Essay: Notre Dame de Paris and Roman Catholicism: Rebuilding Structures of Faith

“Of all the elaborate symbolism which has been suggested for the gothic Cathedral, the most vital and most perfect may be that the slender nervure, the springing motion of the broken arch, the leap downwards of the flying buttress,— the visible effort to throw off a visible strain,— never let us forget that Faith alone supports it, and that, if Faith fails, Heaven is lost. The equilibrium is visibly delicate beyond the line of safety; danger lurks in every stone. The peril of the heavy tower, of the restless vault, of the vagrant buttress; the uncertainty of logic, the inequalities of the syllogism, the irregularities of the mental mirror,— all these haunting nightmares of the Church are expressed as strongly by the gothic Cathedral as though it had been the cry of human suffering, and as no emotion had ever been expressed before or is likely to find expression again. The delight of its aspirations is flung up to the sky. The pathos of its self-distrust and anguish of doubt, is buried in the earth as its last secret. You can read out of it whatever else pleases your youth and confidence; to me, this is all.”—American historian Henry Adams (1838-1918), Mont Saint Michel and Chartres (1904)

The fragile force in the above quote from Henry Adams—faith—lies at the heart of both Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris and the institution that built it, the Roman Catholic Church. After the news broke on Monday of the fire that destroyed the spire and most of the roof of the 12th-century French cathedral, a co-worker remarked to me: “Sort of like the Catholic Church right now, isn’t it? Collapsing of its own weight.”

I could not support such a bald assertion said aloud, but it wasn’t as if a similar notion hadn’t occurred to me in somewhat different form.

In both cases, a structure had been built on religious conviction and sustained, improbably, over centuries. Now, in a time of testing, both Notre Dame and the Catholic Church face an uncertain future that calls for a long-term, fundamental recommitment.

It escaped few people’s notice (especially those who are already positing terrorism as the cause of the blaze) that the fire occurred during Holy Week. But the Catholic Church as a whole has been undergoing an agonizing reminder of the most holy seven days on its calendar, through the sex-abuse scandal that has assumed global dimensions, even as it shows no signs of abating 17 years after bursting out in earnest in the Archdiocese of Boston.

Nearly two millennia after the followers of Christ were engulfed in a round of embarrassment, guilt, and shame, the Church He founded has been plunged into its own intense crisis. It is impossible to convey adequately the disgust and anger—and, in all too many cases, disillusionment and desertion—that have followed in the wake of these revelations.

Given that background, the wave of sentiment surrounding Notre Dame Cathedral surprised me. One Facebook friend of mine, whose comments on Catholicism have been so critical as to verge on hostility and even outright prejudice, expressed intense sorrow over the fire. Others, with somewhat more lukewarm feelings about the Church, responded in a similar way to the sad news.

Some of this might simply stem from a site that has accrued cultural and patriotic associations along with its original spiritual purpose. Numerous observers recalled, for instance, how it became a center of thanksgiving and celebration after the liberation of Paris from the Nazis in 1944. Others have remembered Victor Hugo’s 18931 novel The Hunchback of Notre Dame and its various film adaptations. Musicologists have pointed to the medieval hymns heard there that became the bedrock of Western harmony. And, of course, Adams—not only an agnostic but a descendant of New England Congregationalists actively hostile to “papist” sentiment in the new republic they founded—fell under the spell of its architecture.

But some dared to go further. The other night, while listening to Chris Matthews’ Hardball, I heard Jean-Bernard Cadier, U.S. correspondent for BFM-TV, state bluntly: “We are a catholic country.”  

I almost blinked in disbelief when I heard this because—perhaps more so in France than anywhere else—the Roman Catholic Church has periodically damaged its credibility and reputation with the faithful: 

*Under the ancient regime, it possessed extensive properties and privileges, making it a prime target when the French Revolution burst out. 

*At the start of the 20^th century, the church hierarchy maintaining a careful silence during the Dreyfus Affair, even as many of its most reactionary adherents in the media engaged in the most savage anti-Semitism against the French captain unjustly convicted of treason. The fallout from the firestorm resulted in legislation dedicating the nation to the principle of laicite, or the absence of religion in public life. (See, for instance, Rachel Donado's piece on The Atlantic Web site this week.)

*During the nation’s Nazi occupation in WWII, the Church hierarchy again remained silent, this time about the collaborationist Vichy regime, leading to a formal request for forgiveness to the nation’s Jews during a 1997 visit by Pope John Paul II.

*At the end of the century, the sex-abuse crisis further signaled the Roman Catholic Church at bay.

What does the outbreak of emotion surrounding the cathedral signify, then? In her Wall Street Journal column this weekend, Peggy Noonan proposed one short but elegantly stated idea: “Destroyed beauty is a spiritual event.” 

But I think the answer might be found in the structures lost during the fire: the spires. The architects of the 80 French cathedrals built from 1170 and 1270 knew that the sky was the source of greatest mystery and aspiration for churchgoers. 

 

There is another way of looking to this spot, though. In his opening chapter of Mont Saint Michel and Chartres, Adams explains that in the island abbey, the archangel Michael appears at the heights because this was “where the danger was greatest.” Balance is hardest to maintain here and the fall is the worst from this point. 

But God help us if we lose the tower we once assumed would always be there for us, come what may. That might explain why fundraising for the cathedral’s restoration had been lagging these last five years, but the Church has already been able to pull together in the last five days a similar sum what it took for the restoration. 

Rebuilding will be more protracted—and perhaps even more perilous—than the restoration effort. Similarly, the Roman Catholic Church itself will need a massive campaign to preserve even what it has right now, let alone the faith of those they wronged. But both efforts must begin in earnest now. Many will not want to find the extent of the loss when it becomes too late.

(The photo accompanying this post, taken by Nicolas von Kospoth—i.e., Triggerhappy—in December 2005, shows Notre Dame de Paris as seen from the rive gauche.)