While in Paris, definitely visit Notre Dame de Paris. It’s breathtaking — we took no less than 60 pictures of it or in it. The cathedral stands at kilometre zero — the place where all distances in France are judged from. A paradox: at zero distance stands a monument which speaks of infinity.
And there are more: sincere worshipers partake the communion at the noon mass, while tourists shuttle around them flashing photos. Under the ancient flying buttresses in the sacred nave, flat screen televisions dot the aisles. Sections are set aside for silent prayer, while teenagers flirted loudly with each other on its edges. You could light a candle as a prayer (aren’t they pretty?), but it’ll cost you two or five Euros, which is really the monetary equivalent of my arm and leg since the Euro is so strong. And at some point — in perhaps the largest of contradictions — the mass used to be relevant: it’s in French instead of Latin. But now it’s irrelevant, and older form lost in an after-modern age. Some would argue that it was never relevant. So now, only a dozen of so penitents receive the bread and wine under a cavernous hall that could fit thousands. While in Notre Dame, it’s easy to feel bewildered.
But aren’t we all cathedrals of contradictions? Am I the only one: an almost blasphemous mix of holy and unholy, sinner and saint, secular and sacred, irrelevant and relevant? It’s just as confusing within me as it is within Notre Dame. It’s a good thing that faith isn’t based on me: Easter weekend reminds me that Jesus is the pioneer and perfecter of faith. It’s based on him, not me. And as he rises out of death and confusion, he offers brilliant light in my darkest places.
I sat down in one of those silent prayer sections in front of the painted glass, teenagers still flirting behind me. I closed my eyes, and for a moment, my heart was still.