6 Parvis Notre-Dame, Pl. Jean-Paul II, Paris
I was first here in 2012. Back then, the walls were covered in a greyish-yellow hue, a silent witness to the centuries of dust, devotion, incense and incantation that had beckoned pilgrims from the start.
But then came April 15th, 2019. And just as Parisians were on their way home from work, fire became visible to onlookers along the Seine. Quickly burning out of control (there were never adequate fire notification devices in the ceiling before the blaze), the temperatures soared to more than 800ºF, vaporizing the protective lead that sheathed the forest of oaken timbers. An hour and a half later, the spire was totally engulfed in flames, while thousands upon thousands of city dwellers gazed on, helpless.
By the time I caught up with the news feed, the cameras were focusing not only on the inferno, but on the faces and reactions of the witnesses. Those faces – young and old – told as much of the story as did the flames shooting up from high above the sanctuary space. No matter what the age, no matter the faith stance (or lack thereof), it was like the heart of the city was being destroyed before their eyes. The interviews were telling – most responses were bordering on the ineffable, with lack of words speaking more than any description could provide.
What was happening here? It wasn't just a fire. It wasn't just a big fire. It was the city becoming a bystander while the flailing arms of her mother were reaching out for help.
Paralysis seemed to grip the city and her inhabitants (save for the first responders). People were kneeling in the streets, tears in onlookers' eyes. This time, incense was not swirling around the altar. It was billowing up above the city, a lead-laden pall of noxious fumes.
Yet we have seen how communities react to paralysis before: that, in the face of tragedy, the response can exhibit a face of humanity that illustrates just where one's priorities lie.
Within days, French President Macron made an appeal, and the subsequent international response yielded more than a quarter of a billion euros within twenty-four hours. And while some experts predicted that the damage could take up to 40 years to repair, Macron pledged that Notre Dame de Paris would be reopened in time for France's 2024 Olympics – a mere five years away.
That takes me to today. When we crossed the portal into Paris's Mother Church, I was taken aback. The walls were gleaming (in part due to the cloudless day outside). The clerestory windows were trumpeting their colors to the thousands of pilgrims below. We had arrived in the middle of a service packed with congregants, (more on that tomorrow), and surrounding this was a constant, clockwise flow of people, something like an enormous tide of seekers, moving as if they were water current around the mysteries taking place in front of the sanctuary.
For centuries, it would be safe to say that relations between church and state in France have been standoffish at best. Municipalities own all Catholic churches built before 1905; all cathedrals are owned by the State. The Catholic church maintains these houses of prayer, but she does not own them. Yet when faced with the destruction experienced at Notre Dame de Paris, the government was an unquestionable advocate.
Call it what you will, but I would maintain that this cradle of spiritual comfort, this bastion of protection for weary pilgrims, occupies far too great a place in the hearts of those who wander upon this earth. She is far too valuable to be abandoned by any tragedy. The doors of Notre Dame were reopened on December 7th, 2024. Part of the Opening Procession was to pay tribute to the first responders.
She is the Mother Church of a City of Light, her foundations laid in the thirteenth century, built in the heart of a nation that has given the world Genevieve and Joan of Arc and Thérese of Lisieux and Bernadette Soubirous. Where would the world be without such women? And crowning them all, the Mother of God....
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