Upon entering, I was faced with a long corridor of successive stone arches leading straight to the back. Softly glowing lights were suspended from the ceiling by long chains, revealing narrow walkways near the tops of the arches.At the center of the cathedral, the ceiling soared to immense heights, so high up it was lost in the shadows in some places, making a large expanse of empty air for every whisper and rustle to echo and carry. I've seen some beautiful churches in Europe too, and there's always been something about those old cathedrals that touches me. A human grandeur and architectural majesty that is raised to the glory of an all-powerful God, there is something moving and captivating that cannot be captures by words or cameras. The peace among the pillars made me want to stay forever, to worship and to wonder.
Once inside the heart of the cathedral, I found many little alcoves along the sides. So many dark and shadowy places everywhere; I wanted to crawl into them, feel the coolness of the marble, safe in the dusty silences. In one area, tables covered with candles gave off a warm glow, and coloured light from the stained glass windows dappled the pale stone columns and steps with translucent rainbows. There was also a monument in memory of firefighters who perished in the line of duty in a 1966 fire.
The air of the cathedral had a sweet, musty smell, reminding me of unused spaces like a basement in a mansion. I followed the haunting sound of music floating from the inside, and found an orchestra made up entirely of guitar players. The song ended just as I arrived, and the smattering of applause that broke through the serenity surprised me. They made a ruckus packing up and leaving, while I made my way past the pulpit (raised on white marble steps and flanked by figures of saints) to a chapel at the side.
There I found a room that reminded me of Hong Kong, with walls covered by marble tiles engraved with names and dates--niches to place the ashes of the dead. I could hear birdsong through the stained glass window, which seemed fascinating to me for a moment. There were many other chapels too, separated from the walkway around the altar area by intricate, wrought iron gates. Some of them weren't lit, uninviting for tourists but with their gates still wide open. White stained glass windows gave a curiously icy feeling to those without the benefit of warm yellow lightbulbs. Others were brightly lit with sun, being placed in the direct line of the sunlight at that time of day, golden and gleaming. Some of the side chapels were very empty, while others had chairs or pews and burning candles, and some even had their own pipe organ.I wonder what kind of congregation might have filled this sanctuary hundreds of years ago. I wonder how the organ's music would have swelled to fill all that empty air below the great arches, how a preacher's voice would have carried without a microphone. I wonder how God spoke to those people, or if they could hear Him at all over the intensity of this man-made splendour...I feel that God is not found in buildings, so much as He is found in hearts.
The longer I stayed, the more the hollowness and shadows of the vaulted ceilings seemed to press down on me. I was cold, lonely, and I thought--rather incongruously--of the stuffy side chapel where Kyrios gathers in its crowded raucous way. That place is where I've felt like home for two amazing years, a place where I've met God time and again, so much more personal and emotional than the austere beauty of a cathedral like this.
Even so, stepping back out into the bright New York City afternoon, voices back up to a normal volume and vehicles clattering by indifferently on the street, I felt like I lost something. Just a little bit.
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