The way we live

When it comes right down to it, I’m really not Charlie Hebdo. There is no doubt in my mind that the brothers who walked into the Paris offices of that satirical mag back in January are red-blooded murderers, but I don’t necessarily think of the victims as my brothers and sisters. We share a heritage of freedom--that's sure; but I’d like to believe that some things are, in fact, sacred.

Well, maybe not sacred, like ancient relics--the thumb of some martyr. I’m too much a child of the Reformation for that; but some things should be beyond sarcasm, beyond devilish wit, beyond transgression. The moment I name one, I suppose we'll fight. Still, some things are sacred.

Maybe that's why I love cathedrals. They accomplish their architectural and artistic intention because they feel as if they usher us to holiness.

Most of us. 

Huge banners hang just to side of the front doors of the Cathedral of Saint Paul, which stands gloriously at the highest point in the city and area, even above the Minnesota State Capitol. Those banners announce the place is now a century old, the first mass having been celebrated on Palm Sunday, 1915, even though the interior work wasn't finished until 1958. St. Paul's is celebrating a birthday. All the more reason for honor.

There couldn't have been more than a dozen people inside on Friday, when we dropped by. A sign at the door begs silence, but silence is never much of a problem in a magnificent space like St. Paul's. Everything offers transcendence, floor to magnificent ceiling, even the pews.  And you can't help feeling small. Today, that's rare, I think.

One of the dozen or so who were there Friday afternoon was not so thusly moved. One of us was Charlie Hebdo. She was small. She wore a hooded sweatshirt and a backpack, and she wasn't a kid. She was an adult, and because she was and because she was loud and profane, it was hard not to believe that she was somehow imbalanced. Not only did she talk out loud, she even yelled, mocked Jesus Christ like those Roman soldiers at the foot of the cross. 

Most of what she said was at full volume, which means in a cathedral like St. Paul's, everyone hears.

She was Charlie Hebdo. 

Had she taken a claw hammer from that backpack and walked up to the altar, I probably would have tried to stop her; but she simply stood in the pews--there's space for 5000 people in the Cathedral--and let out a tirade against Jesus, not screaming really, but speaking so loud that most everything she said got heard, and what didn't was laced in a tone that was unmistakably invective.

For all kinds of reasons, including fear I suppose, and not wanting to create any more of a scene, I let her be, didn't try to shush her or help her find the door, didn't try to whisper the love of Christ. She kept spitting out sarcasm as she walked around, occasionally laughing, even sang some unrecognizable song, then, finally, walked out, much to my relief. Maybe to hers. 

Charlie Hebdo is the price we pay for freedom, as was this woman, who may have left the Cathedral of St. Paul on Friday afternoon as relieved of her burdens as any supplicant, I suppose, as much as I hate to admit it. Maybe she got something off her chest.

When finally she left, thank goodness, awe and splendor returned. 

It's not perfect. Life is not forever transcendent. It sometimes feel crippling, but that's the way we live. That's the way it goes, I guess, isn't it?