#476: Why Notre-Dame de Paris Matters

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.

Patti gasped with sheer pleasure, and Fred marveled (from his longtime work in construction) that such a building could even exist before steel girders and iron frames. After their tour, over dinner, he proposed marriage.

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