La Madeleine

La Madeleine stands at the head of Rue Royale in Paris’ 8th Arrondissement. Fifty-two pillars enclose the stone sanctuary, and its outer walls are either covered in soot or freshly cleaned (the church has been under renovation for four years). The renovation came as a surprise to me as I sat in a dramatic silence on the expansive “porch.” Silent, so much so that the man beside me who dropped his book slanted his mouth apologetically to the few of us sitting in admiration.

Aside from my restless, young years of obligatory church services, I’ve always loved churches. How slow visitors walk, often with their hands folded behind them. Everyone whispering; everyone wandering. All the little, purposeful openings for light. Elaborate floral stained glass windows. People close their eyes and wonder about their struggling friends or simply those they love.

So when my dad asked me to join him this year for an Easter service down the street from my parents’ home in Charleston, South Carolina, I smiled with a “sure” in response. I wore one of my mom’s springtime dresses, frilly around the edges and printed with pink and white lilies, and my dad wore a dress coat in 80-degree weather.

We found an open pew on one of the two balconies looking over the small wooden church. Women in pastel-colored hats, overflowing with faux flowers, and men, all variations of the same, nestled into creaky Southern church pews—the ones that resemble animal pens from above.

We sat. We stood. We sang. All the while, I folded and unfolded the day’s bulletin, by the end a handheld, accordion fan. I couldn’t believe how seriously my dad participated, singing raspily to every hymn and even wiping a tear during prayer. The pastor was saying something about South Carolina’s marsh mud, that without being one of God’s children, one sinks in the heavy thick, clay-like, dark brown mud made up of decaying matter.

Time came for communion and my heartbeat quickened. I watched as people wearing crosses herded lines of people from their empty benches and then back to their purses and perfectly flat bulletins. It was terribly small, the church, everyone bumping into each other and the air tight. Where were the tall ceilings?

A man with a basket of twenty and fifty dollar bills tapped my shoulder. But I didn’t stand. My dad looked at me with semi-embarrassed eyes but didn’t say anything. I appreciated this. I sat alone. I debated if it even mattered. It’s just a stale wafer and some wine.

After my row returned, I stood up and excused myself for climbing over crossed legs and bags on the floor. I reached the hands of a man who looked at me with strange eyes. He handed me the wafer, and the wine was warm and sweet.

I felt better; I don’t know why. Maybe because my dad seemed happy or maybe because that mud felt further from me. The whole scene bothered me for months.

Today, I woke up wanting to go to a church. The desire surprised me, but Paris hosts some of the world’s most impressive. I chose La Madeleine partly because it reminded me of the pastry and partly because I loved Madeleine Lost in Paris when I was little.

I found a chair among the hundreds of empty wooden ones. And I eyed all my favorite features– candles in daylight, heads gazing upward, mumbling lips in prayer, and all the golden luxury. It felt so nice, the distance between me and the others. I imagined how many stacked chairs it’d take to reach the frescoes above.

I was back in a familiar space of curiosity, what I have always understood, or wanted, religion to be for me. Churches have always felt to me like imaginative places; letting myself believe in all the grandeur, the painted scenes, letting myself believe someone is listening.

Small churches and small minds should not define one’s imagination–ones with room for thinking should. Where there’s room.