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| Chartres Cathedral, France |
Two and a half decades ago, the last time I spent extended time in Paris as a young artist, I decided to travel to Chartres Cathedral without directions or map, in a small and fragile car. I simply thought by setting personal course with unstoppable faith -- knowing that "all roads lead to Chartres"-- I would, without a doubt, eventually find my way. And hours later I did, with all notion of time suspended as I sped over the great plains of the long approach drawn like a magnet to the speck of the cathedral on the horizon growing larger and larger to finally consume me into its vast presence.
Here at last, this venerable witness to all-encompassing truth and beauty welcomed me within its living walls, a testament translating the best of thought and skill and faith of man, resulting in this spatial and artistic feat -- an anonymous inspiration of thousands sharing in the dignity to collective human creativity, reminding that we cannot do it alone.
There under the the deepest blues of the rose window, the intricacies of the mystical stone floor, at the sancta camisa (the said venerated tunic of the Virgin Mary that she wore at Christ's birth), and among the countless names and prayers carved into the arching columns lingered still the holy residue of the power of love, determination and true fellowship. I remember being brought involuntarily to my knees upon entering, beholding the breadth of beauty, of something beyond my earthly comprehension. My own faith was in its wondrous infancy, overwhelmed by the splendor of it all.
Several fires came close to destroying it completely in the early 12th century as it experienced a catastrophic burning when near to its completion, after which a miraculous rebuild occurred where members of all social classes collectively pulled and carted materials to the site singing hymns -- hymns of common purpose and vision echoing the streets day in and day out for years.
"There is an old story of how the cathedral of Chartres was struck by lightning and burned to the ground. Then thousands of people came from all points of the compass, like a giant procession of ants, and together they began to rebuild the cathedral on its old site. They worked until the building was completed -- master builders, artists, labourers, clowns, noblemen, priests, burghers. But they all remained anonymous, and no one knows to this day who built the cathedral of Chartres."
The floors, walls and windows continue to retain the ancient hum of holiness, the joy of those who gave selflessly to the collective cause, sharing in the gift of re-forming this symbol of hope and faith. It is here that I always pause, struck by the unknown artisans who knew that the ability to create was a true gift from God.
Bergman continues:
"Regardless of my own beliefs and my own doubts, which are unimportant in this connection, it is my opinion that art lost its basic creative drive the moment it was separated from worship. It severed an umbilical chord and now lives its own sterile life, generating and degenerating itself. In former days the artist remained unknown and his work was to the glory of God. He lived and died without being more or less important than other artisans; 'eternal values', 'immortality' and 'masterpiece' were terms not applicable in his case. The ability to create was a gift. In such a world flourished invulnerable assurance and natural humility. Today the individual has become the highest form and the greatest bane of artistic creation.
The smallest wound or pain of the ego is examined under a microscope as if it were of eternal importance. The artist considers his isolation, his subjectivity, his individualism almost holy. Thus we finally gather in one large pen, where we stand and bleat about our loneliness without listening to each other and without realizing that we are smothering each other to death. The individualists stare into each other's eyes and yet deny the existence of each other.
We walk in circles, so limited by our own anxieties that we can no longer distinguish between true and false, between the gangster's whim and the purest ideal. Thus if I am asked what I would like the general purpose of my films to be, I would reply that I want to be one of the artists in the cathedral on the great plain. I want to make a dragon's head, an angel, a devil -- or perhaps a saint -- out of stone. It does not matter which; it is the sense of satisfaction that counts. Regardless of whether I believe or not, whether I am a Christian or not, I would play my part in the collective building of the cathedral."
Yes....to rebuild.
Chartres resounds with the notion of possibility -- of what man can achieve with humility, full heart and sole purpose. She will always be a symbol of perseverance in my life. A reminder of good things to come.
Of Miracle.
On this New Year's Day, I contemplate the past year that has held days both sweet and heavy, giving thanks for the newness of what stands before us in possibility. The inevitable and simple gesture of a new day. A gift.
Here, now, in time set apart, we are able to see into the mirror of present perspective, and embrace the daily steadying of ground beneath our feet as we live out the on-going daily struggle and gratitude of the bridge that God saw fit to allow us to cross over.
Last year, caught in relentless questioning and quickening of examination of the "why then shall we live?", a miracle occurred, casting out shadow of doubt that an augmented hymn of rebuilding was starting in my own life. We had been caught in the iron wait of the reveal, days seemingly caught in an over-ripe incubation -- a gestation heavy with longing, mingled with a fear of foolishness to place hope on a calling that was perhaps not meant for fruition in this lifetime.
Or perhaps it was. And perhaps it is.
With so much to be thankful for (acknowledging a sprinkle of old testament reality at our door while continuing to hold all lightly), our story seems like a solid planting of "do not forget this time" of the waters passed through. May Lady Humility always dine with Sister Mercy at our table.
We are only now at the cusp of the opening of this new door -- entering into our fifth month of this Vermont chapter, but Light has returned as we follow the song. The Ottauquechee hills (of a different plain and forest) are ripe with the notion of possibility.
This is a hymn of regeneration. Joy. A time to build a place for God's people. A time to create stories for generations to come, in however it may unfurl and take shape.
Hope.
Rebuilding anew in a cloud of gratitude, vision is alive and well.
Parting here with an Orson Welles 2-minute excerpt from his 1976 video-essay "F is for Fake" -- a testament to what we have yet to accomplish, remembering above all to celebrate God's glory in all things.
And to remember that we are but dust briefly floating along this string of time...
