Christie Purifoy
12 min read ⭑
It is September. The humidity has finally blown out in a gust of rain, and the sky is like a blue china plate over our heads. My husband, daughter and I step into the cathedral through the grand front doors. Yesterday, we toured the whole of Washington National Cathedral, even climbing up and down and across the central tower that houses the bells and a carillon. I am afraid of heights, but my daughter is about to turn 14. As her birthday gift, we joined a rigorous tour of a real Gothic cathedral. Today, we have brought our sore legs back to the cathedral for a Sunday morning service of Holy Eucharist. I am wearing a long dress that matches the sky. My daughter is dressed as she always is these days. She looks like a dark gray cloud filled with rain.
The special interests of middle-aged parents and their teenage children don’t often intersect. My daughter is an artist and is drawn to the dark aesthetic of goth style. She wears a cross necklace layered with other jewelry, but there is nothing polite or pretty about the cross she has chosen. It is large and heavy and lies on her small, pale neck in a tangle of black beads. I only rarely wear jewelry, my favorite color is pink, and I dress like the traditional, East Coast writer I’ve become. You might say my aesthetic style is the opposite of goth, yet I am drawn to medieval religion, history and church architecture. Yesterday, my daughter and I both admired the stained glass and carved limestone. The gargoyles offered us a rare moment of shared delight. We kept catching one another’s eye, and my daughter’s eyes were bright blue and sparkling.
Julia Kadel; Unsplash
Returning to the cathedral this morning for worship was my idea, but my husband and daughter didn’t require too much convincing to join me. This is our cathedral weekend. “After all those stairs we climbed yesterday, we’d be crazy not to have the full experience!” I tell them, and they agree. We’ve driven down from our home near Philadelphia, and although we live only two hours from D.C.’s Cathedral Heights neighborhood, my husband and I haven’t visited in many years. We know that no matter how much we enjoy ourselves and how short the drive, it could be a long time before we return. Best to make the most of being right here, right now. I pick up my pace, hoping for three seats near the altar. Back home, our usual church pew is right up front, not quite the front row, but nearly.
When we finally sit down, we crane our heads in unison as if some architectural string is tugging our eyes up and up toward the faraway ceiling. It is impossible, sitting here and feeling suddenly so small, not to think of heaven and earth and all the space in between. Will anything we do down here bridge that distance this morning? Would it have been just the same spiritually if we had stayed in our cramped hotel room to read our Bibles and pray? Back home, in our familiar pew, we are at least known. Here, we are tourists. My whole life I have heard Christians insist that the church is not a building. So why did I bring us here?
Us and Them
Some words are complex structures built over hundreds of years, and like a flying buttress, they hold back a powerful tide of history. Gothic is one of those words. For the ancient Romans, Goths were barbarians to be despised and feared. In A.D. 410, the Visigoths, or Western Goths, sacked the city of Rome. Within a few decades, tribes like the Goths and the Vandals controlled the western realms of the once-dominant empire. If we call someone a vandal today, we are, in a sense, speaking the us and them language of refined Roman citizens. During the Renaissance, people first applied the word Gothic to medieval culture, and it was not a compliment. Today, you and I might use the word barbaric, but in 1550 an Italian architect chose Gothic to describe medieval buildings he found inelegant, and the derogatory term caught on. But like all tides, the tides of fashion come in and go out, and the 19th century witnessed a craze for all things medieval. Heavy Gothic architecture became the preferred backdrop for dark tales of ghosts and monsters and young heroines desperate to flee the grim burden of the past. It should come as no surprise that young people then and now are drawn to the Gothic’s disruptive themes. Perhaps more surprising is the enduring entanglement of Gothic style with Christian worship.
The church my family and I belong to shares many architectural features of a Gothic cathedral, though on a much smaller scale. Predictably, it was built in 1875, several decades after “Frankenstein” and two decades before “Dracula.” If these stones could speak, I do not think they would tell ghost stories or monster stories, but I know they could tell at least one tale of that sacred symbol so beloved by medieval Christians: the unicorn. When my daughter was 5, she developed an outsized love for unicorns. Delighted with her delight, her father and I gave her a unicorn horn crafted in fabric and glittery string and secured to a headband that we’d found at the church jumble sale. The next Sunday, I followed behind as she walked to the altar rail to receive Communion, horn held high. I saw how our pastor struggled not to laugh as he placed the bread in her upturned palms. Later, as I shook his hand in greeting at the church door, he said with a smile, “I’ve never given Communion to a unicorn before.”
Born to Create
My daughter inherited her artistic sensibilities from me, and I inherited them from my father. I know what it’s like when parents and children have different yet strongly held aesthetic tastes. When I was about to turn 7, I asked my mother for pierced ears. She told me to ask my father, and his no caught us both by surprise. A year later, I begged to be excused from wearing a dress to the Sunday evening service at our church: “Dad, none of the other girls wear dresses to church on Sunday nights. Can I please change into blue jeans?” My father’s no came as less of a surprise this time. When I shared this memory with my youngest sister, she looked aghast: “What? Dad made us wear dresses on Sunday nights?” And then she reminded me she had been given pierced ears for her sixth birthday.
I knew my youngest child would be an artist from the time she turned 2. When she could barely hold a crayon in her small fingers, she managed to find a black Sharpie marker and leave her permanent signature all over our wooden floors. After that, she was always scribbling. Her three older siblings only needed to be told once not to color on walls or floors, but this child — no matter how often we scolded her — could not seem to stop leaving her creative mark on every surface of our old farmhouse. These days, she no longer paints on the walls, but she has begun painting herself. Through makeup and jewelry and thrifted fashion, she has become her own aggressively creative art piece. She is beautiful and startling, and her appearance does sometimes make me uncomfortable. Our sons once joked that Dad is yes and Mom is no, but somehow our usual roles have reversed. When I give our daughter permission to wear a faux nose ring — hoping that will dissipate her desire for the real thing — my husband almost contradicts me. Noticing the new jewelry, I watch as he opens his mouth before slowly closing it again without speaking. “I told her she couldn’t wear the fake piercing to church,” I whisper to him as she leaves the room. I try to sound confident, but I know we are both wondering if we should draw a line with this daughter who seems so determined to color outside of them. Should we have more rules for her? Should we speak up about our discomfort? And, of course, beneath these questions, is the question so many mothers and fathers in so many generations have asked: “Am I a good parent? Will my child be OK?”
Portraits and Prayer
I was standing in the middle of the Gothic Room at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston when I first realized my daughter’s preferred style might hold as much reverence as rebellion. The Gardner Museum is idiosyncratic and eclectic, mirroring the enthusiasm, energy and disparate interests of its Victorian-era creator, Isabella. There are few labels; I relied on earbuds and an audio tour downloaded onto my phone. The room lacks chronological organization; a society portrait by John Singer Sargent faces a gilded medieval icon. And the art is arranged in surprising, apparently irreverent and sometimes witty ways. In one palatial room, I studied a painting of Mary and the Christ child in which Mary caresses the infant’s bare foot. On a nearby table, I noticed a marble sculpture of a very small foot. Isabella always intended to share her art collection with the public and built these rooms for that purpose, but she kept the Gothic Room and the small chapel that leads into it private during her lifetime.
“Soon they are lost to sight, but I do not feel like a tourist heading home. I feel only like a woman who is glad she has been given another opportunity to sit with her family in church.”
In a museum filled with surprises, the Gothic Room still stands out. It looks and feels like the great hall of a medieval castle, bursting with precious domestic and devotional objects. Covered in carved wood paneling, it is the darkest room in the museum, yet the one where light seems to play the most important role. I was standing in the spray of sunlight that flowed through a Gothic limestone wheel window when I noticed Isabella’s own portrait in the corner. In Sargent’s depiction of her, she is dressed completely in black, but the patterned cloth behind her head seems to bestow a halo. Her bare arms shine like moonlight in that dark room. The audio tour in my ear advised me to bend over to study the medieval painting that sits on a table facing the painted Isabella. In a corner of the piece, the long-ago artist depicts his patroness kneeling in prayer. She wears a black robe trimmed in bright white that shines like Isabella’s clasped hands or my daughter’s pale neck when she bows her head to pray in church. The audio tour that buzzed in my ear explained that the chapel just outside the entrance to the Gothic Room is a consecrated space. It includes kneeling benches, and museum visitors are invited to use this place for prayer. Isabella’s direct gaze from the corner seemed to echo the tour guide’s invitation, but I was too self-conscious to bow and pray in the museum.
Gathering
Communion is the reason I always prefer to sit up front in church. When I am near the front, I am among the first to go forward to receive. When I return to my seat, there is still the entire congregation moving forward at my elbow. Perhaps it is because I watch them from the side and from behind; perhaps it is because I am not distracted by familiar faces, but it always feels as if a river is flowing by. The river is one thing, one movement, but it is made up of mothers carrying infants and children skipping and the slow-moving steps of those with gray heads and bent backs. This river gathers everyone up as if in a swift current but then splashes out when a small boy races ahead of his father’s reach. It coalesces around the slow tread of a woman I know is recovering from a stroke and a man who uses a cane. Every Sunday, this varied stream, in all its unity and diversity, moves me to tears though I have never quite known why.
I packed away the unicorn horn in a memory box years ago, but I often remember my daughter as a unicorn when I receive Communion. It’s almost as if I can still see her tripping toward the altar rail just ahead of me, wearing that healing horn Christians long ago identified with the cross. When I cup my palms and hold them out, I remember her small hands and feel that we are all such small, needy creatures, after all. It doesn’t matter whether our brown loafers are freshly polished or our hair is dyed some wild color, whether we are tattooed or scarred, or whether we wear a suit or a sports jersey. It doesn’t matter if we feel we belong or call ourselves an outsider: with our hands out, we are all owning up to our hunger and our thirst. We are asking — almost begging — to be fed. Like my artist daughter with her faux nose ring, I am skilled at creating an image of myself and presenting that preferred picture to the world. Still, there is something about joining a gathering, something about kneeling, something about holding out my empty hands, that always seems to drive a crack right through the carefully applied veneer of my self. We were made to reflect our Father’s glory so brightly it would make a unicorn look dim, but our potential has a shadow side, and any one of us can behave like a monster from Gothic horror. We are all barbarians, in one way or another, but we are dearly loved.
Holy Eucharist at the cathedral is grand but familiar. The processional torches carried by two young women are carved from dark wood that reminds me of the Gothic Room. They look impossibly heavy, and I am amazed that such small arms can hold such impressive light. The words of the liturgy are mostly known to us, and we sing the same beloved hymn we sang only a few weeks ago at our home church. My younger daughter has a quiet voice, but I can still hear it just beneath my husband’s deeper one. We sing together:
Praise to the Lord, the Almighty, the King of creation;
O my soul, praise Him, for he is thy health and salvation:
Join the great throng,
Psaltery, organ, and song,
Sounding in glad adoration. —Joachim Neander, “Praise to the Lord, the Almighty,” translated by Catherine Winkworth
When the service ends, three people seated behind us greet us. They look about the same age as my parents, and each wears a badge pinned to their formal church clothes. When I lean in to study one, I see the badges mark them as members of this cathedral community, ready to answer any questions a visitor might have. While my husband chats with a couple, I speak briefly with the elderly man seated directly behind me. Shaking his hand, I watch as his eyes seem to fill with tears. “Your daughter is very beautiful,” he says. I nod and smile, but he presses my hand harder. “I hope you know how beautiful she is,” he insists. It seems to matter a great deal to him that I see what he has seen.
As we walk back down the grand front steps, our child pulls ahead, and my husband tells me about his conversation: “The couple behind us were really taken with her. They wanted me to know that she dresses exactly like their granddaughter. Apparently, she’s artistic, too, but she doesn’t like to come to church with them, and when she comes, she doesn’t behave very well. The woman kept saying, ‘Your daughter is so reverent. Thank you for bringing her to church.’” My husband and I marvel together. We had each carried reservations about our daughter’s all-black ensemble and creative makeup. Is it appropriate for a cathedral? I had worried. Now it seems as if the worshippers behind us saw only a halo.
As we begin our drive home from the cathedral, I notice a text on my phone. There is a photo, and when I open it, I recognize an older friend from our church. This friend raised her own children in our church, and now her children are raising her grandchildren there. It’s the kind of generational legacy I pray for. “I missed you at church today!” I read. In the photo, my friend is holding up an edgy black jacket. It might be leather, though it is hard to tell. It has a unique asymmetrical shape. I keep reading: “I was volunteering at the church thrift store this week, pricing incoming items. When I saw this jacket, I immediately thought of your daughter. Do you think she’ll like it? Do you think it will fit? If so, I could give it to her next Sunday.”
“I think it looks like a perfect fit,” I text back. “Thank you. We will see you next Sunday.”
While my husband drives, I crane my neck to look behind. I can just see the very tops of the cathedral’s towers. Soon they are lost to sight, but I do not feel like a tourist heading home. I feel only like a woman who is glad she has been given another opportunity to sit with her family in church. Next Sunday, I think, we will gather with those who know us and again with some we’ve only just met. We will “join the great throng.” It will be like stepping into a river and allowing it to carry us. In that river, our differences will be cherished and also — somehow — erased. Praise to the Lord.
Christie Purifoy is a writer, gardener and photographer who loves to grow flowers and community. After earning a PhD in English Literature from the University of Chicago, she traded the classroom for Maplehurst, an old Pennsylvania farmhouse. She is the author of the memoirs Roots and Sky and Placemaker, as well as Garden Maker, a book of garden essays and photographs. Christie hosts the Black Barn Garden Club, an online community for gardeners of every level, and each Wednesday she joins her longtime friend Lisa-Jo Baker on the Out of the Ordinary podcast. Together with many others, they also gather at the Black Barn Online, a virtual space where art and faith can take root and grow in community.