My friend Judy and I arrived at our Ottawa hotel on a Sunday night about 6:30. Dropping our bags, we dialed a taxi and rushed back out. “Where to?” the driver asked as we settled in the back.
“Notre Dame Basilica, on Sussex Drive.” I said.
I’m Protestant, but Judy’s Catholic – and so is Notre Dame; the only place of worship near our hotel to hold an evening service. Since catching the plane early in the day meant that neither of us had attended church that morning, we’d agreed to go to there.
Once seated in our polished wooden pew, I glanced around in awe. Overhead stretched a cobalt blue ceiling decorated with gold stars, intersected with sweeping arches. Down the length of the sanctuary, twilight gleamed softly through numerous stained glass windows depicting biblical scenes. Multiple statues at the front gleamed too – so brightly, I had to look away.
No one builds cathedrals anymore. Even if it were possible or financially feasible, people can’t concentrate that long on a single project today. The construction of Notre Dame began in 1841 and the work continued for nearly a century. Breathtaking. Inspiring. Beautiful. Stupendous. Vast. No one adjective can describe it accurately. A truly irreplaceable work of art, its grandeur echoes that of the nearby Parliament Buildings. That’s no accident. Built over the same period, the two structures shared artisans.
But we didn’t tour Notre Dame that evening. We’d come primarily to worship, learn, and pray. I didn’t expect to do so easily, though. Not surrounded by such glaring ornamentation. My Protestant faith tradition is far simpler. A less-is-more approach, historically.
After all, we Protestants bear that label for a reason. The movement began as a protest against (among other things) the excesses of our mother church. On October 31, 1517, a monk named Martin Luther mailed 95 statements of protest to his Archbishop. A few weeks later he nailed them to the door of All Saints Church in Wittenberg, Germany. Thus began the Great Reformation, the movement that split wide open the chasm between Catholics and Protestants.
Surrounded by strangers, in a church far too grand for me, I focussed on the words to the first hymn, a hymn of praise, and found it familiar. I didn’t expect that. Nor did I expect to get much from the priest’s homily, preached simply and with sincerity. I did, though. My spirit connected to the familiar words of scripture, and suddenly my surroundings didn’t matter anymore.
I left Notre Dame inspired. Not by the stunning cathedral, but by the enduring hinge that has always connected the Catholic and Protestant traditions: the everlasting God we worship. Throughout centuries, despite differences that will never resolve, that hinge remains. And so, standing shoulder to shoulder with my dear Catholic friend, I joined her in reciting the Apostle’s Creed:
“I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth; and in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord....”
