Traveling to France with Henry Adams is to journey on the pilgrim's way-- in the company of one's uncle. And not just any uncle, but an uncle who knows everything under heaven. And an uncle always endeavoring to enchant rather than merely educate, Adam's tells tales of miracles. And that is exactly what we found in:
The miracle of Mont Saint-Michel and the Miracle of Chartres Cathedral.
Mont Saint Michel: that fairy island with its fortress abbey, in days past reached across deadly mudflats and quicksand (known as the path to paradise) is a monument, he declares, to masculinity. The Archangel Michael, weigher of human souls was, of course, the great commander of the armies of God. And this fortified island abbey was his command center.
And Chartres. How could anyone resist seeing it as the castle of the Queen?
I wrote about our travels to these two monuments here (Mont St. Michel) and here (Chartres)
But there is another miracle that Adams refers to in his book as well. And this is my favorite holy place in France by a long shot. And that is Saint-Sernin in Toulouse.
In terms of age, no place beats the Mont. Though one probably wouldn't immediately guess this to be the case, the abbey at Mont Saint-Michel, dating from 1020, is so old that Adams insists that a person would be hard-pressed to come up with many buildings of this stature that predate it. The West Porch of Chartres, for example, did not go up for another hundred years. And Saint-Sernin is younger still, dating to the 13th century.
Of course, like Chartres, Saint Sernin's real origins date all the way back to Roman times. Saint Sernin is the French version of Saturnine--an African name. And this Saturnine, it turns out was supposedly one of the 72 disciples and first bishop of Toulouse. His story comes down to us from the early 5th century text, Passio Sancti Saturnini and tells the story of how he came to be martyred. Toulouse of that time was part of the Roman empire and Saint Sernin had the misfortune of living under Emperor Decius' reign. Decius is infamous for his harsh treatment of Christians. As part of this overall harassment, Decius decreed that all people across the empire must perform pagan sacrifices in front of officials. Well, as Bishop, Sernin probably did not feel able to comply and so as punishment, he was tied by his feet to a sacrificial bull and the bull was whipped into a frenzy. Sernin was dead within minutes, they say.
When I was visiting the basilica, three different people I met mentioned how it was women who collected his body and hastily buried it. They then kept vigil and venerated the spot where he was martyred. This spot would later be the location of the greatest Romanesque church in all of France (it remains the largest brick building from the medieval period in the world). And Saint Sernin is very much on the road to Santiago.
I read once that people often feel strongly drawn to either gothic or romanesque architecture--never to both. I definitely prefer the Romanesque style --all of my favorite churches are Romanesque from San Stefano in Bologna to the great Cathedral at Durham--with Saint-Sernin being my favorite above all. In one of my pilgrimage books on the Way to the Field of Stars, the writer mentions that he has found it to be that young people often much prefer gothic, while it is the elderly who are fond of Romanesque--and he continues, while one gawks in gothic churches, one prays in the Romanesque--for it comforts us that God is here on earth, enfolding us as if we are being covered in a warm blanket. And yes, Toulouse has long been on the road to Santiago. When I was there, I saw pilgrims with conch shells dangling around their necks; leaning on their walking sticks. On the camino to the field of stars-- Saint-Sernin is built in a style very much reminiscent of the great cathedral in Santiago.
Early on, Saint-Sernin grew into a very significant pilgrimage place. By the middle ages it had quite an array of relics in its possession (at one time the finest in all of Europe!) and the building itself had to be renovated to turn it into a pilgrimage cathedral--which means it had a very wide ambulatory so thousands of pilgrims could circumambulate the crypts without disturbing the Mass performed in the main part of the basilica. In the possession of relics of Saint James, it was on the Way of St. James – the Long Road to Heaven –which continues to be among the most important Christian pilgrimages, together with Rome and Jerusalem.
I was, of course, thrilled at the prospect of seeing what they had on offer. So, I paid my way into the crypt to partake in what used to be known as the "tour of bones."
The guidebook suggested visiting the ambulatory in the morning, when it flooded with the light and you can see the carvings. That is precisely what I did and the carvings were surprising. They are very old and I could not help but compare them to Gandharan Buddhist sculpture-- also influenced by Greco-Roman art. At a glance I would have thought it was Buddhist. My favorite is shown right. Carved in stone, Christ's hands held in a mudra, he is flanked by symbols of the four evangelists.
Despite its current lack of advertising, the basilica still offers an absolutely stunning program of sacred relics. But you need to go down into the crypt. And as I headed toward the steps to the crypt, a little girl was working up her nerve to go down into the depths to the delight of her parents, who had chosen to stay above ground in the ambulatory. Gracefully navigating the slippery stone steps, she turned around to smile mischievously to her parents to show that she was definitely not afraid.
Not one to be outdone, I followed her down.
It was definitely creepy down there. Underground and it smelled of wet rock. The apostolic relics were held in individual bays. Each bay was carved out of the rock and the cave entrance roped off. Other than one light shining on the wooden casket there was nothing else. There were pews to kneel in veneration at each bay, I think. Maybe... but it was surprisingly sparse. There was James, Phillip, Simon and Jude, each in a sarcophagus carved in wood or marble and sitting strangely on what resembled sawhorses. (picture below).
There were candles flickering and it was a spooky kind of place.
Leaving I saw the relic of the true cross in its Limoge box. The enamel painting on the box was very pretty and depicted how the basilica came to possess this holy relic.
I was just kicking myself that I had left the teenager back in the apartment. He was probably still sleeping. When I had asked him to go relic hunting with me the night before, he had said, "Thanks, but no thanks.." And now there I was kicking myself that I had not brought him. But I was fortunate enough to meet a young novice attached to the church named Pierre who gave me an extensive tour of the interior of the basilica after I emerged from the crypt.
The altar was of particular note. Standing at an incredible six feet tall, if is directly above the supposed remains of Saint Sernin and was consecrated in 1096 by Pope Urban II (of First Crusade fame).
The basilica is also home to one of the most important pipe organs in France. That is why many people visit. And as "luck" would have it they were tuning it that morning. Talk about loud! This is not music but very jarring single notes that had some English speaking tourists asking if it was some kind of alarm!
(The basilica, by the way, used to be covered in colorful frescoes. In the context of the Chartres renovation, Saint Sernin was cited by one scholar as being a case where leaving the walls bare was a mistake since it made the place strangely cold... it was never supposed to be like that and if you look carefully you can see the old pigment in bits and pieces here and there around the basilica).
A writer I like a lot, Tom Bissell, visited Saint Sernin as part of his travels to all the tombs of the Apostles and he had this to say about the pilgrim's path in general,
Christianity, like Judaism before it and Islam after it, has always been and always will be a less than ideal way to understand the world and our place in it. At the same time, I know no purely rational way of understanding the world. A thousand irrational spasms daily derange us all. God is part of the same formless reality as thought, as real as bits of data that float invisible in the world, somehow creating output. In this sense, all that moves through us is real. To explain the realness which we cannot see, we turn to stories left behind by evangelic writers, working behind their veils of anonymity. The footprints they left behind lead us to places we want to be led.
A few years ago, my friend Mark described a kind of religious or spiritual feeling he had had in a shrine to a saint in Kiev (I think it was in Kiev--maybe Saint Andrew shrine?)
He described a kind of trembling and an awakening of his heart there.
That is how I felt at Saint Sernin. Like for Mark in Kiev, this place was a kind of miracle for me.
After coming up for air and leaving the crypt, I walked over to an absolutely stunning Romanesque Crucifix standing in a shadowy spot in the northern apsidal chapel. In any other place, the crucifix might have been more prominently displayed but Saint-Sernin Basilica was just so rich in treasures that this exquisite work of gold and metal-work was hiding away in the corner. It was so beautifully-wrought. Pierre had told me that its jewels had been stolen and replaced with fakes in the 18th century when a parishioner had offered to clean it for the church. It really doesn't matter as the face of the Christ is so moving in this work of sculpture. As I knelt down to pray, the eyes of the Christ locked on to my eyes and I had the strangest experience of seeing my father's face perfectly and unmistakably mapped onto Christ's. And I felt a few moments of peace. The only moments of peace I have felt in what has been several isolating and emotionally tumultuous years.
I had actually never visited my father's grave until returning back from France last spring. He died twenty seven years ago, and I left very shortly after to Japan. My family does not have a custom of visiting graves or holding memorials for death so in many ways my dad's memory had faded more than it should have. It was always something that bothered me.
I actually had intended to honor the memory of my favorite Aunt at Saint Sernin basilica. I had entered the church to light a candle in her honor. When she passed away, my friend Eric said, "May her memory be a blessing." I have always loved that expression and feel it captures the way that in remembering our departed loved ones, we are filled with the blessing of their memory. At the same time though, I believe the actual Hebrew expression means that in remembering them we are in prayer with them--sending them our blessings. (May their soul rest in peace, etc. ご冥福をお祈りします).
So, with that in mind, I was not surprised to experience that strange moment of great peace. It was uncanny the way my dad's face morphed onto the Christ. Like a hallucination. And returning home, Chris and I visited dad's grave. I had felt guilty for this neglect for years and the relief of finally going and praying at the grave (which was perfectly cared for being in a veteran's cemetery) was enormous.
Books: Romanesque Churches of France: A Traveller's Guide, by Peter Strafford
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