As we made our way up what seemed like approximately four thousand three hundred and fifty two and one-third set of steps and the Sacre Coeur materialized, the only emotion I could feel was religious. The entire building, a building of grandeur in size, style, and overall atmosphere, was a blinding ivory white. I’m not one to associate colors with emotions or that sort of green is envy sort of hoopla, but I could think of nothing but purity as my eyes scanned and scanned this massive piece of architecture. Moving forward, nearing the entrance, a woman dressed in purple and gold religious garb reminiscent of something Mother Theresa wore at one point in time sat Indian-Style, eyes closed, hands folded deep in some intense prayer for the good of humanity.
Finally entering the sacred heart of a church, we passed a man whose sole job was to ensure that, as the people walked into this place of holy worship, silence was maintained. Best of all, everyone entering listened. There was that deafening hush that sounds like the pitch black of a winter night looks. No one’s cameras were out. As I walked through the church, I could see people legitimately enjoying the service for its religious purpose. The church had obviously refused to compromise its religious values in the face of tourism. The gift shop was kept as a separate entity from the church itself. The only object which was for sale was candles. Still, these candles were bought as donations to the church. Even further, these candles were used to light up the church by natural means, so not to be lit by the electric lights of modernity.
Most of all, the people walking through this church seemed to understand a little something about respecting what is so obviously sacred. I’ve never been an ultra-religious type of person, never fanatical about making services on every Sunday, but that did not matter much walking through this cathedral. I was still moved, a certain haunting presence was with me; not haunting in a bad way, just haunting in the sense that there was something more than beautiful white architecture within and among these walls. I do not make too much out of these feelings, but what I do gather is that this is largely in part because Sacre Coeur simply is conducive to feelings such as the ones within me at that moment. If a person was to feel obliged to get down on their knees and pray, it was by all means possible. For there was room in the pews, there was a mood that allowed that kind of reflective thought, there was a concerted effort to stick to the roots of what upon which the massive cathedral was built—a little prayer here and there and some wholesome, genuine religion..
However, Paris proved not to be built upon churches which have remained purely untainted. Our next Roman Catholic cathedral of interest was the storied Notre Dame. Thinking I was due for another religious experience, I excitedly entered this building, a building of even more epic proportion than the Sacre Coeur. The archaic sculptures of apostles and Jesus and even the devil created a real sense of authenticity. Unfortunately, walking into this building, there was no woman praying, there was no man “SHHHHHH-ing” the oncoming traffic, there was no restriction on photography. Instead, we were greeted by the people at the gift shop located conveniently in front of the largest piece of stain glass I had ever seen. We were then shoved in front of what looked more like an exhibit at Le Louvre than one of the most historical churches in the world. What better sign that this church is as much as business as anything is there than the fact that in order to see certain parts of the church, it required money!? A line was crossed in which religion, a personal, self-motivated, spiritual aspect of life turned into a profit. In the back of my mind, I was reminded of paying off grievances with money to make it into heaven in the Old Catholic church. All in all, models, roped off areas, and other gimmicky set-ups for tourists, not religious members, pleasures dominated the walk way. The best way to sum up how much of a farce this place had become, I offer an anecdote. In trying to catch a glimpse of the altar, at least five tourists leaped in front of me with their Canon Digital Camera PowerShot 4000s, flash fully loaded, and started snapping away. Needless to say, I could not find my way to the front of the line to actually absorb the effect of what promised to be an amazing religious building.
So, no, I did not feel anything. No shivers were sent down my spine. No desire to pray to God entered my body. I tried to imagine a service happening here. I tried to envision altar boys, the communion, a zealous minister and his sermon. But I was just numb. I understand how people make such comments as “Art is my religion.” For, walking through Le Louvre, seeing the passion of the dozens upon dozens of painters moved by Jesus Christ’s martyrdom, seeing non-religious paintings like “The Young Girl” that so obviously moved the painters and millions whose eyes have set on it since, I was far more moved that at any point in Notre Dame. It’s no wonder why apathy was the only emotion running through my veins from beginning to end of my trip through this Notre Dame either because circuses usually do not affiliate closely with the Lord Jesus anyway.
