From the banks of the Seine, the Cathedral spectacularly rose out of the trees that surrounded it. With its high-flying buttresses, even with brooding gargoyles standing watch, the white-grey stone cast a pall of purity over all around it.
Yet, darkness crawled over you the second you stepped through the doors—if you could manage to push them open. Upon stepping into that all-consuming darkness, even at mid-day, Notre Dame was nearly as dark as night. How on earth had pre-electric Parisians managed to find a seat, or a candle to light? In 2011, even with modern eyeglasses and good hearing, the darkness and silences were overwhelming.
There were signs of life here—votive candles were for sale, from K‑Mart “Blue Light Specials” to many-times-more-expensive ones. (The candles all looked the same, though presumably the more expensive ones carried greater weight with God and thus a greater likelihood of human desires and prayers being heard by him or her or them. Is that really a possibility? That God’s blessings can be bought?)
Light came through dark-glass stained-glass windows, illuminating the window but giving neither light nor heat beyond their frames. Votive candles sheathed in red holders gave an eerie air to their immediate surroundings—but nowhere beyond. Pixels of red, with white flames topped by orange and yellow could be seen occasionally—when they managed to jump high enough to be seen above the red-walled holders that enclosed them.
But mostly the interior was dark—like walking through a haunted house where no one would jump out and scare you. Instead, the intent seemed to be to allow your own thoughts to imbue you with the guilt required to “purchase” the most expensive votive imaginable and light it.
Finding a pew—barely lighter than the surrounding darkness—was difficult. Old as they must have been, the pews didn’t creak; not a word did they speak. But what words would they have said? What stories or justifications might have come forth? What kings or popes, nuns, priests, or singers had traipsed the narthex, the aisles, inhabited the cathedral’s public, private, and secret spaces?
There was, no doubt, an altar, and places priests might stand and speak, read, or tweak the consciousnesses of those attending, and maybe listening, too. This was a going concern; nuns were bound to have been around, and priests held Mass, heard confessions, baptized, married, and buried parishioners.
But I—neither Catholic, nor Parisian, nor parishioner—was there simply to listen and absorb, to hear my heartbeat, to feel my mind soar to the ceiling, to stand amid the rafters, perhaps to sit on the exterior roof to enjoy a spectacular view of Paris with only a collegial pigeon nearby for company. Instead, while sitting in a pew, I thought, meditated, prayed; and then, I left. I wondered how some men of vision, even some in Godly pursuits, could abuse and debase others in yet even darker corners than I had seen, and never be held to earthly account.
Perhaps the 2019 flames that sent the roof falling into the sacred spaces below was a sacrifice that could sanctify Notre Dame Cathedral anew. Perhaps.
