Religion and the City

Last Friday during a curious parallel when neither of us really felt like doing much work at the same time, Cedric and I took a walk across the Seine to the Left Bank.  Fridays are one of my favorite days of the week, but not for reasons you might imagine.  Rooted in most of my older Fridays, the day has a faintly religious tinge for me.  There is a sense of almost idle preparation, before the very different motion of the weekend.  In my current way of being, the connotation remains more traditional than religious, Friday being a day of composed change in rhythm that I somehow find comforting.  It stems from the fact that Friday night is a time in my house back home when the family really stops, by way of Shabbat, to become a family, in spite of whatever mess or mountain might be in the way.  And even if I am not always there to take part, I imagine I must take something with me on Fridays.

We left our corner in the Marais, the neighborhood of churches like St. Paul-St. Louis and St. Eustache, stunning beauties that incorporate themselves, maybe even not so seamlessly so as to maintain their timeless proclamations, into the fabric of the city.  Our corner in the Marais, more specifically, made up of two very notable and noticeable streets; the rue des Rosiers, the winding and bustling center of classic Parisien-Jewish life, and the rue Vieille du Temple, the unofficial frontier marking the gay epicenter of central Paris.  I have had both Jewish and gay points of destination explained to me in relation to these streets time and again, as long as I’ve lived here.  Makes poetic sense that I’m caught in the middle, I guess, and more so that there is a middle to be caught in here in Paris.  We walked down to the river, to the Isle de la Cité, where the Memorial for the French Deportees of the Second World War situates itself into the end of the island.  Cedric had never been there before, and I knew that the sheer minimal hardness of the site would stir him as it does me each time I visit.  I realized that by placing a testament to the 20th century’s inexorable history right in the middle of a city that serves as a larger testament to the histories of other centuries before makes a statement that most memorials fail to accomplish: the Deportee memorial attests to the unforgettable events in question, and further reminds that they happened in a past so much closer to the present than the pasts of everything else around.  This fact is as plain as the ancient Notre Dame Cathedral, which towers above as one walks back up the stairs from the depths of this place.  e0TeBSZThe pain of history, religious and political and racial and otherwise, strikes several shades of color in Paris, degrees which appear whenever you try to remember one thing in the context of all that ambient history.  Maybe it takes the perspective of a bubble-headed American (from the ‘New World’) to see this?

On the other side of this interval, we walked toward Maubert Mutualité, on the opposite bank.  Off of the busy intersection, I spotted another church as we approached.  I edged closer, feeling the urge to duck out of the urban moment to experience the sudden shock of sanctuary, even if it’s not consecrated for me (a wandering Jew).  Sometimes the vibe is just right, as in the church of St. Paul-St. Louis in the rue de Rivoli near my house; I can stop and feel the silence, present and solid, that goes so long uninterrupted.  It is undeniable, existing just inside the shell of wooden doors, protected from the squawk and hum of vehicles, people and machines.  Cedric did not follow this time though, and was in fact distancing himself.  Surely this art historian, a practical expert on anything that happened before the year 1850, wouldn’t mind having a look inside?  No.  He shook his head somberly, clearly against my whim.  I could sense he wanted to tell me something.  But I wasn’t going to let him deny me my right as a travel-addicted American in Europe: that of wandering into churches and other exceedingly old establishments, most older than my native country could ever claim to be.  Some churches fall short of my desire for that instant and severe separation, but this church wasn’t one of them.  In fact, it exceeded my hopes, both visually and in terms of ambiance.  Its bare, gothic ceiling was just somber enough to be something more than beautiful, and the altar and surrounding artwork was crowded and impressive.  But so much more important was what was happening, the people, the quiet but fervent activity.  It is the only time I felt as if I really had stepped back in time, to when people had nothing to pursue (or at least be amused by) but God and church and all those goodies.  People were praying, really kneeling and supplicating, while others were sleeping in a way that intimated they had found shelter after a long journey.  I saw this place as a refuge, in the purest sense of the word, for these lost urbanites.  The reflective expressions on peoples’ faces were so authentic I began to feel as if I were interrupting.  When the priest came out of a side door, in full regalia, it became too much, like a film.  He walked in his slow, wise manner, in his flowing and tailored robe, with a finger in his bible.  He proceeded down the center without looking up, and I again felt like I should look for the hidden camera.  I admired the moment, was warmed by it, as any outsider might appreciate something that comes together in such a way.  The intruder feeling returned, so I began to make my way out, meeting the eyes of the bookseller near the sortie.  She mouthed “Bonjour” like an ancient benediction, smiling benevolently.

BOOM, door open.  The taking-up again of the oblivious external pulse of the sidewalk.  Now I could ask Cedric what had bothered him so much.  He informed me, as we continued onward, that the church in question is an establishment for a by-and-large fascist faction of Christians.  As I listened to his description it began to sound like they were the French Jerry Falwells.  He told me how they hated blacks, Jews, gays and Arabs (two strikes already).  I was stunned, since never has an experience by itself so differed from its subsequent reality or implications.  Of course I don’t know what would have happened if I had struck up a conversation with the priest or saintly bookseller, and perhaps I owe them the benefit of the doubt.  But in any case, their reputation had caused my boyfriend, a relatively open-minded young person, to refuse to even enter their place of worship.  I couldn’t help but wonder: can communal religion, in its healthy and intended state, exist in a world capitol today?  I don’t have a way of looking behind closed doors, but I imagine that the reason for this particular church’s almost-charming authenticity, at that given moment, owed itself to a commitment and faith that only fundamentalists can conjure in this day and age.

But can’t there be a lesser degree?  A happy medium?  Paris, a city chock-full of religious symbols and icons, was as good a place to look as any.  I thought about this as we continued to the Pantheon, an old, reformed church, now a testament to the quasi-religious national pride that France is famous for.  Upon exiting the Pantheon, we started heading toward la Mosquée de Paris, but it was raining too hard.  This restaurant and tearoom near the Jardin des Plantes is housed in a Mosque constructed almost 90 years ago, and now it is one of my favorite spots thanks to the mint tea and authentic north-African décor.

When I got home, my mind was buzzing.  I realized that of course communal religion still exists.  It is alive and well!  It has simply taken on many new forms, finding its way into the modern, largely secular framework.  The Pantheon and Mosque tearoom are only some of the examples that fell into place, revealing a sort of urban-traditional-cultural-religious mélange that dominates in Paris.  Real, old-school religion in this city, although everywhere, can be quite easily relegated to an aesthetic, historically curious element, kept entirely separate if desired.  To revisit Notre Dame, it must be said that at this point it is more of a tourist attraction than a solemn place of worship.  There are so many atheists/non-believers in Paris, countless people who go out of their way to separate themselves from the implied religion and religious history all around them.  But the ‘faith’ still exists.  The ‘cults’ of the film industry and fashion week (taking place as I write) unfurl their influence in a separate and elite undercurrent of the city.  The religion of sex, too, in the rue St. Denis and Pigalle, in the swingers bars and fancy hotel lobbies with high-class call girls, is present here.  That is not to say that devout religion is absent and hedonistic bedlam has ensued, as strong conservative areas still exist and thrive.  There are still neighborhoods where the separation of old and new is purposely removed: the Marais, or the Goute d’Or, a lively Muslim area in the 18th arrondissement, with its Arab boulangeries and booth-like shops. 

But the prevailing religion in Paris is a new-fangled urban ­one.  It can be clearly seen during events with decidedly pagan roots, like the Fete de la Musique or the still-taking-shape Nuit Blanche of last week.  Both of these night-long celebrations find their dates on equinoxes or solstices.  Pretty pagan!  By ‘pagan’ I mean celebrations directly related to the planet, the weather, the calendar.  I am not referring to ritual disembowelment or animal worship.  These artistic festivals, where people unify themselves for a single, expressive cause, have a growing popularity in Paris and throughout Europe.  Everyone is trying to create their own vision, either through music (on June 21st for the Fete de la Musique) or light and sound (on October 1st for La Nuit Blanche).  And the leap to a modern embracing of pagan festivals doesn’t surprise me at all.  Many of Europe’s ‘ancient churches’ – those dating up until Roman times – were constructed on sites of Pagan rituals, or even simple sources of water and ‘blessed places’.  This was reinforced for me when I visited the Cathedral at Chartres last winter, a church just outside Paris full of not-so-subtle pagan and astrological references.  So why shouldn’t a Fête, with predetermined themes and goals uniform throughout the city but allowing for infinite creative possibilities, take on an almost religious connotation?  I have experienced both the Fete de la Musique and the Nuit Blanche and each is a unique and incredibly innovative opportunity, present everywhere in the city.  Parisiens seem happy together, just like during the religious holidays at synagogue when I was younger!  This successful mix crystallized itself for me, the day after my walk, when on Nuit Blanche I wandered into a light installation taking place in the Eglise Lutherienne des Billettes in the rue des Archives, yet another quietly striking church around the corner from me that I had no idea existed.  As I watched the crucifix in the center bathed in violet, now pink, then blue lights, I thought about the very real history pulsing underneath the beautifully meditative, modern display.  To use art, like a modern light installation, to inspire and create in a place of religious history, now that takes an open-mindedness that religion in itself might not allow for.  Hence the beauty of an event like Nuit Blanche, taking place in a veritable mecca of urban-religion, Paris.

More info:
La Mosquée de Paris (Place du Puits de l’Ermite; metro: Place Monge ; 01 45 35 97 33)

Cathédrale Notre Dame de Chartres To get to the cathedral, leave the Gare Montparnasse train station in the direction of Chartres. The trip costs 22.70€ and can take up to 75 minutes. From there, obtain directions at the station for the 10-minute walk. Open every day -8:30 a.m.-7:30 p.m. Cloitre Notre Dame; 28000, Chartres; 33 2 37 18 26 26.