10.10 // 10:12pm
Among many things, visited Notre Dame today. I feel as though I have visited so many famous churches and cathedrals in the past couple years that the stained glass windows, opulent altars, and saints carved in stone are all beginning to blend together. Attending Evensong at both Westminster and St. Paul's in London last week helped differentiate those in my mind, yet I find Notre Dame meant more to me than either of those churches, and all I did was spend maybe thirty minutes walking through, and then another thirty minutes looking for a lost friend with the daunting stone walls.
The two great towers in front were almost comical to me for some odd reason, like two eyes on stalks peering out at the bustling courtyard in front; a snail comes to mind, an altogether overly-comical representation for so beautiful a church. The arches and central round window combated the sharp stone edges and intricate carved figures staring down at all those who enter. One saint stood on the huddled figure of a man while his two neighbors are on pillars; I'm not sure the significance, but it made me slightly uncomfortable. I giggled shamefully.
Inside, despite the clear signs saying "no photography," rude tourists stomped around the house of worship, their flashes going off and dousing the walls and shrines to saints in harsh stabs of light. It was troubling to me that tourists were so far removed from the point of the church --as a place of worship-- as to disrespectfully disturb the environment of anyone who was trying to pray. Though I'm not Catholic nor a member of the Church of England (Protestant through and through!) I have certainly lit candles and knelt for prayer in churches I've visited, but here the masses of people traipsing through, hoping for a glimpse of Quasimodo, disrupt any hopes of an atmosphere confucive to prayer. Shame.
Despite this, though, the church felt more approachable to me than the famous Westminster and St. Paul's. The inside was wider and perhaps lonelier than those two, but also less opulent, which sits better with me. I can understand the need to build the church in honor of God, as a representation of heaven, but too much gold-embossed mosaics and my stomach turns wondering how many people starved to pay the taxes and tithes required for such an unnecessary undertaking. But then, I am again a Protestant through and through, and often such ceremonies are lost on me; I'm overly critical of the motives behind pomp and splendor.
The stone walls, touched and colored by age, created a warmer atmosphere than the smooth stone of Westminster, and the dimmmer light too helped mask the overwhelming size of the knave and wings. Black and off-white tile managed to keep the church looking fresh and cared for without detracting from the age, I thought; posters and tables laden with multilingual pamphlets assured visitors that the church is still alive. Great chandeliers hung between the columns, perhaps rusty, perhaps simply a dark brass; the candles weren't lit but I wish they had been --that the candles were lit and the noisy children and camera flashes were gone, and the tall knave with its beautiful arched domes overhead allowed to overwhelm me as intended. Instead I pity the church that daily has its insides spewed out on display for anyone at all to gawk at. I want to see the detailed stained-glass at dusk. I want to see if I can hear the ancient prayers echoing off the walls and domes --this the church seemed to confide in me. This is what takes place at night, maybe, when Notre Dame is no longer a tourist attraction but once again a place of worship. Maybe I have never been so disgusted with tourists. Whether you are religious is irrelevent; at least have respect for those who are. But then, I was there too, admiring the inside of the church, stopping to stare in awe at the giant rose windows.
But I was hoping to feel God inside the stone walls, which I didn't in St. Paul's or Westminster; I wasn't searching for Quasimodo.
