RHEIMS

Twilight is approaching. I have returned to the cathedral for the second time in a day and am sitting in the gloom on some cold, worn steps in the ambulatory. Behind me the echoes recede down the nave and through the aisles. It is closing time. Earlier, I passed the brazier by the Lady Chapel where the day before I lit a candle in memory of my mother, a guilty homage to one who should occupy my thoughts more than she does; but I know she watches and know too that she forgives. Today, the other candles amongst which hers stood have been moved to the back of the wrought iron stand, lest any pilgrims or supplicants burn themselves as they place their own offerings. Now even piety  has to be healthy and safe. I sigh. A young couple move swiftly past towards the exits. The bespectacled girl is talking rapidly. She is holding a piece of pizza and seems to be vexed. Her companion looks at the floor glumly - he has displeased her. Both seem oblivious to their surroundings - the Cathedral is merely a short cut. As I sit, the vast clock in the North transept chimes and a voice calls out far away.  I rise to leave and the electric lights begin to fade. Only the figure of Joan of Arc is still visible, her face calm and sightless above her armour and cloth of fleur-de-lys. Beside the choir a single spotlight casts a glow in my path and is extinguished as I step into its solitary pool. I am the last to leave.

French kings have been crowned on the site of Rheims Cathedral since the 11th Century. One who was not was Henry IV of Navarre, grandfather to Britain's own Charles II and his siblings. He converted from Protestantism to Catholicism to gain his throne : Paris was worth a mass, he said. The Gothic splendour of Rheims is replicated in its various degrees across Western Europe but no other is perhaps as freighted with history. Here the Pope crowned a crusader king; those who could not go to the Holy Land moved stone and gave money towards the building of these enormous edifices as a down-payment for the salvation of their souls. Faith appeased destiny and fear of the Devil was absolute. Now the Cathedral is part of the Mediaeval theme park complete with posters of smiling angels, piped Gregorian chants and stalls with incongruous displays of  faux-Orthodox icons for sale. They are far from the eastern lands from which they drew their inspiration. Perhaps one day Rheims will bear Islamic motifs similar to those that still adorn the walls of Hagia Sophia long after Constantinople fell in 1453?

But should we resent the idea of such appropriation when our own culture  now seems utterly hostile to the preservation or even articulation of the Christian message that provided so much of its motive force? The pre-Christian wisdom of the ancients of Greece and Rome has fared little better. We are invited by our cultural arbiters to admire only that which is new and ephemeral. Abstractions such as shame,
hope and faith have been swept aside in the tsunami of relativism; charity and love cannot be far behind. Yet did not somebody once say that "If you are married to fashion you will be widowed before too long"? 

The south aisle contains a photo montage of the Catholic theologian Teilhard de Chardin. His "thoughts" have been rendered as unchallenging clichés. His message was distinct and authoritative but now he too has become a victim of the ecumenical morass where diversity alone trumps accumulated wisdom, perspective and judgement. Dilute to taste. But de Chardin recognised that we are all essentially spiritual beings experiencing human existence. Chesterton also reminded us that Saints were men and women before they became saints.

It is the 0930 Sunday mass. In an ark created for two thousand souls to see a king enthroned and for the salvation of hundreds of thousands more, a small crowd of no more than 200 has turned up for observance and worship. We fill  choir stalls intermittently occupied for over a thousand years. Three dedicated gentleman lead the singing of the Gregorian responses. The congregation raises little more than a plaintive mewing sound and to my shame I realise that I am merely moving my lips, the memory of youthful prayers having withered through disuse. But there is something uplifting about our little gathering of curious tourists, ascetic looking old men and young mothers with young children, attentive and immaculately turned out. The priest gives a calm and re-assuring sermon; communion is conducted with dignity rather than solemnity. We are the sprightly and the lame, the ugly and the beautiful. The candles continue to glow.