A Jesuit architect visits the new Notre-Dame

It is magnificent. 

Whether you are approaching from the north (the Fourth Arrondissement) or the south (the Latin Quarter), you walk slightly downhill to a bridge to cross the Seine. The roof, spires and flying buttresses are visible above the surrounding buildings. It’s an obvious landmark. Unless you arrive by boat from the east or the west, your first view is of the profile: portal, towers and plaza to the west; transept, ambulatory with distinctive flying buttresses and accompanying gargoyles toward the east. 

It is imposing. It’s been there for centuries. Its presence has influenced, perhaps even determined, the fabric of the city that surrounds it. It calls to you. It cannot be ignored. 

This is not the first time Notre-Dame Cathedral has survived catastrophic damage. It persevered through the damage from the Protestant Reformation, the violence of the French revolution(s) (1789 and 1830), the insurrection of Paris (1871), World War I and the German occupation of France during World War II. The first major fire was 800 years ago, at a time when fires were not unusual. But the fire of 2019 was the most catastrophic. 

Prior to the fire of 2019, the French Revolution had posed the greatest threat to the cathedral. At the beginning of the 19th century, Notre-Dame was in ruins, the victim of desecration and destruction. This, in addition to the radical shift in public sentiment against the Catholic Church, led to serious consideration given to tearing the building down. This possibility met with a good deal of resistance, and with no small credit due to the publication of Victor Hugo’s novel The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1831), a decision was made in 1842 to commission the restoration of the cathedral, led by the architect Eugène Viollet-le-Duc.

The building Viollet-le Duc was commissioned to restore was a mishmash of architectural styles, building additions and historical references. Notre-Dame was built on the site of a smaller Roman cathedral. Construction began in 1163 and was completed in 1345. Over the centuries, the building evolved as architectural elements of various styles were added and improvements to the building were attempted. Not all were successful. Some were disastrous. 

Viollet-le-Duc decided that, rather than restore the cathedral to its imagined 12th-century state, he would build on what he considered to be its strengths. While rethinking the entire building and applying an innovative interpretation of the Gothic style, his proposal resulted in a more cohesive architectural experience. With only minor alterations, it is this 19th-century restoration that we know as Notre-Dame today.

The question of renovation versus restoration continues to be a hot topic, as it was in the 19th century. For a building as historically and culturally significant as Notre-Dame, determining the desired outcome is not simple. For example, consider this question in terms of function: Notre-Dame functions as a cathedral, as a parish church, a tourist destination, a national monument and a historic landmark. Which function is most important? How do we prioritize? 

After the fire, the decision was made to approach the project as a historic monument that has a liturgical function. Philippe Villeneuve, Rémi Fromont, Pascal Prunet and others would follow the plan of Viollet-le-Duc, making use of historically accurate materials, methods of construction and finishes. The reconstruction of Notre-Dame was envisioned to take four years. 

They did it. They found a limestone quarry that yielded blocks with the same structural and physical characteristics as those being replaced. They found oak trees of the same species the original timbers were made of, possessing the required physical and structural characteristics to rebuild the bell tower as designed by Viollet-le-Duc. They restored the stained-glass windows, replaced broken floor pavers, cleaned the entire interior. They rebuilt the vault that had collapsed over the nave. The organ—the console and all the pipes—were rebuilt. 

The craftsmanship is extraordinary—woodwork, stonework, metalwork and glasswork. Stone color, shapes and alignments are consistent. The metalwork is hammered, twisted and formed in a manner that smells of human labor. The restored glass floods the space with color and light. Even with a trained eye, it is almost impossible to distinguish the parts that were replaced and repaired from those that survived the fire unharmed. It is seamless. 

Arriving for Mass

The Bishop’s Mass was at 6 p.m. Sunday evening. I arrived in Paris on the high-speed train from London earlier in the day. After a nap, I walked over from my hotel, being attentive to take everything in. After bumping into another visitor entering Notre-Dame and sharing an experience of awe, I found a place to sit—toward the front, with a good view of the altar, in the midst of the vast space of the nave. 

I at once felt small, full, alone and in the company of fellow believers. The chairs (and they were chairs, not pews) were custom-designed, made of oak, with beautifully machined hardware that held them together in neat rows. From the appearance of the people assembled and the way they were looking around, it appeared that most were tourists. There were several groups of sisters as well as some clerics. A crowd of vested priests gathered for the procession. Sheets of paper with the songs printed on them were handed out. Amid the shuffling of papers I felt a deep rumbling. For a moment I thought maybe a subway was passing under the building. 

Then came the blast of organ trumpets. The great organ had awakened. Everyone rose. Looking toward the organ up in the loft, I saw the incense lofting from thuribles enthusiastically swung by two young men dressed in white albs, leading the procession. The processional cross followed. Somehow the vested priests made their way to the back of the nave without my noticing. There were easily 30 to 40 priests from all over the world, followed by deacons and a few visiting bishops, and finally the archbishop of Paris, Laurent Ulrich, crozier in hand and attendants nearby: It was a Sunday in Ordinary Time.

I have experienced good liturgy in many places: in contemporary church buildings; in historic, countryside churches in Eastern Europe; in outdoor Masses on a beach or in the forest; in coffee-table masses at a friend’s house. One does not need a magnificent church building to have a wonderful liturgical experience. But I must admit, it certainly helps. 

There had to be 50 people vested on the altar, each playing their part. It never looked crowded. It did look occupied, inhabited. There was space to let the incense rise, to carry the processional cross, to venerate the altar and proclaim the Gospel. The symbols spoke in profound silence. There was no question that the altar was to be venerated. There was no question that the ord of Scripture should be proclaimed from the ambo. It was obvious who should sit on the chair (cathedra). It is a cathedral.

Over the next few days I attended morning prayer, noon Mass and evening prayer at Notre-Dame. I also spent time alone and with a colleague walking around, studying and discussing the design, craftsmanship and effects their choices had on the experience of the space. 

Nuts and bolts

You enter the cathedral through great oak doors into a chamber that opens to what feels like a lobby. It’s not. The space is defined by the carved wood organ loft above and the edge of the elegant, contemporary gift shops below. It is a well-thought-out and nicely executed spatial transition. It is a place to pause and reorientate. To arrive and let your eyes readjust. 

It’s somewhat dark in the entry chamber, with moderate lighting under the organ loft. But wow! The bright light reflecting off the recently cleaned, luminescent limestone blocks possesses a power that pulls not just your eyes, but your entire being upward, toward the soaring arches. 

It is breathtaking and seductive. You are drawn in. If you’re not careful (which I was not), you are bound to bump into someone else drawn in by the same power. A glance, a nod reassures you both that you are caught up in the same moment. A shared experience of awe: something like a liturgical experience.

There are architectural tricks that induce this feeling of soaring. In Notre-Dame, there are two compositional systems that determine the structure. The ribs that support the vaults are articulated at three levels. The ribs of the main columns are continuous from the base of the columns and soar all the way to the point of the arch forming the transept. The columns that form the bays of the nave follow a different system: the outer ribs go up one level; the inner ribs extend up two levels; the center ribs—following those of the transept—reach from the base of the columns to the point of the arch.

The sense of cohesion and right relationship is achieved by the strict and expert use of proportional systems based on squares, circles and the Golden Ratio, otherwise known as the divine proportion.

A new lighting and sound system was installed. The combination of white light and crystalline limestone produces a stunningly bright space. There are new light fixtures, but I needed to check the photos to remind myself where they were. The nave seems to glow. The sound inhabits the space. 

Surprisingly, there is very little art: paintings, textiles, carvings or statues. Except for the choir stalls and the historic pulpit, which are dark, heavily carved wood, the space feels sparse. No clutter. The art that is there is extraordinary. Everything is installed so that it appears to belong exactly where it is. The marble statue of Our Lady (“Notre Dame”) on the right side of the main altar is lit from above in a manner that makes it seem as if the light emanates from within. 

There are some new additions. At the eastern end of the cathedral, in the axial chapel behind the main altar, is the reliquary of the Crown of Thorns. The relic can be seen in the center of a five-foot- round golden abstracted sunburst. The altar furnishings (designed by Guillaume Bardet) are cast bronze. The altar—more of an abstract art piece than a “communal table”— could be a giant bronze egg cut in half, an upside-down parabolic solid that seems to balance effortlessly on the floor, with a flat and polished top. The new vestments (designed by Jean-Charles de Castelbajac) are stunning, adding color and movement to the liturgical space. 

Magnificent and ordinary

There is no question—if one accepts it for what it is—that the restoration of Notre-Dame is technically excellent. And there is no doubt in my mind that the aesthetic experience is successful—if one accepts it for what it is. And what it is is complicated.

Upon entering the cathedral, while standing under the organ loft, being drawn in by limestone blocks and soaring arches, you can’t help but be distracted by the beautifully designed gift shops on either side of the nave. They are not terrible. But selling souvenirs—while perfectly appropriate for a national monument and as tasteful as the souvenirs are—seems to be an inappropriate activity in a worship space. Was there another way to do this? Probably. Given what they did do, did they do it well? Yes. 

There are logistical and crowd control issues. How does one make the cathedral as accessible as possible, while also functioning as a liturgical space, with minimal physical intervention? The solution is to keep the tourists or pilgrims on the outside perimeter (ambulatory)—as was intended in the 800 year old original design—while only those who want to pray, meditate, or participate in the many liturgical celebrations are permitted to sit in the nave. Is this ideal? Definitely not. The tourists want to stand in the nave to appreciate the feeling of the space. The worshipers want to pray and lose themselves in the liturgy. It is distracting to have tourists walking around the perimeter taking pictures while one is participating in the Mass. 

When I first visited Notre-Dame 25 years ago, it was dark, very dark. It felt old and cold. The candle and incense smoke, dust, soot and grime, watermarks and fingerprints built up over the centuries to form a patina that suggested a well-worn, aged elegance. The light from the huge windows seemed brighter, yet not sufficient to brighten the cavernous space that once hosted the coronation of kings and the weddings of nobles, provided shelter to the poor and housed armies. 

Now, the patina of the ages has been washed away, and with it the physical reminder of days past. Even so, the interior seems to glow. 

As I prayed, walked around, studied, engaged my entire body and senses to experience the space, I found myself caught between magnificence and ordinariness. After just five days, spending as much time as I could in the cathedral, little by little I became familiar with the space. Eventually, I did not experience the sense of awe that I felt the first time I walked in through the portal entrance. I noticed new things every time I walked down to the river, crossed over, stood in line in the plaza looking at the statue of Charlemagne, approached the great oak doors, entered through the antechamber, oriented myself under the organ loft and entered into the nave. The brightness of the space never ceased to amaze, but I came to expect it. I came to expect magnificence.

Magnificence became ordinary.

At first this bothered me terribly. But after some time thinking about it, I came to appreciate it. I have worked in many places during my professional life, mostly working with local communities trying to improve the built environment in which they live. I remember a project in Detroit where we were doing a neighborhood assessment, taking note of the condition of buildings, identifying important institutions and places people liked to hang out. We noticed a dead dog on a street near the school. A few weeks later we ran a workshop where we had people identify pictures we had taken of different things we saw and asked them to locate them on a map. People were pretty good at it. They located everything. Except the dead dog. We told them where it was; they all said they never saw it. 

This was intriguing to me. It has happened before that when we would show an aerial view of a distressed neighborhood, people refused to accept that it was theirs. We filter what we see. It’s a neuro-cognitive survival mechanism. Imagine, if instead of a dead dog, they had become accustomed to seeing, experiencing, being in the presence of magnificence.

I can’t help but make the leap from the magnificent becoming ordinary to the infinite becoming incarnate. I imagine a world where the ordinary streets and places we inhabit are magnificent, where a generation of children grow up expecting the world they live in to be beautiful. 

It is said that Dorothy Day was once invited to visit the Cathedral of Mary the Assumption in San Francisco. Those who invited her expected that she would be critical of the cathedral, suggesting the money spent on building such an elaborate structure would be better used on feeding the poor. But rather than criticizing the building, she pointed out that the cathedral provides one of the few places of beauty accessible to the poor, saying it “lifts the human spirit to the infinite and eternal beauty which is God.” 

Would that the magnificent became ordinary.

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