
the twin towers on 9/11—not because the buildings were destroyed, but because
of horror for the people inside.
How could a simple “building
fire” have a similarly profound emotional impact on millions? What is this building’s power? Why did its threatened loss provoke such
personal grief?
For French Catholics, of
course, the answer is obvious: Notre-Dame is the center of their nation’s faith
life. For other French, the cathedral
represents their national identity across centuries--no other building rivals
it. For others, the reasons are more
varied. No one visits Paris without
visiting Notre-Dame. Few people return
to Paris without returning to it. It attracts some by its history, others by its
symbolic power, still others by its sheer beauty. For some it is an expression
of faith, and for others a marvel of medieval construction and creativity. As one observer said: “No one encounters Notre-Dame and walks away in different.”
For me too, the fire caused a
heartsick reaction echoed by only a few moments in my life. But in my case a personal attachment to the
cathedral is easier to explain. As a
student in France, Notre-Dame de Paris became my home church (it was a
ten-minute walk from my school) and it has left me with a parade of personal memories.
My first Mass in Paris was at Notre Dame, a 6:00 p.m. liturgy following a concert
by the world-renowned organist Pierre Cochereau. His playing drew a
near-capacity crowd, and I was chagrined when, after the music, most people promptly
exited to avoid Mass. I suddenly found myself surrounded by a scattered remnant
of worshippers, mostly little old ladies in black. Not only that, the Mass
itself was in French (the recent fruit of Vatican II’s liturgical reforms)—I still
did not know how to worship in French.
Overall, this first visit
reinforced my sense of shifting values: the Church was become more pluralized,
and the culture was becoming more secular. I also saw that church beauty was
not limited to the white-steeple, plain-glass Protestant churches I grew up with
in New England.
My second visit
was an entirely different matter, an affair of state. My landlady was a WWII widow,
and in October she received an invitation to celebrate the Solemn Mass and Te
Deum marking the 50th anniversary of the 1918 Armistice with President Charles
De Gaulle on November 11. Since she planned to spend the holiday at her
sister's in Caen, she gave me the invite, and I invited a classmate along.
We entered Notre Dame by the
south transept door, walked entirely around the backside of the altar, and
squeezed into a spot on the other side, against the main column at the
intersection of the transept and the sanctuary (one of the four columns bearing
the weight of the spire that collapsed!).
There happened to be a spare
wooden barrier leaning against the column, and I climbed atop it so see over
the masses assembled for the Mass.
When De Gaulle arrived up the
nave through the arched swords of the Garde Républicaine, he was enthroned
against the column diagonally opposite us.
Several moments during the ceremony, de Gaulle, who faced us squarely,
was looking directly at me—a young student perched on a barrier mere weeks
after the protesting students’ barriers had been removed from the streets of
the Quartier Latin! He did not look amused.
At ceremony’s end dignitaries
recessed beneath the arched Garde swords. I noticed the sanctuary gates to the
nave remained open, so I led my classmate across the sanctuary to the head of
the nave and WE passed under the arched swords to the amazed stares of many
lesser dignitaries still in their seats.
Needless to say, the
experience left a permanent mark, and 11-11 remains a significant date for me.
I regret not making it making it to Notre Dame this past November for the 100th
anniversary--but I regret more that the US now observes "Veterans
Day" as a generic honoring of soldiers, rather than observing the historic
moment, on "the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month” in 1918, when
the world began to think that the real enemy is war itself. What was begun as a
day to reject war has become, for us, a day to praise warriors. Which makes
this memory that much more precious: for me, November 11 will always be about
the ending of war. And my lasting image will always be of Notre-Dame on November
11, 50 years ago.
Over the years
I have returned many times, often for the pleasure of introducing Notre Dame to
those close to me. I brought Anne there during Christmas break 1971-1972. In
2003 we brought our son Tim into the city during his birthday break from
studies in Barcelona. Exiting the metro station I deliberately chose the stairway
that made the facade of Notre-Dame his first sight of Paris. He never forgot
that moment, nor the tour we made around and inside, and he recently returned
with his own girlfriend to share his pleasure as I had shared mine.
In 2005 I
brought my brother Jay and his wife Janice there. Later Jay said he found Paris
more charming than expected (high praise from someone then working in Venice!),
in no small part thanks to Notre-Dame.
In 2010 I organized
a reunion of Paris classmates, and my visit ended with dinner on the Ile
Saint-Louis with the widow of my old school’s director. Walking away afterward,
Anne and I found ourselves directly behind Notre-Dame. The photo conveys some
of the cathedral's contagious glow.
In 2011 I
returned for November 11, but instead of the traditional Armistice ceremonies, I
found the cathedral jam-packed for the annual Paris celebration in honor of the
French overseas dioceses of Antigua, Martinique, and Guadalupe. The
congregation was largely black, mostly women, and many in the bright colors of
traditional tribal garb. This was the first time this Mass was celebrated at
Notre Dame, and the Archbishop of Paris presided.
The main area was blocked
off, so tourists could only pass around the side aisles. I made my way up the
aisle with the tourist flow, circled counter-clockwise round behind the altar,
and stopped on the far edge facing back across the sanctuary to the nave.
It was exactly the spot I had
occupied on November 11, 1968!
The entire Mass was
punctuated by the loud, rhythmic, drum-driven music of a large choir singing
upbeat multi-part hymns in both French and the creoles of their respective
countries. Most of the hymns were high
energy island melodies, with the exception of a gloriously harmonized Creole
lyric set to the tune of “Amazing Grace.” The “honor guard” consisted of women
bearing breads and fruits typical of their native lands.
The tourists flowing around
the side aisles looked puzzled and even a bit stunned to witness the cathedral
full, and in active use, and literally vibrating with the pulse and clapping of
this “world music” version of folk Mass
As Mass ended, three bishops
rose to briefly address the crowd. The
first drew loud applause and warm laughter by noting that, without doubt, this
was the first time a black bishop had spoken to his people from the sanctuary
of “This beautiful cathedral of Notre Dame of Paris.”
As I listened to these
bishops—just minutes after holding black hands on both sides of me during the
Our Father, exchanging signs of peace with these French Africans, and filing up
with them to receive Communion in this great monument to Catholic faith—I found
the moment almost unbearably moving. This cathedral is no museum—it is a living
house of faith!
This cathedral is, after all,
the crowning product of medieval Christendom, an era when Catholic tradition achieved
a remarkable integration of imperial customs (inherited from the Roman Empire)
and popular culture. The resulting Gothic
architecture created spaces that soar heavenward with impossibly “light”
stoneworks in which walls and pillars are but bit players supporting the real
stars: the fragile, flamboyant stained glass windows covering most surfaces. Notre
Dame and its sister cathedrals across Europe are thus among the chief glories
of Latin Christendom.
On this day I got to witness
something new: a vibrant liturgical celebration from three third world
cultures--here, in this bosom of Christendom!
Far from violating the wondrous gothic beauty of Notre Dame Cathedral,
this heartfelt celebration lifted hearts much as the flying buttresses lift the
stone--and the brilliant bright costumes seemed fitting reflections of the
brilliant blues and reds, yellows and greens of the cathedral’s great rose
windows.
Imagine: this space, built
eight centuries ago, embracing anew these resurgent people still crafting a
home-grown expression of their faith in the 21st century. In all its years Notre
Dame of Paris had never witnessed anything quite like this.
In 2013 I
toured the cathedral with my daughter Melissa and in 2017 with Anne, her sister
Patti and her boyfriend Fred. I planned our walking tour so we turned a street corner
to suddenly reveal the cathedral in full sunlight.
No surprise that for all these
people, and for millions of others, the sight of Notre-dame in flames provoked
rare pain. For them, Notre-dame matters—and the matter is personal.
© Bernard
F. Swain PhD 2019
