Cathedral organ

May 31, 2006 (written on this date/posted June 1)

I understand that blogs are also used as personal journals as well as opportunities to rant. So today, I will write about my morning.

 

I ran a few errands and then attended today’s offering in the Organ Recital Series of the Piccolo/Spoleto Festival in Charleston, SC. This morning’s program was held in the (Catholic) Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist and featured the incredible pipe organ and music composed by Bach, Mendelssohn, Messiaen, and Franck.

 

So there I sat in a Catholic Cathedral, listening to organ music, surrounded by stained glass windows and the lingering hint of incense. I gotta tell ya’. It kinda creeped me out. It’s difficult to explain how I feel when I find myself in such an environment. It really is like going home to the home you can never go back to. I know the name of every architectural detail; nave and apse, sanctuary and sacristy. I know the name of every sacred object and its use; votives and Paschal candle, tabernacle and benitiers, paton and chalice. And although I have not been a regular participant at Mass in quite a long time, if it were a Mass, I would know every single response on cue and every appropriate moment to sit and stand and kneel. Some of the prayers, I would even know in French, the language of my childhood. Je vous salue, Marie, pleine de grâces, le Seigneur est avec vous.

 

The last time I attended a Mass was two years ago; the funeral of a cousin held in Saint Joan of Arc Church in Cumberland, Rhode Island. I was somewhat unaffected by the Mass itself and the Church was built in the 50s and so did not satisfy my love of majesty in Church architecture. But in the side chapel stood a five foot bronze statue of Joan in full armor and helmet. In the tradition of Degas’ ballerinas, she wears real cloth sleeves and leggings. I asked my brother to steal it for me. He said no.

 

The stained glass windows in the Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist, Charleston, SC are breathtakingly stunning. As the organist played my eyes traveled from saint to saint in the upper reaches of the church; Saint Stephen, first martyr; Saint Lawrence, the martyr who was barbecued to death; Saint Ann, mother of Mary; Saint Mary Magdalene, wait! Oh yes, there it is. The damn jar. Saint Augustine of Hippo, an architect of Christianity; gentle Saint Francis of Assisi; Saint Theresa of the Little Flower. And what? No Saint Denis? The patron saint of France? No Joan?

 

At floor level, the windows depict the stories of the Gospels, the life of Jesus. I was seated before the window of The Wedding at Cana, Jesus’ first miracle. The servants pour water into the huge jars and cleverly the stained glass artist has rendered half the flow in white and half the flow in wine red. But the figure that had me transfixed, the one to whom my eyes returned again and again was the portrayal of Mary, the mother of Jesus, who looks on while her son creates wine from water (at her urging if you remember the story). The face is remarkable, long and square, timeless youthfulness. The eyes are large and round and even in this difficult medium of stained glass, the artist has managed to convey both wisdom and reflective pondering. I could not take my eyes off of her.

 

Fascinating to me also was the stained glass rendition of The Last Supper above the sanctuary. The stained glass version is an exact copy of DaVinci’s. When the concert was over, I drew nearer to take a closer look and overheard a man say to two women, “I don’t think that looks like a woman. I don’t think she was there.”  Isn’t it amazing, that there are people who think that a 15th century painter could actually KNOW what the heck a first century event looked like?? And that DaVinci’s imaginative table serves as the definitive expression of the Gospel story for so many people? Geesh.

 

The music was phenomenal; the organist, a gifted musician who is Director of the music program at Barnard. The Bach was deep and resounding. The Mendelssohn was majestic; a veritable Glory to God. The Messiaen, unlike anything I’ve ever heard before. I imagined that if Jimi Hendrix had been an organist instead of a guitarist, these are the compositions he would have played. The concluding piece was a Chorale by composer Cesar Franck. It was a powerful and triumphant finale.

 

And as I walked out of this beautiful Cathedral, I was tempted to dip my fingers in the benitier.