Notre-Dame de Paris
Sacred spaces call us together
When Notre-Dame de Paris burned on April 15, 2019, it felt like someone died.
Thoughts, prayers, and monetary donations poured in from around the globe. People posted family vacation photos on social media, sharing their remembrances from their visits. News outlets covered the fire around the clock for several days. My own grief, which was startling and strong, was buoyed by the fact that I was so clearly not alone – so many others felt the same.
And then, I saw a post that said something to the effect of: “Why are we making such a big deal out of this? It’s just an empty building. People are more important.”
If I was a different type of person, I would have retorted: “Of course people are more important. But somehow, this building feels like a person. And anyway, it isn’t empty.”
In 2009, I stood before Notre-Dame like I was greeting an old friend. As I looked at the lines and curves of her west facade, I couldn’t help but smile: it was like laying eyes on someone I hadn’t seen in years. Stepping through her doors after spending the dreary November morning walking the streets of Paris felt like a warm embrace.
Maybe it was the years of French class I took in middle and high school that prepared me for this moment. Maybe it’s my deeply personal devotion to her namesake, Our Lady. Even though I had never been there before or since, encountering Notre-Dame was a profoundly holy experience.
Of course, as a magnificent example of a medieval cathedral, she is designed to provide this type of experience: her Gothic architecture intentionally shepherds you from the ordinary to the sacred. As you step through the doors, you leave the light of day behind and enter into a sanctuary where light is filtered through the brilliant colors of priceless stained glass windows. The pointed arches that support the roof direct your eyes and heart heavenward. Often the light is so subtle and the arches so high that the ceiling is obscured in darkness, leaving you to contemplate an infinite, mysterious God.
Yet, there is an intimacy at Notre-Dame as well: it comes from knowing that you are not the first – nor the last – to set foot inside this sacred space. As I walked around the church that day, I bumped shoulders with hundreds of other visitors, our shoes slipping and shuffling on the dirt and dust we had tracked in. Hushed voices in the world’s many languages turned into a collective buzz that served as a backdrop for our wonder and prayer.
As I admired the stone sculptures, the iconic rose windows, and the priceless relics, I thought about the millions of other pilgrims who had visited the cathedral over the centuries. The air was thick with the sighs of souls who came to Notre-Dame seeking answers or comfort. The walls were heavy with the handprints of workers who offered their craftsmanship and artistry to a project they never saw completed. The shiny pews were soaked with incense and candle smoke, the scent of heartfelt prayers lingering long after the service had ended.
Notre-Dame is certainly not empty, not even now as it is closed to visitors during her restoration. Those prayers and that work remains in the dust on the floor, the lead of the stained glass windows, and the stone of the statues.
I like to think this is one reason why Catholics spend so much time and money building their churches. When something is this beautiful, people flock to it, wanting to see it in person. While they are there, they encounter something real: not just the people and art around them, but the Lord who waits for them in His true presence in the tabernacle.
These churches are designed to withstand time so that we can return to them for generations, experiencing for ourselves what God can do. And when they are damaged by fire or flood or war, we rally together to build them again, to tell the story once more of what God has done.
Years before I stepped foot inside Notre Dame, I was sitting in 7th grade French class listening to a lesson on French culture when I noticed a picture in our textbook of a brass star set into the concrete of a public square. The star was significant because it marked the “center” of Paris. Known as “Paris Point Zero,” it is the place from which all distances to and from Paris are measured.
I loved the idea of being able to stand in the center of Paris, of knowing exactly how far away I was from other major cities or loved ones across the globe, as if tiny threads connected me to them. Like straddling a state line, being able to stand on that point would be both easy and monumental. I knew I wanted to see it in person one day.
It turns out that star is just a few hundred feet outside of Notre-Dame’s doors. Before entering the cathedral, my good friend Gabe and I scoured the concrete looking for it. When we found it, I stood there proudly as he took my picture:
A vacation picture or a souvenir usually tells the story, “I was here.” But my time at Notre-Dame grounded me and expanded me in a way I wasn’t expecting. Here in this spot, millions of people have gathered for hundreds of years to praise and to lament. And I was there, too.
No, not just, “I was here.” We were here. Together.
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What I’ve been reading and writing lately:
For the first time in years, I’m taking a writing class! It has been so good for my soul to get back into the (virtual) classroom as a student again. The readings and writing exercises are stretching me; hopefully I’ll be able to share some of my work from the class in the not-so-distant future!
Thanks to the Substack reader app, I’ve been reading more Substacks than ever before. I highly recommend it – people are doing some really cool things here and the app prevents their work from getting lost in my inbox.
Coming up…
Next time, I plan to write about my favorite novel from the American literature curriculum I used to teach. Make sure you subscribe so you don’t miss it!
This was so beautiful. I remember creating our own rose windows out of construction and tissue paper in elementary school art class. You brought back so many memories of being in Paris, thank you!