Thoughts on an Abbey

I stand looking through an opaque glass at the only remnant of the nave that once vaulted the entire length of 187 meters. Some of it has been reconstructed, with holes left in the wall so that we fanatical tourists who were willing to dole out 9 Euros can see the original, half-wasted pillar underneath. I want to reach out and touch it. Simply by virture of being 1,000 years old, it is stunningly beautiful, never mind the missing chunks or the fact that it would fall over if unsupported. I imagine the monks from the abbey next door who filed past this particular pillar on their way through the Galilee transcript into the biggest church the world knew at the time. Perhaps one monk’s hood brushed this exact spot my fingers now trace. The few stones that remain have seen all the ranks, from popes and kings down to vagabond pilgrims with nothing to their name, all united in a desire to do what pleased the heavenly Father.

Of course that thought sobers me. I know all too well how enormous cathedrals such as this one came into existence. The scene unfolds in my mind’s eye clearly: how a passerby is cajoled into buying an indulgence to lessen his sins (false) or shorten his time in purgatory (not true) and with his sacrifice help protect the relics of St. Peter and St. Paul (wrong) by building a huge church worthy of their names. Guilt built this monument, and the abbots who presided over the services knew full well that pilgrims came to gawk at their accomplishments much more than the Lord. Of course, they themselves had their sights set on bigger prizes: Rome itself, as is evidenced by the number of Cluniac monks who achieved just that. And Jesus? He was relegated to a seat at the top of the door, preferably the stone version so that he would be immobile to interfere too much with human plans.

Still, this was a house of God, and I’m moved. Surely among all the monks and visitors to these hallowed halls, there was at least one whose gaze was drawn heavenward. One believer who stared at the Bible stories etched in glass and felt the Spirit inside him confirm that this was indeed truth. One individual who truly worshiped the Lord our God right here, perhaps leaning against this very pillar I want so badly to set free from its confining walls.

And I’m angry and mournful all over again. It’s so senseless that this was all destroyed on purpose. Razed to the ground by men who considered themselves enlightened and beyond the crutch of needing a God who was of stone and therefore didn’t care. Colored stained glass and capitals atop columns were crushed, ground up, and thrown into the nearby river or rebuilt into farm homes. Special care was taken with the destruction of the front doors lintel: the Evangelists survived in fragments, but the part that held Jesus was completely wiped out. Cobblestones and homes were erected right on top of the altar, and the Cluny cathedral passed from sight into memory and – for a time – into legend.

From my pillar in the nave, I move through a gorgeous reconstructed door into a small chapel that survived the worst of the rage, though it was entirely gutted of all marble statues and decorations. I can make out one lone name still etched into the wall – St. Andrew’s – surrounded by eleven blanks spots. How would it feel to be erased from history, to have people pretend you never existed? That was the attempt, to say Christ was more fiction than fact.

That’s when a song, new to me, drifts back into my mind.

If they shut down the churches, where would you go?

If they melted all the stained glass windows, replaced every sanctuary with a condo, where would you go? If they burned every Bible, what would you know? If they tore your marked-up pages, how would you grow? We are a cathedral made of people in a kingdom that the eye can’t see. When they hate you for the things you know are true, they can tear down this temple, but they can’t touch you. 

(Excerpts from “Cathedral Made of People” by Downhere)

Andrew is more than a name left on a defaced wall of a tiny, forlorn chapel; he’s a stained glass window in the house of God. Peter was more than a made-up pile of bones that supposedly required people to donate large amounts of money; he’s a pillar in the temple Christ built, just as he himself told us. “Living Stones” he called us. Even I have a role to play. I can be like this door, ushering people in to the places where they can meet with my Savior. I don’t have to mourn the loss of Jesus’ face on the Cluny façade, for he is carving himself into each of us as we walk the cobblestone streets and seek to be his hands and feet in a tangible way.

The historian in me is still upset that I’m surveying ruins when it so easily could’ve been the 12^th century colossal masterpiece that it was. But the emotion of gratefulness swells stronger. No human plan could wipe out the truth in Cluny. Not this time. Not ever.

Coolest door ever!