At eleven o’clock, the first rays of sunlight are striking through the grey veil of clouds upon Canterbury Cathedral. It is the eleventh of November—a hundred years to the day since the Armistice was signed that marked the end of World War. When the distant trumpet call of the Last Post dies, we stand together in uninterrupted silence for two minutes. As we thousands stand silent in the Nave of the cathedral, it seems strange to me that there is no one alive today who was alive to see its end.
On Saturday morning, I gathered with the other students at the gates of the Lodge for a tour of the cathedral. As we passed beneath the Great West doors, our guide pointed out the ghost of a crucifix above the west door. “A reminder,” he said, “of what we have lost.” He was referring to the dissolution of the Catholic Church in 1538, when the king’s men destroyed any traces of the saints and stole valuables from the tombs here. Yet in a way, the entire cathedral bears that same reminder of what has been lost to time. For almost a thousand years, since it was built in 1077, the centuries have shaped the very existence of this sacred space.
This cathedral has seen history unfold. It has seen the Archbishop Thomas Becket martyred for his faith in the twelfth century, seen the steps to his shrine warped by the tens of thousands of pilgrims who paid him homage. It has stood as the Black Death raged across England, as the Wars of the Roses were fought, as the dissolution of the Catholic church in 1538 brought ruin within the cathedral walls.
Rather than create a patchwork, the layers of history integrate in seamless imperfection. Built on the foundations of a Norman church, the white stone to build the cathedral was imported from Porridge, France, to Sandwich, England, and then transported up the river to the city of Canterbury (anyone else find the town names amusing?! I did).
The contrast of architecture is evident even in a single glance at the exterior of the building. Original Romanesque architecture, with round arches, thick walls, and sturdy lines of pillars, make up the eastern end of the building. The western side, which was expanded during the English Transition to early Gothic architecture, is designed with vaulted ceilings, arched windows, and grand spires that look like lace.
In the twelfth century, the Quire was built over the medieval Crypt. In the thirteenth century, an Italian tile was built over the shrine of Saint Thomas Beckett. Medieval-period glass survived until the fourteenth century, when they were installed in arches in the Nave. The fan vaulting of the chapel ceilings dates to the sixteenth century, and an intricate gold podium in the Quire was added in the nineteenth century.
Recently, they chose to restore the ceiling of the Crypt’s east chapel, to pain the letters “M” and “J” in rich bold reds, as they would have been when the pilgrims came to pray. Elsewhere, the faded paintings in the south Crypt chapel are fading to almost nothing; a sign of the tension, the dichotomy, between the old and the new. There is a place for both in this space of remembrance.
The cathedral itself might be a reminder of what we have lost, but it is more than that. It is a reminder of what we have, and are yet to have. There are stories written in every corner, on every stone. Even the beautiful medieval tapestries, faded though they are, reflect the beautiful interdependence of art as a way to remember our past. The illustrations of miracles in the stained glass windows, the faded paintings upon the wall, even the graffiti carved by pilgrims upon the grave of Thomas Beckett—all of these are enduring manifestations of the past, like the arches and spires that raise the eyes heavenward towards the Lux Aeterna, the eternal light. Here in Canterbury Cathedral, I catch a fragments of the eternity of heaven. The cathedral is the beating heart of this city, and the heart of this city remembers.
