Last year I made it out of America for the first time, on a study abroad trip to the United Kingdom with nineteen other students. I cannot understate how nerve-wracking the anticipation was, nor how incredible the experience itself became for me, especially in looking back. That anxiety waiting for the flight to Gatwick Airport in London feels so far away from the bittersweetness of landing back in the States; it's hard to believe the whole adventure took up a few months rather than a few years. I hope these installments inspire those at home who have never traveled outside the country to consider doing so because there's a whole wide world out there that's worth exploring. During the trip, I recorded my various journeys around England in a travel blog, including this entry concerning a London chapel I happened upon:
As I step out of Westminster Station, the Palace is right ahead, ornate Elizabeth Tower rising above the congestion and construction of the roadways. I pass around Parliament Square, with stern Abraham Lincoln in front of the Supreme Court and Gandhi a step below a dozen statues of old imperialists. I turn and there's Westminster Abbey, encompassing an entire city block and arching its buttresses upwards into spires and cross heads. The hulking edifice eclipses nearby St. Margaret's Church, to the extent where one could easily assume the church is just an extension of the abbey.
While the Palace shines its sun-soaked, age-old gold, the abbey is pale white in its exterior, broken up by stain glass and carved saint effigies. I contemplate the massive amount of money spent to refurbish this massive facade, and meanwhile, a crowd of tourists shot past me, making their way to the entry line. While I could join them myself, I’m appreciating the religious bulwark enough from the outside. Historic. Imposing. Still worn out from visiting St. Paul's Cathedral the previous day, I think I’ve had my temporary fill of such enormous kinds of spectacles. That weariness, plus the £20 entrance fee, is what has me thinking twice about purchasing a ticket inside. I turn from the abbey towards other sights in the Westminster area, checking my Little Black Book (of London) for help. The guide suggests a 'Westminster Cathedral', the name surprising me. Is there really another fortitude of religiosity competing for attention with the Abbey, the cornerstone of British iconography?
I sweep the streets near St. James Park, trying to locate the site using the tiny, vague map at my disposal. The guidebook mentions that although elegant and "neo-Byzantine", the cathedral was never finished. I was intrigued before, but now I’m invested. When I see a distinct tower rising above the Westminster financial district, I make my way over for a better look. Exterior-wise, the church looks completed enough, if not a bit eccentric; definitely not as visually stunning as the abbey. The candy- striped spire draws me closer.
Only after stepping inside do I understand the reason to visit. While the massive hallway is beautiful and furnished to the pew, the top half of the building is fiercely unadorned, and it feels like watching a dark whirlpool open overhead. I’m transfixed, and an unusual idea occurs to me— Flaws can come from all directions, even from above. While the absence of design is surely more a product of money than artistic imagery, the scene still effective in eliciting this thought from me. I’m looking at a tribute to the world that makes mistakes and is still beautiful despite, or because of those mistakes. And there’s a world of difference between this temple and the ones boasting the perception that the heaven beyond us is 'perfect' because it simply 'is'.
These thoughts are dark, and yet are a more intimate invitation into the mythos of Christianity than the screaming lavishness of famous St. Paul's or the soaring buttresses of the Abbey only three miles away. This cathedral’s splotchy overhead is dark and ancient, calling parishioners to a time before London, and back to when a man was learning organized religion. It’s easier for me to contemplate old deities like that from the Greek pantheon— ones that allow suffering and pain because god makes mistakes— than a god we simply accept as having a plan more complicated than we can imagine.
Children reciting a Passion Play echo across the halls, distorting and wandering. What do their voices find among the raw domes? Do they escape past the stained glass and slide up the parapets? They’re calling:
"Teach us to forgive, and forget,"
"They were men just like you and me, that hung Him on the cross,".
I believe architects, commissioners, and holy men all acknowledge to some degree that their elegant skyscrapers of worship aren't created for God. If God up there and the fancy struck him, he could knock them over each steeple like Lincoln Logs. And we as a society would be quick to action in rebuilding what was lost. There would be a strong, automatic pressure from society to do so. Towers fall, have fallen many times before. Why then, do we so protect and fortify these towers that will hardly impress any deity above? We can survive without these huge empires of religious glory. And yet, during WWII, Churchill’s feverish cry, "We must save St. Paul's!"
Cathedrals were made for us, of course: The rabble, the hoi polloi, the general populace of sinners, struggling masses. Not just to dazzle us with their majesty and precision, but to inspire a sense of security. They're beacons for the lonely, the lost, the unaccepting, and the disbelieving. Logical arguments will fail upon viewing overwhelming beauty. And those monumental assembly halls are impressive, stretching up above the city. They reach out to God, but more than that they reach out to the people. They have been used as centers for the homeless, shelters from warfare, hiding spots. They contain a living history of our connection back to men of old. They bring citizens of faith together.
In chambers like these, inside half-finished cathedrals, one sits beneath slopes to Heaven, humbled, contemplative, mostly silent, unfolding ourselves for the great symbol floating over, where Jesus hangs limply. What a shame if the Father and Son didn't exist, this late in the game of the universe. What a blow to ancestral cultures and buildings, to the men and women, interconnected through faith, and to the balance we've created— The carved majesty and the holy Void.
