Remain in My Love: A Visit to the National Cathedral

National Cathedral in Washington DC (Source: WikiCommons)

When I was a seminary professor, I started something of a yearly pilgrimage with my students. It wasn’t a long pilgrimage; nothing like the Canterbury Trail in England or the Camino in Spain. We simply went up the street to the National Cathedral here in Washington, D.C. In class lectures and readings we had already engaged some of the great medieval thinkers: Anselm, Bede, Julian of Norwich, Bonaventure, and, of course, Aquinas. We had also engaged the social history of Christendom, a widely misunderstood period of immense depth, ingenuity, and creativity. After all of this, we went to the Cathedral and it was there that I took my church history students on an immersive experience with the medieval worldview, using the sixth-largest gothic cathedral in the world as the ultimate teaching tool.

Most of us know the National Cathedral as a place of national gathering for both celebration and times of grief. It is at the Cathedral where we pray for presidents at their inauguration. Additionally, it’s where we hold many of their funeral services years after their presidential tenure at the White House. The Cathedral is, however, more than just a place to pray for presidents. And, in fact, it’s more than just a place for national gatherings. Some people have yet to realize that it is the cathedral church of the Episcopal Diocese of Washington, and therefore the seat of the diocesan bishop, Mariann Budde. It’s also—uniquely—the seat of the Presiding Bishop of the Episcopal Church, currently Michael Curry, but soon to be Sean Rowe. It rightly describes itself as a place of prayer for all people. But this article isn’t just about the National Cathedral as a contemporary institution. The reason that I took my students there is the fact that the Cathedral, like gothic architecture around the world, is one of the best examples of theology in stone.

I was reminded of this on a recent visit to the Cathedral with a friend here in Washington. He is discerning the priesthood and we have started to meet on a regular basis to discuss some of the books of the late Archbishop of Canterbury Michael Ramsey as my friend continues to explore God’s will for his life and vocation. We had a few hours of unexpected free time and he had never been to the Cathedral, so we went up Mount Saint Alban in the Northwest quadrant of the District to explore it.

The foundation stone of the Cathedral was laid in 1907, witnessed by Teddy Roosevelt and over 20,000 people who had gathered to celebrate the launch of this great national church. Like the cathedrals of old, the National Cathedral was built east to west, starting with the easternmost crypt chapel, now the Bethlehem Chapel, which was finished in 1912. By the 1940s, the high altar, choir, crossing, and transepts were finished. And it was the visionary dean Francis Bowes Sayre, Jr., who insisted that the 300-foot Gloria in Excelsis Tower over the crossing be finished before continuing with the Nave in order to inspire continued support for the project. This was finished in 1964 and to this day can be seen across the region. Just a few years later, Gerald Ford and Queen Elizabeth II were present for the dedication of the nave in 1976. Finally, the last pinnacle stone of the western façade was placed, and the Cathedral finished, in the presence of George H. W. Bush in 1990. Any visit to the Cathedral will include this sort of information—and even a sighting of the Darth Vader gargoyle—but it is the theology of the building that keeps drawing me back time and again. Cathedrals like this one speak.

And so a few days ago, my friend and I started our tour of the building like so many others at the western façade. This is not the front. The front of any cathedral is the east, not the west. The front is where the altar is, i.e. where we meet Christ in the sacrament of the Eucharist. But we have to enter the building and that takes place in the west. Like other cathedrals, the National Cathedral’s western façade is quite daunting, and it’s meant to be that way. It’s a bulwark, a wall of defense, against the forces of darkness, and a means to escape them. And so it’s impressive, unmoving with its twin towers dedicated to the saints for whom the cathedral is named, St. Peter and St. Paul.

The National Cathedral’s western façade is unique because unlike so many earlier cathedrals that included scenes of the final judgment above its main doors—saying, essentially, get in here and escape what’s coming—the National Cathedral begins with the creation, the tympanum above the three doors showing the creation of light and dark on either side and the creation of humanity in the center, ex nihilo. The renowned artist Frederick Hart created these beautifully moving carvings. Together with the creation rose window above, they set the overarching tone of the whole building; the story of God’s creative work and its ultimate redemption in Christ.

Entering a cathedral is itself a theological act. This is more pronounced in cathedrals without electrical lighting, where the stained glass determines the light of the space. In these cases, one leaves behind natural daylight and enters a space illumined by windows that tell the story of God’s renewing work; in other words we have to adjust our vision to God’s vision to see where we’re going. In the case of the National Cathedral, there is still an adjustment as one enters the nave, a soaring space with its multiple levels of stained glass on either side of the ribbed vaulting above. Spaces like this have multiple purposes and multiple levels of meaning. For one, anyone who enters a space like this is reminded of how small they are and how immense God is; this is his house after all and he transcends it. The transcendence of God encounters us in this vastness. And yet at the same time, the immanence of God embraces us in the details, the cleansing waters of baptism, and the real presence of Christ in the Eucharist. The altar is the highest point on ground level.

But entering the nave is also entering the story of God’s redemptive work. The clerestory windows—the highest windows along both sides of the nave—tell the story of God’s work, beginning with the creation in the west and moving through the stories of the Old and New Testaments along the nave toward the crossing. Helping us to grasp the narrative more fully, the bosses—decorative keystones in the center of the ceiling’s rib vaulting—represent the key phrases of the Nicene and Apostles’ creeds, highlighting creation, incarnation, crucifixion, resurrection, and ultimate triumph.

I would be remiss not to mention the lower middle windows, or triforium level, which in the National Cathedral do not tell a unified story but highlight the work of men and women throughout history who have glorified God. These include windows representing the founding of this nation and even the now famous Moon Rock window, a celebration of space exploration with a rock from the moon in the window itself, brought back by the Apollo 11 mission.

But getting back to the theology, we’ve entered the nave and we’re walking toward the crossing and the choir with the high altar is coming into greater view. The pulpit is on the right, older than the building itself, a gift from Canterbury Cathedral and built out of stone from that ancient foundation. Carved into the pulpit are scenes and figures important to the development of the English Bible including Alfred the Great, who gave his people the Ten Commandments and the Lord’s Prayer in their own language; Wycliffe, who translated the Bible into English in the 14th c.; Andrewes, who was a leading figure in the development of the King James Bible; and Westcott, who led efforts to produce the Revised Version in the 1880s. The lectern on the opposite side has figures representing the authors of scripture itself, including Moses, David, Luke, and Paul among others. But in order to enter the choir and what is properly called the sanctuary we must move not only up a few steps but also through something called a rood screen.

Roods and rood screens are wonderfully medieval. They mark out the most sacred portion of the building, but they’re also designed so that we can look through them into that sacred space. On rood screens—and this is true of the National Cathedral—are saints and angels, those who point us toward the sacred, and above on the rood (meaning “beam”) is a crucifixion scene, Christ in the center and Mary and John on either side. The rood is a statement of the lengths that God will go to reach us, to redeem us, and to overcome sin and death. And we must move through it, both physically and theologically, as we approach the altar where we meet the crucified and risen Christ.

One unique feature of the National Cathedral at this point—just as we’re entering the choir—are carvings of angels, all of their ranks from angels and archangels to virtues and dominions, cherubim and seraphim flanking the archway that stands above the crucifixion scene on the rood below and the entrance into the choir. We are moving toward the altar and each time I see these angels I’m reminded of Charles Wesley’s beautiful description of angels seeking to understand how Christ is present in the Eucharist:

How can heavenly spirits rise
By earthly matter fed,
Drink herewith divine supplys
And eat immortal bread?
Ask the Father’s wisdom how;
Him that did the means ordain
Angels round our altars bow
To search it out, in vain.

And now we’re in the choir, with the high altar before us. The choir often contains a choir, but the term is meant to describe the area with its parallel rows of seating in front of the high altar, where the clergy also sit. And in this case, we have cathedra, or the bishop’s throne, thus the name “cathedral.” One of the National Cathedral’s cathedra comes from Glastonbury Abbey, or the ruins of it, an abbey that by legend was founded by Joseph of Arimathea in the first century.

But before us stands the high altar. The reredos is behind it, spanning the width of the eastern wall of the Cathedral and containing statues of 110 figures from scripture and church history. And yes, John Wesley is among them just up and to the right of the altar itself. At the center, though, is Christ in majesty, carved from lighter stone to appear illuminated at all times. The altar came from the same quarry as the stone used to build Solomon’s Temple. And inlaid in the floor before the altar is stone from an ancient chapel on Mt. Sinai. But the theological reality of our journey is that we have come through the story of God’s redemptive work and have now encountered the One who makes all things new. We’ve moved from creation, to fall, death, resurrection, and now new creation. The windows above the reredos depict Christ in majesty at the center flanked by windows of his crucifixion and resurrection. Two 65-foot sets of windows on adjoining walls depict the ancient hymn, Te Deum Laudamus, a hymn of praise to God that describes the entire creation’s eternal worship.

Yet I’ve left out one important aspect of the Cathedral, and most gothic cathedrals around the world, and that is the fact that the building itself is shaped like a cross. In the case of the National Cathedral this is highlighted even more by chapels adjacent to the choir and high altar, one dedicated to St. John and the other to St. Mary, thus re-creating the crucifixion scene already towering above the crossing on the rood. Just knowing that the building is shaped like a cross is insufficient. The medieval designers of these structures would have seen this as a more profound reality, one of entering into the cross itself. Coming out of the world and its darkness, we enter into God’s light, we are baptized in the redeeming waters of baptism, we live into the story of God’s redemptive work, and we encounter Christ in the sacrament of the Eucharist, and all of that is made possible in and by the cross, God’s ultimate act of selfless and eternal love.

The God who created all that is, who is existence itself, light, life, and love itself, has made it possible for us to know him, to experience his love and his redemption by becoming one of us, redeeming our reality, our lives, and then dying for us that even death is overcome by this One who is love. This is what it means to enter into the cross. And I’m reminded of Christ’s words, “remain in my love.” This is what the whole Cathedral points to, this is what it was designed to do. By God’s grace, that is our calling as well. Sometimes it takes a gothic structure towering over the capital of the United States to point us to it once more. 

Ryan N. Danker is the director of the John Wesley Institute in Washington, DC. He is also Assistant Lead Editor of Firebrand.