As the flames roared in Notre Dame, the world watched in horror. As the flames roared, and it looked as if the whole structure, a church, more than a church, a cathedral was destined to be forever removed from this earth, the world was watching. The French, some religious, most not stood in front of this majestic space, and wept. Women gathered and sang Ave Maria, and both women and men gathered with their phones to record what their soul could not process. It was not just the French who watched with a combination of fear, horror and dread. The world tuned in to catch a glimpse of something once great and magnificent which could be gone in a matter of hours. And the most disquieting part is no one knew why it was burning. It just was. And for many moments there seemed to be nothing that anyone could do other than the firefighters who were destined to battle this great flame. It was not lost on the French or the worldwide media that this was occurring less than a week before churches around the globe would be honoring the trial and crucifixion of Jesus of Nazareth. It was not lost that like Jesus’ disciples the world was held captive to watch something tragic with a feeling of dread and helplessness.
Many of the people in shock were not church goers. They were not the ones who filled pews every Sunday morning. Many in the crowd in front of Notre Dame probably never sang Ave Maria as a religious plea and prayer for salvation. But here they were doing just that for this historic church. All the people touched through the centuries by Jesus life and death never knew the man. They were never acquainted the the incarnation, yet they have come to know down through the centuries the spirit of this man. Likewise it was not just the church goers who mourned and watched in horror, it was those who maybe for the first time caught the spirit of what this cathedral represented. It was a fire that ignited a flame in each soul who watched, a fire that consumed the vineer, the surface of things for just a moment, and brought a powerful immediacy to the moment.
All disasters are natural disasters. Those that cause the earth to shake, those that consume the beauty we have come to take for granted, the shaking of each individual as we witness the disappearance of something once profound and inspiring, but perhaps forever lost.
The earth shook and darkness came over the earth. At the moment of crucifixion the curtain of the temple was torn in two. The facade of the temple, the holy of holies was broken and forever compromised. And yes, the world was given a peek between the curtain. In the peek the dead rose, those from the past now became present, the dormant feature of an ancient structure was threatened, its beauty tarnished, threatened and made more real. In the destruction the dead who built these structures came to life again. All the ancestors of those who stepped inside, those who dreamed and wrote books and poetry, those who only heard second hand about this ancient beauty – all those were alive and right here! The fullness of the moment brought weeping and quiet song. It brought the song of Mary praying and pleading for her beautiful son. It brought crowds from around the world singing a song back to Mary. It is a song passed down to through the centuries with the same haunting plea: “Ave Maria, maiden mild, Oh, listen to a maiden’s prayer.”
We have lived for a long time questioning the value of a church.
We walk through where the dead once sat, where the dead once preached, where the dead once sang with pleas of sorrow and joy, and we wonder what is the value today. Yes, fellowship, yes community service, yes a sense of belonging and purpose. But something more. Something more was uncovered April 15, 2019. It was not just the church goers who were bound in attention. It was a world who realized we were on the brink of losing something perhaps we never knew we had. A cathedral, a monument built to hold our highest aims, a church to hold our secret pains and our secret yearnings. A place that held relics of stories we’ve long forgotten. A place we had forgotten was holy, and only realized once it was burning.
All disasters are natural, and our cathedrals, our highest aims and hopes are part of the natural world. They stir us and move us, and beg for our attention. Today is the day of resurrection. It is the day we have been given. It is the day we have been given before Earth Day. Before we kiss the earth, we must kneel.
We must know the power of the holy, and we must respect the power of flame and the power of song. We must remember stories we have long forgotten, and in this remembering try to save what is left to save. As the earth shakes, we are given a peek behind the curtain. And what we see should startle us, it should leave us in awe, as it leaves us with both horror and determination. The determination to rebuild, to save what is left to save, and to witness wholeheartedly to what we cannot.
This is the power of resurrection Sunday. To save what is left to save, to celebrate with our fellow creatures in the song of life knowing this could all change in a moment. It is here for us now, and it is holy. We can be resurrected from the narrowness of today and wake up to the possibility of tomorrow. If we have the eyes to see, we will see the dead, the prophets march before us in song. Jesus of Nazareth, Mary, and those who hold the power of memory who say: This is the day we are given. This is the day we rebuild. In sorrow and in joy, amidst the fire and the ash, the devout and the skeptic will kneel not to what was, but what could be. They will speak in unison in a language all will understand throughout the earth, even as it shakes, even as it burns: this is the day we are given. This is the day we rebuild.
