A Marathon of Churches

 Last weekend the city was full of runners taking part in the Paris Marathon, which thankfully restricts itself to the Right Bank - we were oblivious to the blood, sweat and tears. Or at least, we were oblivious to their blood, sweat and tears.  For while the runners were running for physical glory, we were on something of a quest for spiritual glory, with its own share of penitential pain. Over Saturday and Sunday we managed to take in 5 different Paris churches, including two full (and I mean full) Palm Sunday services, or as they call it here, le dimanche des Rameaux. St. Etienne du Mont, St Severin, St. Sulpice, La Madeleine, and Notre Dame de Paris. If you're keeping count, we are averaging about a church a day. Hopefully our record pays dividends in the afterlife!

I have to admit, if my photos weren't in chronological order I don't think I would be able to identify which church is which. To help you out, I will begin by giving you a geographic rendering of our pilgrimage.

 Red: Notre Dame, Blue: St. Sulpice, Yellow: St. Etienne du Mont, 

Purple: St. Severin, Green: La Madeleine 

The P in Montparnasse is our apartment.

We began our quest on Saturday afternoon, skirting the busy streets of Montparnasse, making our way over to and across Jardin Luxembourg (the big green blob below the blue dot) and then made our way East along an avenue that runs smack dab into the Pantheon. Just beyond the Pantheon is St. Etienne du Mont (yellow dot). My original interest in the church was born in St. Basil's church in Toronto where Catherine and I heard an amazing organist (Thierry Escaisch) who had spent most of his career at St. Etienne du Mont before being named the next titular organist at Notre Dame de Paris. Other famous organists having spent their careers there included Maurice Duruflé. On this particular day the organ was silent; however, the interior was a veritable symphony!

Facing the Altar

Look up . . . look way up

Hopefully we will get to hear the organ at some point.

Bound to inspire a sermon worth staying awake for

From St. Etienne du Mont (not much of a mont, in my estimation) we made our way into the heart of the Latin Quarter and on towards St. Severin (the purple dot). The church is considered the oldest on the Left Bank, having been originally constructed in 1230. Like many of the oldest churches we have encountered, we weren't seeing the original product. Fires, wars, erosion all do their part. In this case, a fire during the Hundred Years War led to a reconstruction and expansion from the 15th to 17th centuries. The resulting amalgam is still inspiring. And only if you read the fine print can you see the evolutionary changes. By the way, St. Severin was a 6th century hermit, which just goes to show that you don't have to live your life like Andrew Carnegie to get your name plastered on some building.

If you are as eagle-eyed as St. John, you will note different columns as you move from the organ

to the altar - evidence of the evolutionary nature of the church building.

Definitely not 13th century windows

Lovely choir organ

My favourite part - the gargoyles!

We then stepped outside and found a bench in the church's adjoining park, which included a playground (the state owns the church and grounds) to enjoy our daily baguette et fromage, but the local elderly begging woman left her post by the church door to come have a smoke in secret, which prodded us to keep moving. We only got as far as the Île de la Cité where we found another park which tempted us to sit again, this time to watch 20-somethings try their hand at boules. Three men and one woman. The woman smoked the men every time. With rain threatening and no bus in sight, we high-tailed it home à pied.

Palm Sunday was bound to involve some time in church, but little did I anticipate the close to 6 hours I would dedicate to contemplating the palms, the cross, and everything in between. We had decided to attend St. Sulpice on Sunday morning as the organist plays the organ for 15 minutes before the service, which sounded like a juicy morsel to whet our appetites.  Before long the priest had us all abandon our tiny chairs (Catholics have normal derrieres, they just don't do much sitting) and head outside with our branches to welcome Christ into the church.  Notice I didn't say palm branches. Evidently, they don't bother shipping palm branches up from the sunny south of France, and instead stick with boxwood branches, which are in abundance in the north.  This, of course, led to an extensive dive into the gospels to determine whether palms were more historically correct. It turns out that only John refers to them as palm branches, in case you're wondering.

Following the service, we made a beeline for the corner where the Chapel of Angels had been entrusted to the famous French painter, Eugène Delacroix, who did a masterful job of capturing angels at work. To get the full story see this article.  Suffice it to say that they include Jacob Wrestling with the Angel, Heliodorus Vanquished from the Temple and St. Michael Vanquishing the Demon. Angels are obviously good vanquishers.

We then zipped home, had lunch and then headed back out to church installment number 2: a 4pm presentation of the 14 stages of the cross as interpreted in poem and organ music at La Madeleine, a church dedicated to St. Mary Magdalene. The set of 14 poems, known as Le Chemin de la Croix, was the work of French poet Paul Claudel. These were quite moving (I found it written out online so was able to follow along). The accompanying music was 14 versets by Marcel Dupré.  Dupré is a 20th century French organ composer whom Robbie will know well. Did we like it? Let's just say no one was humming tunes as we pried ourselves from our tiny chairs.

La Madeleine, like the Pantheon, lived a life of a split personality due to its construction spanning from Louis XV to the Revolution to Napoleon to Louis Phillipe, or from 1763 - 1842. Thus, what started as Sainte Marie Madeleine became, under Napoleon, 'A Temple to the Glory of the Grand Army', and finally La Madeleine.  The large painting above the altar chronicles Napoleon and Pope Pius VII signing the Concordat of 1801, which reconciled the church and the state. Napoleon is placed directly under Jesus enthroned. God complex, perhaps? Today, the church is frequently used for concerts, in addition to regular services.

A tad neo-classical, don't you think?

The painting high above the altar featuring Jesus, Mary Magdalene, the Pope and Napoleon

One of many statues of Saint Joan of Arc to be found in Paris churches

Of course, as I strolled out of the church my attention was evenly divided between finding a bathroom and finding my next meal, when Catherine turned to me and asked, 'Do you think we can get to Notre Dame by 6pm? They have a Palm Sunday service.' This question might have simply been answered, 'Yes, isn't that interesting,' and I could have continued with my long and quick strides to the Metro station, but something at the back of my mind told me that that wasn't the answer she was looking for. So my long strides became a veritable run and we made it to the cathedral in record time with ten minutes to spare. Miraculously, although there was the usual never-ending line snaking back and forth in the courtyard before the west facade, there was no line-up where you enter for the mass.  We were quickly ushered in, only to find that as far as the eye could see, there wasn't a chair to be had (of the 1500 new oak chairs). Dauntless as always, Catherine plunged in, meeting the faces of the faithful with pleading eyes. Miracle number 2: a young couple gave up the two seats they were saving for friends, moved by Catherine's demeanour and grasp (?) of the French language.

The service was a grand affair. At a certain point, we all stood up and turned to face the enormous doors of the central portal at the west end. Silently, many holding branches, we watched and listened as the priest approached the doors.  Then there were three thundering knocks on the door (Catherine suspects a kettle drum). To which we sang: 'Portes, levez vos frontons, Élevez-vous, portes éternelles, Qu'il entre, le Roi de gloire!'. Three more knocks. The priest then intoned three times 'Qui est ce Roi de gloire?' Three more knocks. We then sang 'C'est le seigneur, Dieu de l'univers, C'est lui, le Roi de gloire!' And that was the ticket, as someone finally opened the door and let them in. As had taken place in the morning, the priest took his own branch, dipped it in what was surely holy water and sprayed the adherents as he paraded down the central aisle.

The procession (You can see a mix of palm, boxwood, and cell phones)

Once again, the gospel reading was a reenactment of the passion narrative, this time sung by five excellent choir members. But like the morning service, they chose Luke, which is one of the longest retellings of the Passion. Which might not have bothered me so much, but as it turns out, unlike we lazy Anglicans, Catholics stand throughout the Passion. So we stood for about a half hour for the second time that day. But I figure that Catholics have it all figured out. If you are going to have uncomfortable pews, people will be only too happy to stand, and of course, if you have to stand so much, the pews will be a welcome relief! 

So ended the marathon of churches. Of course, it being Holy Week, the marathon has barely begun!