. . . and Holy Week begins with
the world turning their eyes to Paris watching in horror as the cathedral of Notre
Dame burned. So many friends posted on
social media about their heartache with photos from dream vacations. Stories on the news channels considered the tragedy
in terms of the loss of irreplaceable works of art and architecture. Callous
speculations were offered about causes. Images immediately were shared. Over and over we watched the collapse of the
spire as it burned and crashed down into what was becoming the carcass of the
church building. There were too many
moments when the pictures were communicated by reporters, but we really needed
chaplains.
I couldn’t watch the coverage of
the fire at Notre Dame without thinking about churches in Louisiana that were burned
two weeks ago. Their losses, however,
were the results of someone’s hatred.
What is shared by people in France and Louisiana is that the sacred
spaces of communities of faith have been destroyed. Parishioners in both places hurt over the
loss of the places they’ve called home.
A couple of images stand
out. Burned Bibles and hymnbooks on the
floor of a Louisiana church building. In
Paris, with the roof and spire gone, a cross still stood above a building engulfed
in flames. And I thought about this Holy
Week. We are called on to ponder the way
of the cross, and here it was in too overwhelming a snapshot.
I
imagine the awe and wonder inspired in worshipers and tourists who got to see
Notre Dame. The stained glass windows,
the woodwork, the statues and so much more have been destroyed. The cathedral held deep symbolic meaning for
many people. But I think especially
about the faithful who showed up daily and said their prayers. Their home, a place of beauty, the
magnificent attempt of architects and artists to speak of God’s glory, has been
utterly destroyed.
The too
easy response might be to say, the building is not the church. It’s true, but our cathedrals and sanctuaries
become the places we associate with our connections with God and each
other. They are places where we
experience the holy. We even point to
the buildings and call them church.
Buildings can be rebuilt, even while mourning the loss of works that
cannot be replaced or re-created.
I’ve
carried a piece of wisdom for many years now that was blessed to me by Fr.
Mario DiLella, Georgia Tech’s longtime Catholic campus minister. As he summarized the church, he told me, “It’s
all about the Body.” With the loss of
our sacred spaces, the Body of Christ is still very much alive, even though it
is suffering. We will hurt with each other,
Protestants and Catholics alike.
On Good
Friday, we focus on the death of Jesus.
Certainly, we must see in the crucifixion the utter destruction of
matchless beauty. The cross is agony,
pain and horror, but we insulate ourselves from its terror simply saying Jesus
died for us. Do we consider the deep
reality of that? Watch Notre Dame burn
and hear your Savior cry out, “My God, my God! Why have you forsaken me?”
Jesus
calls us to take up our crosses and follow him—to give our whole selves in
living and dying for the sake of others.
When it comes to loving with all our heart, soul, strength and mind, we
don’t get a pass on heartache, pain and indescribable loss. We love as Jesus does, and you can’t really
do that without coming to know Jesus and his suffering. Yes, he died for us, but he also dies with us
in every moment of our own agony. And we
love one another as much as he loved us.
