Three French temples
On my way to Notre Dame the first time, I got into Paris
late and disoriented. I walked a good long time, then gave up and stopped at a
hotel. Oops, no – it was a brothel. I figured it out after the fourth or fifth guy
came in, met a girl, and went upstairs laughing. I left there, and went on to
see Pere Rene Bel, my host, a canon at Notre Dame. He was a very precise
thinker, like Germain Grisez; but underneath his brain and brow lurked a warm
and hospitable heart (also like Germain Grisez). I don’t remember much of what
he said, except my name – with a strong English “J” – followed by a richly
intoned French/German/English vowel or three resembling an “O” that no one outside
France will ever recapture – and ending with a firm and finite but still
musical “N” song.
We were concerned about the destruction of fetuses – tiny sanctuaries
of the Lord. How can we learn to be more gentle and respectful of each other? And
about chastity: an orphaned notion, a form of love that builds rapidly past physical
attraction toward a dozen more durable facets of a relationship.
O Marie, notre dame, in whose body the transformation of the
universe began to unfold, can we build (or continue to build, or rebuild) a
society in which the bodies of women are respected, and the lives of the unborn
are cherished – and maybe even our glass and stones can be re-imagined?
Maryam
The first time I visited the masjid (mosque) on New
Hampshire Avenue alone, a dozen people went out of their way to make me feel
welcome. I was deeply moved by the careful questions of one man who wanted to
understand what I thought about Mary, or Maryam. Did I think about her? Did I
love her? How did she pray? And was this love for her a bond between us? The
Quran says more about her than the Bible does. Christians and Muslims disagree
about some things we say about her, and perhaps we can fight savagely about it.
But why should we? I think she can figure out who is sincere. I think she can
take care of herself, and explain herself without my help.
Notre Dame was not a pilgrim site for Muslims, as far as I
know. But when it’s re-built, maybe it will be. In our age (nostra aetate), we
are learning better how to share the joys and hopes (gaudium et spes) of all
mankind.
Relics
Catholics are an odd bunch. We treasure bits and pieces of
our heroes – not just their crowns or books or homes, but bits of their bones
and such. (It’s not just us. I treasure a gift from a Muslim friend, a relic: a
small scrap of black cloth that was once part of a cover for the Kaaba in
Mecca.) Notre Dame had a collection of relics, and many people were immensely
relieved to hear that the relics weren’t in the basilica when it burned.
Cool. But God constructs his own temple, in the hearts of
his people. The bodies of his beloved children matter. I think of the children
and the mothers and the families of fugitives at our border and in “temporary” refugee
camps all over the Middle East. I want the stones and glass in Paris to be
rebuilt. But far more, I pray that widows and orphans and strangers will find a
welcome and a home among God’s people. And I am certain that this is the Lord’s
priority too. Quite certain.
I pray also that a new scourge of a new age will be
addressed in the rebuilding – even if it takes a change in canon law to make it
happen. When the relics of ages past go back into the rebuilt Notre Dame, I
pray that the bodies of some unborn children – rejected neglected dismembered
and discarded – will join them in places of grief and honor.
