Article
Awe and wonder
Community
Creed
4 min read

Cathedrals are making a comeback, here’s why

From soft toys to crisis moments, these flagships hold much more than our stories.

David was the Dean of St Paul's Cathedral for ten years until retiring in 2022.

A puppet donkey peaks over the edge of a cathedral pulpit
Family carol service, St Paul's Cathedral.

What is it about cathedrals?  Under a secular French government, €700 million has been spent on renewing Notre-Dame Cathedral after the 2019 fire disaster. The money hasn’t however come from French taxpayers, but from donations large and small by people in France and from across the world.  And the number of people entering cathedrals to visit, or pray, or meet with others keeps going up, even as church attendance declines and religion seems out of fashion – so what’s going on?  

Building a large church is a long and very costly process, and Christian communities could take a century or more to build or upgrade a cathedral as resources became available. In lands where Christian faith was embraced by those in power, governments would help to build and endow cathedrals. They were not only central points for worship and church life in their area, but were large covered meeting spaces which were also used by the state for synods, coronations, meetings or services which supported political life and enhanced social cohesion. Communities and rulers wanted to have the best and biggest building they could, to the glory of God (and also that of its builders): and cathedrals were a focus for the best that could be found in architecture and art, sermons in stone and stained glass, colourful high-rise marvels inspiring the inhabitants of an often ugly and dingy low-rise world. 

So what explains the enduring attraction of cathedrals, and the emotional bonds between these buildings and us which the rebuilding of Notre Dame has highlighted? 

For a start, these buildings are the holders of stories and identities. We humans love a good story.  We want to hear, see and tell stories; to make a story out of our own life; to be part of a bigger story which gives us identity and meaning. In cathedrals, I’ve met visitors and pilgrims eager to know the history, in other words the story of such an amazing place and all it contains. There are the visitors writing their own stories who take a picture of their cuddly toy at each tourist destination. And there are the men and women at a crisis point. in their own story who come in search of forgiveness or hope or love, and begin to find it in the great story of God, Jesus and the Christian faith to which a cathedral bears witness.  

That holding of identity isn’t only individual, of course. The tragedy of 2019 in Paris was felt across the world, because Notre Dame with its glorious architecture and its treasures is a part of the world’s story with which millions of people have become engaged through their visits and understanding; a tragedy felt of course most deeply in France, where the cathedral is entwined with French history and identity. Each cathedral, whatever its age or size, carries the story of its community and people, is part of our human story, of yours and mine. Their heritage is ours too. The story a cathedral tells about identity, faith and hope can enliven and inspire. 

Then again, cathedrals are witnesses. Cathedrals don’t only host state occasions: their role is to be a place for people from a wide geographical and social area to meet and celebrate, worship, mourn, listen and learn. They are places where we are both affirmed and challenged. Whether it’s a local charity concert to help those in need, a major company anniversary, a seminar or a protest venue for people concerned about a hot political, social or religious topic, the mourners of a significant public figure, or a homeless person seeking dignity as well as shelter – cathedrals witness to the value of human life before God. As a cathedral Dean I went from greeting the monarch to talking with Terry the Big Issue seller: for a cathedral, all are beloved by God, and there to be welcomed. 
While cathedrals hold story and identity, looking backwards, and witness to and focusing of a local or national community looking around them, you might imagine another axis of attraction as looking forward and upwards, ‘flagships of the Spirit’.  

Cathedrals, like all churches, are metaphorical footprints of God in the world: spiritual space set aside to step outside ourselves and our everyday lives, to reflect, to pray and worship, to seek an encounter with the presence of God. When I worked at St Paul’s Cathedral in London, our aim was to enable people in all their diversity to encounter the transforming presence of God in Jesus Christ, whatever that would mean for them; and sometimes we succeeded. A survey of visitors entering cathedrals found that only 10 per cent of them were intending to do something spiritual; but when they came out, 40 per cent of them had prayed, lit a candle, spoken with a priest or gone to worship.  

The authorities in Paris are expecting their visitor numbers to go up to 15 million a year after re-opening. Even Donald Trump and Elon Musk were in Notre Dame. Next time you're near a cathedral, why not go and explore the story?' 

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Article
Creed
Identity
Nationalism
4 min read

Born in Wales, made for more

Does where we are born matter?

Rachel is a reader and writer, a coach, and an educator. 

A boat rests on a mud bank of a river, hills are in the background.
River Loughor, near Llanelli, Wales.
Sean Alabaster on Unsplash.

I know someone who drove his labouring wife several hours, in the middle of the night, to cross the English border so that their child would be born in Wales.  

Though my passport states that I am British, people (especially my sister) tell me that I am unequivocally Welsh. I was indeed born and raised in Wales, a gentle but obvious accent remains as testament, but I have lived in Oxford for almost 30 years compared with only 18 lived in Llanelli.  

What does this mean? Is my identity staunchly based on where I was born? I’m not so sure. 

The same sister is angered by my disinterest in rugby as a Welsh mother of two English sons. One of her first gifts to my newborns was a pint-sized Welsh rugby jersey followed by larger unused versions as they have grown. Whilst watching a match she will unfailingly urge them to participate by sending photos of her two dogs in their Welsh rugby jerseys.  

My sons prefer rowing, climbing and swimming – I am an apparent disgrace!  

It’s not that I am not proud to be Welsh; I am entirely neutral on the matter. I love many things about Wales as well as I love many things about England. In all honesty, I love significantly more about Norway than either of these, even though I have no reason to live there or claim it as part of my identity. If a place were an accurate reflection of a person, Norway would be much closer to the mark for so many reasons.  

There are many things that are particularly special about my birthplace – the countryside is beautiful, without doubt. I cannot tell you how much I miss mountains and hillsides from where you can sit and enjoy all the twinkling lights of a town of an evening. Oxford has its beauty, but mountains are not part of it.  

Wales is truly a place of music and song. Everybody sings and the songs come from deep inside your bones. It’s a very pure and primal sound as mellifluous and unadulterated as honey straight from the comb.  

And then there is the language which is funny and complicated in equal measure. Where else will you find both golff and Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch? 

This brings me to the inspiration for these particular ramblings, which is the word, ‘hiraeth’ (pronounced hee-rye-th).  

It is one of those special words almost impossible to translate. It expresses a particular longing or yearning for a time and place that can never be returned to fully. It includes, but is insufficient, to think about nostalgia. It is a soul word: transcendental.  

Though my childhood was far from easy, there are things for which I feel intense hiraeth – moments with important people; the encouragement of my music teacher; the shovel-sized hands of my grandfather and the belly rock of his silent chuckles; days out cycling with my friend, Paul, and picking out the millions of bones from my mouth as I ate countless impromptu dinners offered by his lovely, generous mother made from the trout that his father had invariably caught a few days earlier.  

Those days will forever be feelings fully alive in me but invisible to others until I share them like this. I wish I could replay them on old cinefilm for others to understand but, you just had to be there to know.  

I have the same hiraeth for so many days shared with my husband and sons, not least the precious days surrounding their births. They’re not tied to places; they’re all bound with love.  

Love has nothing whatsoever to do with my passport because there is no official stamp that says, ‘Child of God’ and yet, if it did how might we each identify? Would nationality matter? Would where we were born be of any consequence at all ? I hope not.  

Sometimes, perhaps often, my hiraeth is for a time gone - before the internet, smartphones and AI, a world without guns and nuclear weapons, where, like William Morris, we had nothing in our homes that were not either useful or beautiful, an era where we ate seasonally and lived in harmony with nature… 

I wish that my children could experience that existence but, despite my longings, I must accept they are made for a different time and place. 

In his writings, C.S. Lewis uses the German word ‘sehnsucht’ to express a similar sense of longing. As ever, I find that his words explain things to me in a way that provides great comfort and challenge as I ponder:  

“If I find in myself desires which nothing in this world can satisfy, the only logical explanation is that I was made for another world.”  

So, perhaps, the best I can say is that I was born in Wales, matured in England, but made for something more.  

How about you? 

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