The Darth Vader Gargoyle at the National Cathedral. Source: Wikipedia |
The Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception. Above: Exterior. Below: Interior. Source |
Ten
years ago I made a retreat to Holy Cross Monastery in Berryville, Virginia.
I
took a bus to Washington, DC, and hitchhiked to Berryville.
After
my retreat ended, I visited two sights in Washington, DC: the National
Cathedral, an Episcopalian church, and the Basilica of the National Shrine of
the Immaculate Conception, a Catholic church.
The
National Cathedral is much in the news lately for having hosted Muslim Friday
jummah prayer on November 14, 2014.
Below
is my diary account of my experience at the National Cathedral, and my
subsequent visit to the Basilica.
The
Simon I mention is my friend Simon Stern.
Fair
warning: This is raw text from my diary and there is lots of swearing. I didn't
edit this account.
***
I
walked from Simon's to the National Cathedral. Though Simon's neighborhood is
ritzy, the neighborhoods I walked through showed even more wealth. It was a
neighborhood of embassies and expansive, wealthy looking homes. I thought,
Shit, this isn't the neighborhood that deserves a gothic cathedral; these rich
bastards' homes and lawns are paradise enough. Shouldn't a gothic cathedral be
placed in a slum, where people need beauty?
Yeah,
but, I realized, people need beauty cause they destroy the beauty God gives
them. Paterson, NJ, is a little piece of minor hell exactly because of the
behaviors of the Patersonians. It's not like we are placed on a geologic geyser
that spews garbage and meanness; Paterson's citizens spew that up themselves.
Yeah,
but, Sacred Heart cathedral is in Newark. I remember Daddy taking me there; God
bless him. I loved it.
There
is an expensive housing development across from the National Cathedral, and it
advertises itself as offering views of the cathedral. And that does irk. They
should have low cost housing there for the deserving poor. But don't get me
started on how we need to resurrect the concept of the deserving poor. But we
should.
The
National Cathedral is all that. It is a replica of a gothic cathedral. That it
is primarily Episcopal is beyond ironic; I wonder if it is ever mentioned in
any of its official literature that Henry VIII, in founding that church,
encouraged desecration and destruction of gothic cathedrals? Or at least that's
what I've heard; heard it in English class, where I was told that there may
have been other Beowulfs; Henry's reformation ransacked Catholic monastery
libraries. I don't know the facts here. In any case! Ironic, ironic.
Yeah,
the National Cathedral is just perfect. Like a fucking gingerbread house is
perfect.
Soulless.
I
mean, Chartres cathedral. I couldn't bring myself to leave Chartres cathedral.
Part of me is still there. What is Chartres doing that the National Cathedral
is not? Geomancers claim that Chartres is on a key ley line. I don't buy that,
but I thought about it at the National Cathedral. Chartres sucked me in; the
National Cathedral left me cold.
Encounters:
a well-dressed, WASPy looking woman with a snide voice, in the ladies room,
told me that my backpack strap was hitching my dress up. (Again, the damn
backpack.) That was true, but I was still washing my hands; I'd be fixing my hem
in a moment. She was too quick to correct.
Again,
a well-dressed, WASPy looking woman chased me into the sanctuary, and ordered
me not to "wander around." I was behaving entirely quietly and reverently;
I was still moving as if on retreat. She had zero reason to behave so meanly.
"Are you a guide? Do you work here?" I asked, quietly.
"No,
but you should not be wandering around this church."
I
was wearing a denim dress I bought in a secondhand store, and carrying a
backpack. This woman was wearing white pantyhose. She turned and began to
stalk, huffily, away.
"Shame
on you," I whispered, but loudly, I hope, enough for her to hear.
As
the time passed, began to panic. Knew I had to find a computer to buy my
Greyhound ticket home. Simon didn't have computer access at his apartment. I
began to ask people in official garb if they knew of a nearby public library
with internet access.
At
one point, I asked a priest. He looked like he had stepped out of a Masterpiece
Theater production: he was tall, very white, slim; his priestly garb was spiffy
and fresh; he was handsome; though on in years – he was maybe in his fifties or
sixties? – he looked entirely unscarred by life. I asked if he knew about nearby
libraries. He said no, he was not local; he was about to drive home to New
York. I thought, golly, has God just sent me a ride home? "Do you need a
passenger?" I asked, eagerly.
He
looked me up and down and laughed at me, out loud, and moved away.
Esprit
d'escalier; wish I had said, "Excuse me for mistaking you for a
Christian."
That
was just my feel of the place. Chilly, ice box people in pantyhose and designer
dresses and unscarred skins. The majority of stained glass windows or stone
carvings I paid any attention to bragged of the accomplishments, and, often,
the generosity, of this or that benefactor. I found nothing spiritual or
inspiring in these artifacts, no matter their technical qualities as art.
The
space window, containing a piece of moon rock, was lovely. Blue and black
images are outlined in red; with the sun coming through, the red outline was
vivid and beautiful.
Outside,
I scanned the gargoyles to find the Darth Vader gargoyle. A docent walked by; I
asked her for help. She had a French accent, and said you needed binoculars to
really see him. I said, "J'ai mes jumelles avec moi," and she said,
"You speak better French than I do." I get those compliments from the
French, and I like it.
There
were shadberries growing on the property; I ate some; they were good. Haven't
had shadberries since Bloomington. I saw a black squirrel. I didn't even know
that there were such things. An internet site claims that they are variants of
gray squirrels.
Walked
toward the Georgetown Library, keeping my fingers crossed. Did find a public
computer; did buy a Greyhound ticket. A beautiful young African American
reference librarian gave me great directions to a metro stop from which I could
get a train to the Basilica of the Immaculate Conception. Her directions were
really good, in that they were accurate, and when I said I'd as soon walk a bit
to get to a good public transportation stop, she directed me to that exactly.
Most people are incapable of doing that. They can't conceive of walking to get
to a better public transport stop, one that will take you directly where you
want to go without changing buses or trains.
I
emerged from the subway and came across a scruffy, skinny young man in cut off
jeans and oversize shoes. He was headed into the subway. Asked him where the
basilica was. He spat something dark (chaw?) He then turned around and escorted
me to the basilica. Then he turned around and went back to the subway.
The
basilica is very kitschy. It was done in the early 1960's and it screams that
era. In fact, I was flashing back to visiting the 1964 World's Fair in Flushing
with Daddy and some of my siblings; forget which. (I remember we phoned someone
at home through a special phone.)
The
gigantic mosaic Jesus on the ceiling at the end of the main aisle has blond
hair.
Kitsch.
A blond haired Jesus. Bad, no?
And
yet I felt a profound spirituality here that I did not feel at the National
Cathedral. I spent as long in this church as at the other, and not once did
anyone make a crack about my poor clothes, or my backpack. I wasn't the poorest
looking person there. The neighborhood is godawful. You ride through slums to
get there, not through expansive ambassadorial mansions.
The
center aisle is lined by chapels devoted to Mary as she is revered in various
countries. These aren't rich countries and the people who revere her are
pathetic. There is Our Lady of Częstochowa, Our Lady of Sorrows from Slovakia,
Our Lady of Siluva from Lithuania, Guadalupe from Mexico, Our Lady of Antipolo
from the Philippines, Our Lady of China. Yes, Jesus is blond in this church,
but there are at least two black Marys – Częstochowa and Antipolo, and one
Indian Mary – Guadalupe, and Our Lady of China has Chinese features and wears a
Chinese costume.
And
there were Filipinos praying there, and Black people…nothing like the hoards of
undifferentiated WASPs at the National Cathedral. I like that about
Catholicism. And I like it that you can always hear babies crying in Catholic
churches. We don't have special soundproof rooms we put them in.
I
wanted to stay longer, much longer, but I had bought a Greyhound ticket for
six, so I did something atypical for me – bought the souvenir booklet – and
left. Ran into the skinny kid with the chaw; he was coming out of the subway as
I was going in. I smiled and waved; so did he.
Last
minute panic – I had miscalculated space and time (nothing new) and had to run
to get to the bus station. Walked beside a Jamaican man in a red fur cap (in
DC? In summer? One must suffer to be beautiful.) He was skinny and young so he
kept me at a quick pace. Got to the station just in time.
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