As many times as I have been to the Cathedral, I've never been inside. Today, that changed. Let me just go on the record that I have never quite felt so dead inside as when I was in this place. Despite it's beauty, grandeur and OPULENCE, I felt nothing spiritual whatsoever. For the first time in about four or five years, I said an Our Father (without being prompted to do so).
The Nat'l Cathedral gives off the distinct impression of being the embodiment of the nouveau riche movement. It desperately attempts to mimic Notre Dame, and fails horribly in the process, drowning somewhere in the Siene. All through the place there are placques that say something along the lines of "This part of the NATIONAL CATHEDRAL was built by the will and grace of God, but paid for by *insert wealthy, pompous asshole here*" I felt dirty and disgusted walking through that place, despite it's beauty, as I thought about how much money people donated to have their bodies laid to rest in the Cathedral. If you can get ANY rest with a bunch of high schoolers sitting on your coffin during lunch (I am NOT exaggerating here. St Alban's and NCS both have functioning classroom's in the Cathedral itself). But more than anything else, I just felt completely devoid of any spirituality inside that place. And that made me so incredibly sad, simply because it's a shame to see something built for a specific purpose (to inspire) and fail miserably in doing so. To use personification, it's like watching someone through their life away.
OK, you can all stop crying now. There IS an upside to this story. After lighting candles for my deceased grandparents (all of them now) and for my deceased uncle, Adam and I wandered outside, where we stumbled upon a garden. 
This garden, completely unlike the rest of the area, almost looks neglected, despite being very well manicured. And therein lies the appeal of this place. Despite being overshadowed by one of the most overwhelming buildings in the city, it stands alone, complete separate. At times I almost forgot that it was the Cathedral shielding my eyes from the sunlight. Here, I found peace and much sought after connection to something greater than I. Just in the smell and feel of the wind, the close cropped grass or the hedges, there I felt my insignificance yet utter importance for the first time in a long time. To say the least, it was kind of amazing.
I slowly work my away towards being somewhat a pantheist. Help me.
1 comment:
Ashley,
Your comments remind me of my time in Spain. A friend and I walked El Camino de Santiago, a pilgrimage route that runs from all over Western Europe, coalescing at the monastery at Roncevalles in the Pyrenees into the Royal French Road, which tracks to the route's final destination, Santiago de Compostela. Our intentions were devotional, though neither of us were Catholics at the time.
The journey was strange. Walking between 20 and 40 kilometers a day, every day, for a month is a necessarily acetic experience. And the physical toll we endured displaced most of my desire to pray, to reflect, and, frankly, to be cordial, or even civil, with my companion. We made friends that we will never forget, even though we remain out of contact. We glimpsed the mystery of Providence, and discovered out of our relative poverty the meaning of hospitality and generosity. We learned not only to endure deprivation, but to respect it, and maybe even love it, a little.
It changed us in many ways, the walk, and, although we knew it then it would take years to learn how, and to try to grasp the meaning of it for our lives.
And this peculiar experience, at once mundane and profound, was unmistakably teleological, and it seemed the goal, naturally enough, was the Cathedral, Santiago de Compostela.
But when we finally arrived, one of the first things the came to both our minds was, 'this is a den of thieves.'
There were so many 'pilgrims' who hadn't broken a sweat to arrive, and to us they couldn't seem genuine, not then.
There was no Mass at the high altar, but in a chapel on the side. The area was enclosed by sound-proof glass with a sign that read something like: RELIGIOUS SERVICE IN PROGRESS; PLEASE BE SILENT. It was like they were monkeys in a zoo, and the tourists were being reminded not to feed them peanuts.
There were things for sale, Scallop Shells (a symbol of the route), walking sticks, t-shirts, and Rosaries.
I wanted to see St. James. I was not one to venerate a Saint, but I had walked all that distance and his memory was infused with the experience. There was a long line, packed by tourists and pilgrims, and the movement of the queue was continuous. It was as if we hadn't arrived. We walked 800 kilometers to see Santiago, and didn't stop at his bones; we walked right past them, and shortly thereafter, out the door.
A den of thieves, we thought.
I would moderate that now, but what we felt was not right, not holy, and neither of us would care to see that church again.
And like you, I found peace in a simpler, humble place.
And, ironically, I have since converted to Catholicism.
It is not a platitude to say that God made the garden in which you encountered something...amazing. And it is not pantheistic to recognize, coming out of a sense of opulence and spiritual aridity, in the cool January wind, something God-like smells.
Bless you.
Eric
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