Making All Things New: Responding Thoughtfully to Notre Dame, Part Two

It’s fitting, I think, to be writing this particular essay on the morning of Easter Sunday, which, for Christians worldwide, is never about a return to the way things were, but about resurrection, the creation of something new, not reversion but rebirth. Easter is not about making anything great again. It’s about making all things new. I write this,

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The Dakota Access pipeline, cutting a toxic swath across land that is every bit as sacred to several Lakota and Dakota tribes as Notre Dame de Paris is to many Christians worldwide.

however, under the shadow of the bombings of several churches and hotels in Sri Lanka today, a loss of holy places–and more importantly, a loss of lifeorders of magnitude more horrific than the loss of Notre Dame. I hope this reflection will be useful to conversations about responding to that even more significant tragedy.

In the previous post I identified three often-overlooked qualities that make Notre Dame the extraordinary place that it is.

  1. It’s a living organism, not a static monument.
  2. It’s connected across the globe and across a thousand years of time.
  3. It’s holy ground.

Living. Global. Holy.

I want to argue that awareness of these three qualities is vital for creating thoughtful and positive responses to its partial destruction, and for avoiding some serious mistakes that can make those responses–even well-intentioned ones–go south in a hurry.

That facts that Notre Dame is both living and global help us to avoid (and be critically aware of) the hijacking of the Notre Dame tragedy into the service of militant nationalism and white supremacism. As many medievalists have noted over the past few years, the idea of “reclaiming” a wholly imaginary version of the European Middle Ages as an era of white racial purity and uncontested patriarchy has become a cause celebre of white nationalist groups in both Europe and the United States. Other medievalists have already thought through this phenomenon more fully than I could here, but, to offer a single example, the (spurious) appropriation of the medievalism of the far right was on blatant display at the 2017 “Unite the Right” rally in Charlottesville, VA. Awareness of the “Living, Global, and Holy” triad makes it easy to spot attempts by such groups channel otherwise legitimate public sorrow and concern over Notre Dame into the service of their agendas. A number of alt-right figures have already chimed in to this effect, but applying these concepts will send up immediate red flags about any appeals to Notre Dame as a “monument” to “Western Civilization,” or any attempt to fix Notre Dame in a single place, time, and culture. Any such attempt, at the very least, diminishes rather than preserves the real importance of places like Notre Dame, and, even if not explicitly intended to promote white supremacism or white nationalism, still works in the service of those agendas by making them very easy for such groups to co-opt.

The idea that Notre Dame is holy ground might be an even more important concept to bear in mind, regardless of whether one is a Roman Catholic or a Christian in the broader sense. It’s important because it activates the awareness that grief over Notre Dame isn’t merely grief over Notre Dame but over the loss of what, for many, is not only culturally and historically important, but sacred. For those many, there is a spiritual loss that goes well beyond the loss of a cultural artifact. For some that loss stems from connection to the place as a site of Christian worship; for others it stems from a felt connection to the place rooted in other kinds of relationships, whether it’s a love for Paris, deep connection to its art and architecture, or even just fond memories of the experience of a visit. For those for whom it is a real, living place of worship, there can be a profound sense of loss of the site of deeply personal and meaningful spiritual experiences.

Why does awareness of this spiritual quality matter? Because it activates the awareness that the grief anyone might feel over the specific destruction wrought upon Notre Dame itself creates another kind of global connection: to all those who know the grief of threat to or destruction of a place they regard as holy, no matter what brand of faith or spirituality they may practice. I’m sure that many make that connection naturally. For those who don’t, pointing out that connection is an amazing opportunity to jump-start that kind of empathy even where it doesn’t already exist. It’s a very simple, natural step from affirming an individual’s grief over Notre Dame to pointing out that that very emotion places one in connection to anyone who’s grieved over such a loss. To the parisoners of three African American churches that burned recently in Louisiana. To the Hunkpapa Lakota, Sihasapa Lakota, and Yanktonai Dakota who grieve over the ongoing destruction of sacred ground at Standing Rock. To the historical grief of those who lost not only sacred sites but enormous chunks of entire spiritual traditions to crass European colonialism, and the descendants who still struggle with the effects of those legacies. To the persons of Jewish faith who still bear the scars of genocide and thousands of gutted synagogues. To the Chinese Muslims who have witnessed the bulldozing of their mosques. To the hundreds in Sri Lanka who lost their lives when their churches were bombed, as well as those of many faiths (or none at all) whose hotels were attacked as well. To experience grief over the destruction to Notre Dame is, or at least should be, to recognize that we are all responsible for respecting and defending all holy places, of all faiths, and to realize that attention to Notre Dame should naturally direct more attention to the holy places that haven’t made the headlines.

It’s of course true that the Notre Dame fire has received a great deal more publicity than all these other examples, and legitimate to point out that this is an effect of the kind of white privilege that, in a knee-jerk and systemic fashion, favors the products of “white” European culture over others. It is essential to recognize and work to change this reality. But there’s a difference, I think, between real critiques of the brand of white privilege in play in this instance and merely shaming individuals for the crime of experiencing an emotion (grief, sorrow, etc.). In recognizing and affirming the attachment many human beings have to their own holy places, we have the perfect opportunity to combat white privilege by activating the organically empathic connection between those grieving over Notre Dame and those grieving over the places that the media has neglected.

My suggestion, for anyone feeling sorrow over Notre Dame, is to go ahead and contribute to its reconstruction, taking care, of course, not to direct such contributions toward any organization that purports to restore the cathedral to some imaginary, pristine “medieval” condition. But make it, at the least, a two- or three-way contribution, offering equal amounts to those protecting holy places elsewhere. My personal plan is to contribute to the main fund for Notre Dame, to the fund established for supporting the churches in Louisiana, and to the organization continuing the work at Standing Rock. There should be no shame in experiencing grief over Notre Dame. But such grief must always come with empathy, and it’s the particular responsibility of those profess faiths and identities that have been privileged in the past to help make sure that, in the future, no one’s holy places go unprotected.

To donate toward the repair of churches burned in Louisiana, see the GoFundMe page dedicated to that purpose.

To contribute toward the continuing defense of lands at Standing Rock, donate to their official organization here.

To support reconstruction efforts at Notre Dame, contribute to the Friends of Notre Dame de Paris.

 

Living, Global, Holy: Responding Thoughtfully to Notre Dame (Part One)

Lemme hit you with a story:

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The spire of St. Michael’s church in Linlithgow, Scotland.

A few years ago I was in Scotland for research. On a free Sunday, I took myself on an expedition to explore Linlithgow Palace, about a half-hour’s train ride north of Edinburgh. The palace is a ruin, though a majestic and fascinating one. Right next to the ruined palace, however, is the little parish church of St. Michael’s. While St. Michaels is, in part, as old as the palace, it’s still a functioning parish church. A place of regular worship for regular people. When I stepped in, the sexton came out to greet me, and immediately started explaining, almost defensively, why the church has its very modern spire. Apparently he’d had earfuls from tourist after tourist about how the spire was “incongruous” with the look of the rest of the church. How it wasn’t “medieval” enough. When I said something like, “Really? It doesn’t seem inconsistent to me–the whole church is made of components that are centuries apart,” the guy flashed the biggest smile and just about hugged me. More importantly, he proceeded to give me an amazing “VIP” tour of every nook and cranny of the place, from the blocks, once once parts of the stations of the cross, that had been incorporated into the high walls of the reformation-era apse, to what was probably 14th century graffiti on a stone doorframe, to the incredible carvings on the renaissance-era pulpit, to ways the building had been retrofitted for modern power and plumbing. We must have talked for a couple of hours about how the church was a living organism, one that carried within its very structure layers upon layers of history, of community, like the rings in a tree trunk, and that the modern spire was nothing less than a perfectly consistent continuation of that very process.

That experience was an important reminder to me that a church that’s been in continuous use for centuries, like St. Michaels or Notre Dame, while first constructed during the Middle Ages, isn’t only or merely a “medieval” building. Churches aren’t static monuments, especially for those faithful who have experienced and continue to experience them as places of daily worship and community. Such churches are living parts of their communities, and they change with the needs and desires of those communities, day to day, decade to decade, century to century. The physical changes wrought by generations of parishoners (and other influences) become embedded in the structure of both the building and the community. They’re not separate. St. Michaels is as much an Early Modern building as a medieval one, as much a Reformation building as a Catholic one; it’s a 19th and 20th century building, and even still, a modern, living part of a community of faith.

Such a reality, I think, has been lost in many responses to the fire that recently damaged Notre Dame. While it’s certainly a monument, and while parts of it date back to the Middle Ages, it’s not only or merely a medieval monument. It has always been, and continues to be, first and foremost, a holy place for a worldwide community of living, breathing people of faith, and the place is part of the life and breath of that community. One doesn’t need to share that same faith–or profess any faith at all–in order to respect the meaning of such a place to those for whom it has always been a place of worship and spiritual significance, in which the very bones of the place, the architecture, its structural mechanics, everything, were designed not only to support the physics of a large structure, but to communicate theological meaning and create a spiritual experience. To many of the artisans and workers who have built and rebuilt the cathedral over nearly 900 years, that work of construction wasn’t merely a job, but also an act of vocation and an expression of devotion. The people through the ages who have built Notre Dame did their work knowing they would never see a “finished” product, because as long as a building remains an active place of worship, it is never “finished.” Never fixed or frozen in time, but always changing, always moving, breathing.

Nor is Notre Dame merely a monument to a single time or a single culture. Buildings like Notre Dame and St. Michaels register within their very structures many different historical periods and cultures. The culture of the Paris of the 12th Century was not the same thing as the culture of Paris in the 16th, or the 19th, or the 21st. As Cord Whitaker has noted, some of the architectural innovations that saved the building from collapsing during the recent fire were the result of contact with, and adoption of engineering innovations from, the Arabic world. There are clear Islamic influences in parts of the cathedral’s design that contribute to its iconic appearance. While there’s not space to enumerate all such connections here (that would take volumes), when one really begins to look at the various components and layers of Notre Dame over time, that process reveals connections all across the (known, at the time) world. As such, Notre Dame isn’t so much a symbol of European or French or “medieval” culture as it is a testament to an amazingly complex, vibrant, and ongoing network of global connections and relationships.

As the living organism that it has always been, Notre Dame has survived damage and tragedy many times before, and will again. It was extensively altered in the 17th century. French revolutionaries ransacked it in 1789, even tearing town the original, 13th century spire. They tried to relabel the cathedral a “Temple of Reason,”

A ceremony of the new Republican Religion of Reason in Notre Dame, Paris, 1793. The effort to destroy the institutions of the Old Regime and create new, rationale, and just replacements was carried into the world of religion and the Church. The Civil Constitution of the Clergy (July 1790) reorganized the Church, introducing such reforms as the election of priests and, more broadly, the subordination of the Church to the Revolutionary Government. During the Convention the attack on the Church went further into de-Christianization. Churches were renamed temples of reason—or de-sanctified—and a new religion of reason was introduced by the Convention.  This “civil religion” was based on the belief in a Supreme Being and secular ethics. This print depicts a ceremony in this new civil religion taking place in the famous cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris.  The policy of radical religious change was not popular and sometimes fiercely resisted in small towns and villages.

Notre Dame as a “Temple of Reason” in 1793.

after which it even served, for a time, as a wine warehouse before Napoleon decided it’d make a great backdrop for his coronation as a self-declared emperor. Much of the present-day (pre-fire) appearance of the cathedral dates to massive renovation efforts in the 1840’s, sparked by the popularity of Victor Hugo’s 1831 novel The Hunchback of Notre Dame. The wooden spire that was so heartbreakingly engulfed in flames a few days ago was not a medieval, but a 19th century structure.

In the 20th and 21st centuries, fire or no fire, the structure has undergone massive damage from weather, simple aging (when 856 years old you become, look so good you will not, mmm?), and also pollution and vibration from Paris traffic.

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While heartbreaking, the spire engulfed in flames here dates to the 19th century.

In many ways, then, the recent fire is simply a new stage in the history of this living building. It’ll get rebuilt, and the evidence of the fire and the later reconstruction will become yet another layer, another ring, in the physical record of its ongoing life. Any call to restore the cathedral, then, to some kind of “original” condition should be questioned–not the least reason being that “original” doesn’t mean only one thing in the case of Notre Dame. Was the cathedral as it appeared (unfinished) in the 12th century “original?” Yes! Was the cathedral as it appeared during the French Revolution “original?” Yes! Was the cathedral “original” in its post-1840’s manifestation? Yes! The way it appeared two weeks ago was the original Notre Dame. It’s damaged condition in the present is the original Notre Dame. Its appearance in the future will be the original Notre Dame.  As long as it remains part of a living community, its original form will always take place in the present moment.

Living. Global. Holy: awareness of these three qualities, I suggest, are absolutely vital to responding in productive ways to the Notre Dame fire. In the next post, I’ll explain why.