A Religious Experience -- Early morning, December 25, 2004

Just past midnight on Christmas, I dragged myself out of the house into the wet night and walked over to Notre Dame Cathedral to see what was happening. I walked up Boulevard St. Germain, and then turned up a side street toward the Seine. The cathedral was fully illuminated against the foggy sky. No matter how beautiful it may be, it's still a strange sight to see something that vast and that old standing there in the midst of the modern world. Few buildings I've seen give the impression that they just descended from the sky and landed there; Notre Dame is one.

I remember seeing the thing for the first time, in July, from about a kilometer away on a bridge between Ile St. Louis and the left bank. I had no idea what it was. I just looked at it and thought, man, that's one heavy duty Gothic cathedral. Then some time later it occurred to me what I was looking at.

Tonight, I had no such confusion. I crossed the footbridge to Ile de la Cité, the island where the cathedral is placed, noticing that there were quite a few cops around, though not the antiterrorism brigades armed with machine guns that patrol near the Eiffel Tower. The footbridge leads right to the front of the cathedral, but the entrances were blocked off with metal gates. I asked a young cop on the other side how you get in, and whether you need a ticket. No ticket needed; enter from the far end of the plaza, where I found a metal detector and two guys sort of checking people for guns, acting very leisurely about it. I walked through dangling a large set of keys and a cell phone in my hands; the thing didn't buzz. Yet another security checkpoint that did not exactly inspire confidence. However, I feel more consoled by the fact that France is kind to Muslims than I do by rent-a-cops with metal detectors set too high to detect anything.

It was about 100 meters from there to the entrances; the ushers at the door told me to take off my hat, which I pulled through the hammer loop in my jeans. And I slipped into the huge structure through one of the 25-foot high entrances that were standing wide open, melting into one of those scenes that could have been in any century. The crowd was manageable, busy but not oppressive. Much eye contact all around, intense curious gazes, the lovely, deep eyes of France -- nothing stiff or religious, just purely social. As each pair of eyes met mine, there was a slow-motion feeling as we drew one another out, which felt for a moment like moving through liquid.

Throughout the building there were now flat-screen TV monitors on which the face of the monsignor delivering the mass was visible, a guy giving the impression that he would benefit greatly from resurrection. He seemed older than the Pope. He was in the middle of his sermon, which was scratchy and which I could not comprehend, but I asked someone near me if he had mentioned Iraq. Not that he had heard. (Neither did the Pope, actually; he chose to talk about the need for peace, rather than the problem of war.)

I worked my way around the back, past a sign that said, "No visitors, Service only," and toward the front. I found a good vantage point and at this point, took off my heavy leather jacket and began taking notes. I noticed: wow, I'm inside. I wasn't actually sure I would make it here. This is one way that Paris is different than my home city of New York. In New York City there is no way you're getting into midnight mass at St. Patrick's Cathedral without having a connection to the mayor or bishop personally, or knowing somebody with season tickets -- or that's the impression you get. In Paris, you just walk in the door and there you are.

The sermon ended, and next a cloud of frankincense rose from the altar. Suddenly there were six or eight priests in long white robes gathered around the altar, arms extended, consecrating the host. The scene could have fit a Druid gathering at Stonehenge, and in this setting it seemed no less mystical; that the priests were performing the White Mass was never more apparent. This particular site, long before a church was built there, was an ancient Roman temple to the god Jupiter, whereas Stonehenge is a temple to Mars; it was used, in its day, as a war council chamber. This is built on the scene of some kind of temple to justice and abundance, and then a huge temple to the Virgin followed centuries later.

While this consecration ritual was going on, the organist played something sing-song that could have come from a haunted game show, genuinely strange. I looked around the audience and one woman was conducting with her fingers, with a mocking face. Nobody else seemed to notice. Numerous ushers then appeared with baskets, and I found a 5 euro note in my black reporter's notebook and dropped it in; I've read in the Ninety Five Theses that this is actually a very good idea.

Then out of nowhere came the "Hallelujah Chorus," with the organ ringing at full blast and the choir rising up like angelic thunder. On the TV monitors, you could see the conductor pouring her energy into the minds and eyes of the singers, intense and unselfconscious like an athlete, obviously drawing the best possible performance out of them; but the choir itself, in blue robes, was difficult to see back behind the altar. All combined, it was a moment comparable to my greatest experiences in rock concerts, where my mind could barely take in that I was there or that it was real.

More frankincense -- they love this stuff as much as I do -- this time with the sweet, soft scent of myrrh, the two resins brought by the wise men, along with gold, to the baby Jesus. The wise men, of course, were Zoroastrian priests, 'Magi', that is, astrologers and lore-masters following the omen of a star in the East. If you recall, they returned by a different route, and did not reveal to Herod the location of the Christ child, showing where their true loyalty resided.

I looked around the room, at the vaulted ceilings a full 120 feet above the main aisle. I had no idea but learned later that this church was begun in 1163 and consecrated in 1182, particularly the nave or center aisle -- the part I was standing in. The choir's voices filled up the ancient stone halls, thousands of people in the space listening, and then turning toward the back I could see all the high doors standing wide open into the Paris night, and the big (but really, not so big) Christmas tree outside: a moment of high glory in a place where the Catholic mass has been celebrated for more than 800 years.

Then, "Come All Ye Faithful," which somehow was deeply moving when performed in this setting, at this intensity.

Quietly, ushers with Secret Service-styled walkie-talkies with discreet headsets moved around the room. Then, the alter boys fanned out throughout the cathedral with silver bowls of communion wafers. As the women received the body of Christ from these sweet young virgins, some looked at them with intense, knowing passion; the boys seemed oblivious to their gazes, and they went about their work, placing a small wafer in each of the hands of the faithful. I was not aware that anyone other than a priest could handle the hosts, but I also just saw on BBC an hour earlier that there is an extremely severe shortage of priests in France -- so problematic that the French diocese is importing priests from Africa to help on an emergency basis, and considering allowing its own priests to marry, as was done in centuries past, and has been secret practice in Germany in modern times.

I slipped closer to the front, getting as close as I could get. I found a seat in about the 20th row, on the aisle. The choir was now singing Les Anges dans nos campagnes, a traditional French Christmas carol which was long ago translated into English as "Angels We Have Heard On High." I truly wished my Aunt Josie could have been there.

The mass was about to end.

From outside, as if far in the distance but really high in the two east-facing towers, one could hear the sounds of the ancient bells clanging low and dissonant, announcing the birth of Christ. I pictured Quasimodo up there, personally ringing them.

Now ushers and security guys moved efficiently through the main aisle, clearing the way and scooting people back into their rows. Then the procession began: first with half a dozen altar boys carrying candles on long poles, with one, a solemn looking black boy at the center, holding the crucifix; then the priests; and then the elderly monsignor who was offering the mass. He seemed like a happy guy, accepting greetings from the crowd and looking back from deep within himself through his humorous, attentive eyes. On his head, he was wearing a small, Madonna-like microphone and headset device. I flashed him a peace sign.

Then came the choir members, in their blue robes: at first it seemed to be a children's choir, there were about 30 or more people considerably younger than 18 -- they have those high, energized voices -- then they were followed by the taller ones, about as many adults. This was not a professional choir of any kind, but rather an extremely dedicated group of volunteers who obviously practiced quite a bit.

As they passed, the crowd streamed into the aisle and followed, and I moved with them for a while, then at the first opportunity cut to the right and wormed my way along the north side of the cathedral, toward the great doors, replacing my jacket and hat, and streaming out and into the soft Paris mist.

I walked home along the river, looking across the river at the ancient high-Gothic structure with its massive flying buttresses spread out around the building supporting those 10-story high walls, and its great black lead spire reaching high into the night.


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Notes

Notre Dame Cathedral is the geographic center of Paris. Just outside its doors is a brass plaque embedded in the concrete which is the beginning of 'kilometer zero'. It is on Ile de la Cite, which is the first place that a civilization emerged in the city of Paris thousands of years ago. An archeological crypt below the the main courtyard contains ruins that date from between the 2nd century CE (AD) and the 19th century CE (AD).

http://www.oldandsold.com/articles05/cathedral8.shtml writes:

"Begun in 1163 and consecrated in 1182, the church has undergone many vicissitudes, changes, and restorations. It has fared ill on many occasions; perhaps the greatest defilement being that which befell it during the Revolution, when it was not only foully desecrated, its statues and other imagery despoiled, but the edifice was actually doomed to destruction."

http://www.discoverfrance.net/France/Cathedrals/Paris/Notre-Dame.shtml writes:

"The Gothic loftiness of Notre-Dame dominates the Seine and the Ile-de-la-Cité as well as the history of Paris. On the spot where this majestic cathedral now stands, the Romans had built a temple to Jupiter, which was followed by a Christian basilica and then a Romanesque church (the Cathedral of St. Etienne, founded by Childebert in 528).

"Maurice de Sully, bishop of Paris, decided to build a new cathedral for the expanding population, dedicated to the Virgin Mary. Although construction started in 1163, it was not completed until roughly 180 years later in about 1345. Built in an age of illiteracy, the cathedral retells the stories of the Bible in its portals, paintings, and stained glass.

"On completion of the choir in 1183, work was begun on the nave and completed c.1208, followed by the west front and towers c.1225-1250. A series of chapels were added to the nave during the period 1235-50, and to the apse during 1296-1330 (Pierre de Chelles and Jean Ravy). Transept crossings were built in 1250-67 by Jean de Chelles and Pierre de Montreuil (also the architect of the Sainte-Chapelle). The six-part rib vaults and the thin elements articulating the wall are typically Early Gothic."

http://web.kyoto-inet.or.jp/org/orion/eng/hst/gothic/bourges.html
Nave is 15m width and 37m height

Small wheel turns by the fire and rod
Big wheel turns by the grace of God
Every time that wheel goes round
You're bound to cover just a little more ground.

-- The Grateful Dead