#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

#389: Getting 3 Issues Back Into Focus

Recent weeks have seen three events provide strong evidence that Americans, and especially American Catholics, need to focus on some key issues that have gotten badly out of focus for too long.

Faith Beyond the Rule Book.  On Holy Thursday Pope Francis washed the feet of 12 people, including non-Christians and women, in a Rome detention center.  But his willingness to do this sends an important message.

In my work, I continue to meet people who are still haunted by a Catholic upbringing that treated Catholicism as a set of rules (especially, and often, rules about sex).  In recent years the US Bishops have often reinforced that old notion with major campaigns against same-sex marriage, contraception funding, and by their juridical behavior in covering up for priests guilty of sex abuse.

But the pope’s foot-washing gesture was “beyond the rule book” in three ways. First, it was not the customary location for the Holy Thursday service.  Second, by including non-Christians he reminded us that Jesus’s own act (washing the feet of his 12 apostles) was not merely a literal service to them; it was also a symbolic act demonstrating his ministry and mission of service, sacrifice, and love—which was destined for all people.  Third, by including women, Francis was breaking a liturgical rule. In all this, he sent the message that our faith is much more than a set of rules, and that sometimes those rules are trumped by more important things, like the symbolic value of including all people in the pope’s own ministry of service.

Recovering “The Common Good.”  Jim Wallis, longtime leader of Sojourners magazine and organization, the flagship of progressive evangelism in the US, has returned from his 2012 sabbatical with a new book: On God's Side: What Religion Forgets and Politics Hasn't Learned about Serving the Common Good. Catholics need to know this book and Wallis’ argument.

Wallis is promoting his book with an extensive media campaign and a nationwide tour of "Common Good Forums."

Inevitably, interviewers begin discussing the book by asking Wallis to define what he means by “the common good,” and just as routinely Wallis answers this way: He quotes from the 4th century saint John Chrysostom, an early father of the Church.

This is the rule of the most perfect Christianity, Its most exact definition, its highest point—namely the seeking of the common good. For nothing can so make a person an imitator of Christ as caring for his neighbors.

And then Wallis often cites a more modern source:

“I love…Catholic social teaching on the common good: ‘The common good is the whole network of social conditions which enable human individuals and groups to flourish and live a fully genuinely human life. Otherwise described as integral human development, all are responsible for all.’ ”

It just so happens that Wallis is paraphrasing  language from the social encyclicals of both Pope Paul VI and Pope Benedict XVI.

CrossCurrents readers have long known that Catholic social teaching is centered on the common good.  Now a prominent Protestant activist has spotlighted how Catholicism’s social vision can offer a powerful and wise antidote to the current political deadlock.

As Catholic Americans, we need to applaud and support Wallis’ effort and concentrate on educating our own people and those around us to the central importance of honoring the common good in building a just society.

Afraid of the Dark.  Last Friday night, CNN finally devoted a lengthy program-segment to the scandal surrounding Kermit Gosnell’s Philadelphia abortion clinic, but host Anderson Cooper admitted it was the first time CNN had covered the story.  CNN is not alone, for this man’s trial went on for more than a month without significant coverage from mainstream media (as noted in this commentary  http://www.usatoday.com/story/opinion/2013/04/10/philadelphia-abortion-clinic-horror-column/2072577/ ).

In retrospect, the horrific story of an alleged murderous abortionist in Philadelphia has acquired three dimensions: (1) the alleged criminal behavior itself and the plight of its victims; (2) the failure of both Philadelphia and Pennsylvania to take any action against the alleged crimes; (3) the failure of US mainstream media to cover the story.

Two questions loom large: 1. Why did no government agency act?  2. Why did media ignore the story?  In both cases one disturbing possibility is this: abortion has become so delicate and controversial an issue that neither public officials nor professional journalists have the requisite courage to face a story that disturbs the conventional wisdom about abortion.

For this story exposes the dark side of the Roe v. Wade era.  For more than 40 years we have lived with the myth that legalized abortion ends gruesome “back alley” horrors and serves women so safely that we can simply relax about the moral and medical risks that are inherent in abortion itself.

Polls showed that while Americans are generally unenthusiastic about abortion itself, they remain split about whether and how to regulate it.  But too many Americans have come to regard abortion lightly, and prefer not to face the real possibility that abortion’s “collateral damage” is (at least sometimes, if not always) the killing of babies.

U.S. Society needs to look long and hard at all three of these issues.  We can no longer afford to think that the Christian faith is accomplished merely by obeying rules.  We can no longer afford to let the mantra of individual “freedom” trump all concerns about the common good.  And we can no longer afford to pretend that abortion, even when legal, is a casual matter that poses no danger to public safety or human rights.

  © Bernard F. Swain PhD 2013

#286: So Many Different Differences

Despite the strong emotions unleashed by changes in liturgy, not all our differences over liturgy are equal. The fact is our differences over liturgy come in many shapes and sizes.

Many differences over liturgy, for example, are really about the psychological preferences of individual people. Such preferences remain subjective and personal. There is no right or wrong, good or bad -- these are differences we should all be prepared to live with.

People also have aesthetic differences over liturgy, rooted in different ideas of beauty and taste. Mostly such differences are purely subjective and negotiable, yet I believe there is such a thing as "bad taste."

Then there are cultural differences. These vary, not from individual to individual, but from place to place and people to people. Most of us are creatures of our own culture, and are not totally at ease with liturgy rooted in a vastly different culture. But our discomfort does not make it "bad liturgy." It simply means Catholicism is for all cultures, not just my own.

There are also differences rooted in history, and especially in historical shifts. Any historical shift requires adaptation, and some people resist any change. But the historic motives behind such changes usually outweigh personal preferences.

There are, of course, practical differences about how well historic changes get implemented. But implementation mistakes make a strong case against bad implementation--not against change itself.

This can get into subtle differences over the "pastoral effectiveness" of liturgy. Liturgy is not entertainment, and the Eucharist’s validity does not depend on the quality of its performance. But the way liturgy is performed can shape its power to affect people's lives. This involves a lot of judgment calls, where people of good will can differ -- but those judgments still must be made. For example: will the proposed new translation’s awkward language, grammar, and unscriptural references make things better or worse?

So far I’ve only noted differences based on preferences, but there are also differences over principles, and some of these are not negotiable at all. I see people debating three types of principles.

First, there are liturgical principles. These are official norms for distinguishing good (proper) and bad (improper) liturgy. Most norms are very general: Vatican II's liturgy document, for example, calls 12 times for "active participation" without getting into specifics.

Second, there are theological principles. These define the meaning and value of our worship--the very nature of liturgy, rooted in our core beliefs as Catholics. So, for example, when Vatican II declares that liturgy is the "public worship" offered by the Body of Christ to God, it leaves little room for dispute or debate. People may prefer a more solitary style of worship, and may even be permitted it under some conditions--but they have no basis for claiming their preference is a better way.

Third, there are "spiritual" principles--and here everyone agrees in principle but not in practice. No one doubts, for example, that liturgy should be "reverent," "solemn," and should impart a sense of "mystery" and the "sacred." The trouble is, people define these terms in varied, often arbitrary ways. Calling for liturgical "reverence” is common sense, but limiting that to "kneeling" is an arbitrary construction. Who is to say what our actions symbolize? The overwhelming bulk of human actions have no intrinsic symbolic meaning until someone assigns one--and if someone chose these meanings, someone can also change them.

St. Augustine gave best advice for dealing with our differences:
In necessary things: Unity;
In questionable things: Liberty;
In all things: Charity.

It may be that our theological and liturgical principles provide necessary grounds for a unified yet global Catholic liturgy, but in a Catholic tradition with 23 authorized rites, most other differences leave lots of room for freedom to follow our preferences. In any case, none of our differences justifies a failure of charity.