When guests came to visit me during my noviciate at Blackfriars in Cambridge, a trip to Ely Cathedral was a failsafe and inexpensive trip out. Ely (above) is extraordinary; the “Ship of the Fens”, with its famous octagonal central tower, rises above the surrounding countryside. Looking at the paintings of patriarchs and prophets on the ceiling of the nave (added in the 19th century) left one with a slight crick in the neck. Even better was a tour of the lantern, where panels open to let you see the angels close up.
I soon felt that this cathedral was, somehow, mine. It was an odd sense of ownership, given that my stint in Cambridge was only a year long, and that Catholic worship had ceased there some 500 years earlier. But perhaps this is, after all, the point of cathedrals. Embedded in the local, they point to the universal and remind us that the communion of the Church is not a series of local franchises of a larger corporation, but living (and hopefully lively) communities of the faithful, sharing in the communion of the wider Church.
These places set in stone that curious paradox of Catholicism: the scandal of particularity; the universal mission of the Catholic Church. In <em>Heaven on Earth </em>Emma J Wells certainly captures the particularity of these cathedrals, and her book is filled with tales of local patrons, craftsmen and the wider politics of the kingdoms in which these cathedrals were built. The buildings themselves narrate the messy realities of the more political life of the Church: the competition between abbeys; different cathedrals vying to become the seat of the archbishop; fights over relics or privileges.
Two things are especially attractive about this history of Europe’s cathedrals. First, it not only has the many colour photographs one would expect, but also uses illustrations from medieval manuscripts and prints of town- and cityscapes. These not only help the reader situate the cathedral and see more of its history, but also confirm the great beauty of the medieval period. Second, the cathedrals chosen are not the standard list of edifices. While there are a few familiar favourites – Chartres, Notre Dame, Cologne – Hagia Sophia, Santia-go de Compostela and Prague make a wel-come appearance to show the development of the style that we know as gothic. Wells narrates the spread of this style as the master craftsmen who had worked on the then Abbey of St-Denis make their way across France to work on similar structures, perfecting their technique in stone and glass with each new project.
Wells clearly writes from a more secular perspective, but without many of the infelicities to which secular authors are sometimes given in dealing with religious subjects. While for Catholics the cathedral points to the wider universality of the Church, as well as the hope of heavenly glory, she views the universality of the cathedral design – the cathedral idea – as an arresting aesthetic experience.
She begins with Hagia Sophia because she sees it as the archetypal cathedral building. The sentiments of emissaries sent from a pagan king who ruled an area of modern-day Uk-raine confirm her argument. On seeing the liturgy being celebrated in Hagia Sophia they confessed to not knowing whether they were in heaven or earth. Similar sentiments are expressed by Abbot Suger in his sermon at the consecration of the extension of St-Denis; the cathedral is a liminal space, not quite earth-ly but not entirely heavenly, either.
Perhaps it’s this oddly liminal quality which accounts for the reported popularity of cathedrals for worshippers. Before the pandemic it was found that cathedral worship in the Church of England (often more traditional in form than that found in most parishes) had risen in the face of a general decline in church attendance. These monumental buildings are a glimpse of heaven that we cannot find elsewhere; rooted in whichever place we find ourselves, whether in the centre of a bustling city or in the middle of the countryside, their beauty and scale offer us an insight into the heavenly Jerusalem that is not just tangible – but somehow also ours.
<em>Fr Albert Robertson is a member of the Order of Preachers, presently serving in Edinburgh</em>
