Our late morning began with a stroll down Fleet Street. Men in suits and fancy cars made their way past buildings majestic and symbolic. Umbrellas went up as the rain came down and most of our group got a thorough washing. We walked down the sidewalk past a blend of buildings old and new, standing side-bye-side in architectural harmony and all I could think was, "If Sweeney Todd were real, where would his barber shop have been?"
There was no demon barber to be found (although we did see a barber shop), and in all seriousness I did take in the culture (of the non-pop variety) and history with its due respect and admiration, ducking down narrow cobble-stone alleys to see the Temple Church, beautiful even with its pillared faces worn away by the forces of age; wind; rain and sleet, and Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, where three of us later had a bite to eat and I had my meat pie on Fleet Street.
The main attraction of our visit, however, was St. Paul's Cathedral: Looming through the mist in the far distance, gaining glory as we got closer and closer. We walked through the doors and I was struck with an intense spiritual enlightening, only to realize that I was angry. This grand hall of faith; This House of God; had become nothing more than an attraction for squawking tourists. I've nothing against those that are non-religious, but having been raised Catholic, I was always taught to treat churches and Holy Grounds with due respect. Most of the people there seemed more impressed by the fact there were pretty designs on the ceilings (albeit the designs on the ceilings were very VERY pretty) and eager to take out their cameras and snap a shot of something grand, even though photography was forbidden inside the building, than the fact that they were standing in a display of love and praise for a power beyond any of us. Something from the bible stuck out in my mind about the House of God becoming a den of thieves and Jesus being slightly less than happy about that. I recall a bit about tables being over turn and cages busted open...
I did attend 12:30pm mass in the Quire, however, and started to feel more at home. There were a few moments of profoundness that struck me (like gazing at the monstrance in the crypt chapel and putting my hand on the headstones of William Blake and Florence Nightingale), after which I was able to feel a sense of peace and let go of my irritation that some people were being so disrespectful of it all. Finally my friends and I made the trek up the some 500+ stairs to gaze at London from the very top spire of the Cathedral before putting up our hoods, heading back down those same stairs and starting our wet walk to food and the nearest tube station.
Needless to say, my legs liked stairs a little less than usual today.
JD
No comments:
Post a Comment