Tourists who visit Paris often come with three goals: to climb to the top of the Eiffel Tower, to sample the baguettes and pastries, and to visit Notre Dame Cathedral.
As I stood before the intricate façade of this famous cathedral, I reflected upon the opportunity that literally rose before my eyes; I had taken a pilgrimage to France's most famous cathedral that others only dreamed of seeing. As a Catholic, Notre Dame did not only represent an architectural and artistic masterpiece, but rather, moved me because of the significance for which it was built. It is a collaboration of thousands of laborers, heaving colossal stones up and down archaic pulleys to build a house of God, which to them was a worthy cause of their back-breaking labor. I came out of my trance and fell into line with the other tourists as we shuffled through the majestic porticos, remembering that I, in fact, was not on a pilgrimage, but a tourist, just like the rest.
This experience launched my internal debate of the purpose of the cathedrals in this beautiful city. Although they were built and are still utilized as religious institutions, they have become tourist attractions above anything else. In fact, I was not surprised to note that there were more tourists circulating the corridors of Notre Dame than churchgoers sitting in the pews attending Mass in the nave.
It was with this mindset that I attended Ash Wednesday Mass at Saint Sulpice, conveniently located down the street from my Paris studio. I entered the church five minutes late, expecting to find the Mass unfolding in full force. At the same time, I can't say that I was surprised that what awaited me on the other side of the threshold were more tourists. I faintly heard the voice of a priest and the melody of a few weak voices raised in song. I was sure that I had gotten the Mass time right , so where was everybody? I asked a woman who looked less confused than I was if she knew when the next Mass was supposed to begin, to which she gave me a condescending look and replied right now and indicated the far side of the church. Slightly embarrassed, I walked along the corridors and listened to the voice of the congregation get stronger. At last I found them : a group of maybe 200 people and a priest almost hidden in the chapel farthest from the entrance. We were seated in chairs that looked as if they were as old as Saint Sulpice itself, and I noticed that my fellow worshippers were all at least 30 years older than me. The old church was drafty, and the imposing dark stone of the Gothic arches did not exactly welcome me into the house of God. On the contrary, I felt that the church lacked a certain warmth that I found in the smaller, less ornate, yet cozier churches from home.
Upon my arrival in Paris, I found it hard to believe that a country containing so many beautiful cathedrals—Notre Dame, Chartres, Reims—was at the same time renowned for its secularism. Yet it was not until I actually attended these Masses that I started to understand that these enormous cathedrals might in fact contribute to the country's lack of practicing Catholics or Protestants. Perhaps the cathedrals are too big, too imposing, to be welcoming. Perhaps they are too reminiscent of the large theological ideas that are so difficult to grasp, instead of focusing on the central point that churches are a house of God where all are welcome. Perhaps with the distraction of so many statues and gargoyles, it is hard to focus inward on developing one's spirituality. Perhaps in a space that could accommodate so many people, it is difficult to focus on your own personal religious experience.
The priest at Saint Sulpice mentioned the word community several times in his homily. I found myself wondering if it was possible to be part of community in a space so enormous, let alone in a space that was built thousands of years ago. Who am I supposed to be connecting to? The millions of souls who have sat in my pew over the past few centuries? That was too overwhelming. And the other churchgoers sitting next to me? I suppose the vastness of my surroundings made it easy to forget that I was part of a community.
All things considered, I was not surprised that the ashes they placed on our foreheads were a curiously light gray color—so light that they almost meshed with our skin tones, making it difficult to distinguish who among the Parisians wanted to be called sinners that day. I spent my day wandering around the city, reassuming my role as a tourist in the city of lights and forgetting my quasi-religious experience from earlier that day. And so the cycle of secularism continues.
This experience launched my internal debate of the purpose of the cathedrals in this beautiful city. Although they were built and are still utilized as religious institutions, they have become tourist attractions above anything else. In fact, I was not surprised to note that there were more tourists circulating the corridors of Notre Dame than churchgoers sitting in the pews attending Mass in the nave.
It was with this mindset that I attended Ash Wednesday Mass at Saint Sulpice, conveniently located down the street from my Paris studio. I entered the church five minutes late, expecting to find the Mass unfolding in full force. At the same time, I can't say that I was surprised that what awaited me on the other side of the threshold were more tourists. I faintly heard the voice of a priest and the melody of a few weak voices raised in song. I was sure that I had gotten the Mass time right , so where was everybody? I asked a woman who looked less confused than I was if she knew when the next Mass was supposed to begin, to which she gave me a condescending look and replied right now and indicated the far side of the church. Slightly embarrassed, I walked along the corridors and listened to the voice of the congregation get stronger. At last I found them : a group of maybe 200 people and a priest almost hidden in the chapel farthest from the entrance. We were seated in chairs that looked as if they were as old as Saint Sulpice itself, and I noticed that my fellow worshippers were all at least 30 years older than me. The old church was drafty, and the imposing dark stone of the Gothic arches did not exactly welcome me into the house of God. On the contrary, I felt that the church lacked a certain warmth that I found in the smaller, less ornate, yet cozier churches from home.
Upon my arrival in Paris, I found it hard to believe that a country containing so many beautiful cathedrals—Notre Dame, Chartres, Reims—was at the same time renowned for its secularism. Yet it was not until I actually attended these Masses that I started to understand that these enormous cathedrals might in fact contribute to the country's lack of practicing Catholics or Protestants. Perhaps the cathedrals are too big, too imposing, to be welcoming. Perhaps they are too reminiscent of the large theological ideas that are so difficult to grasp, instead of focusing on the central point that churches are a house of God where all are welcome. Perhaps with the distraction of so many statues and gargoyles, it is hard to focus inward on developing one's spirituality. Perhaps in a space that could accommodate so many people, it is difficult to focus on your own personal religious experience.
The priest at Saint Sulpice mentioned the word community several times in his homily. I found myself wondering if it was possible to be part of community in a space so enormous, let alone in a space that was built thousands of years ago. Who am I supposed to be connecting to? The millions of souls who have sat in my pew over the past few centuries? That was too overwhelming. And the other churchgoers sitting next to me? I suppose the vastness of my surroundings made it easy to forget that I was part of a community.
All things considered, I was not surprised that the ashes they placed on our foreheads were a curiously light gray color—so light that they almost meshed with our skin tones, making it difficult to distinguish who among the Parisians wanted to be called sinners that day. I spent my day wandering around the city, reassuming my role as a tourist in the city of lights and forgetting my quasi-religious experience from earlier that day. And so the cycle of secularism continues.
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