Cathedral

[St. Patrick's Cathedral, in NYC]

July 28, 2010

Two hours in New York City. That's all the time I had.

I'd been traveling for three days already, trying to get home from half a world away. I had slept on a sofa the night before, one that belonged to some good friends of ours who live in Queens. It had been a random meeting scheduled on account of an overnight layover at JFK, and we had had a fantastic time catching up on life and theology over Thai food delivery and white wine. My flight back to Boston was scheduled to leave at three in the afternoon. Subtract an hour to ride the E Line from the Port Authority to Jamaica Station, twenty minutes for the AirTrain to the terminal, another hour to get through airport security, and that left me with two hours to kill. So I slung the camera over my shoulder, stuffed ten dollars in my pocket, grabbed my already-too-full backpack and set out to catch the bus. I was on pilgrimage to midtown Manhattan.

I had visited St. Patrick's Cathedral once before, almost twenty years earlier, while on a State-side mission trip with the youth group. I grew up a Baptist and had never seen a real, bonafide cathedral before. That day in New York City, when I was fifteen, had been one of the most memorable experiences of my life - climbing the Statue of Liberty, eating thick-crust pizza in Little Italy, touring the UN building, riding the wonder of modern transportation called the subway, and finally, toward the end of the afternoon, seeing the stunning beauty of St. Patrick's. We had also gone to FAO Schwartz (the world's largest toy store!), but had arrived fifteen minutes past closing time. Except for that part, it had been a very full and wonderful day. But of everything I had experienced, St. Patrick's stayed with me, although I didn't understand why.

Now an adult in my thirties, I was going back. I had decided to spend my two hours in the Big Apple photographing the church and stealing a few quiet moments of prayer. Fifteen minutes on the Q32, fifteen more on the F Line express to Rockefeller Center, a few blocks walk down 50th St. ... and there it was again, the Gothic grandeur of St. Patrick's Cathedral. It looked old, older than I remembered. The masonry was starting to crack and crumble along the base. Years before I had looked up at the two spires and marveled at how tall they were, but now I was struck by how large everything else appeared in comparison. It seemed an apt symbol of modern American culture - an aged and decrepit Christianity overtaken by the skyscrapers of commerce and ambition. I wondered if there had once been a time when the talk of New York was the twin towers of St. Patrick's.

The building had matured, but was no less beautiful for it. I walked around the entire structure, looking up and snapping pictures as I discovered interesting angles and perspectives. Eventually I made my way back around to the front, so I took off my hat and went inside. The sanctuary was even more awe-inspiring the second time. As I walked up the center aisle, my eyes drank in the dozens of flickering candles, the cloudy glow filtering through the stained glass, the medieval magnificence of the altar and the immensity of the tabernacle. I wearily plopped myself down in one of the pews toward the front, quietly set all my things beside me on the dark walnut, and reveled in the moment. After a while I pulled out my journal and scribbled a prayer, but mostly, for the next forty-five minutes or so, I just sat.

The LORD was in His holy temple, and I kept silence before Him.