“I don’t believe in a guy upstairs. I believe in us.” ~ Suzy Eddie Izzard
Every day before school, my grandmother got us up early to attend the 7 am mass at St. Joan of Arc, on Areba Avenue— a church which was literally across the street from us. Fortunately, it was only a short half hour service which allowed me to then bolt home, inhale my oatmeal, slap a sandwich together for lunch, and then hoof it to high school before the 8 am bell. Yes, I was a teenage werewolf.
Despite my inattentiveness to the ceremony, I truly enjoyed being in this beautiful space. If I wasn’t dozing off, I was taking note of the art in this church. Morning light streamed into the floor-to-ceiling stained glass windows bursting with colored fragments, scattering light everywhere and illuminating the white marble interior. At the head of the church the floor-to-celing tesserae behind the altar bounce soft and warm light into the space. At the back of the church above the vestibule, the choir and massive pipe organ are framed with an enormous panel of Saint Joan being perpetually knighted by The Madonna and the arcangels in heaven.
Imagine seeing this gorgeousness every day before breakfast. Photo by Christine Chardo.
Every day— dazzling. Breathtaking.
And inspiring. Not every church features a sainted female warrior. I always thought she was kind’ve a badass.
Other highly-realistic and near life-size Carerra marble sculptures of saints are placed in prominent spaces around the church— the most logical one, crucified over the altar on a contrasting green marble cross. On close inspection, these marble statues appear to have translucent skin and bone, soft worn surfaces where many people have touched them.
The Stations of the Cross, recessed in the walls just below the enormous windows, are depicted in bas reliefs and are truly marvels. Part illusion and part clever engineering, the small carved surfaces create believable pictorial space. When I could sit in an aisle next to one of these, I’d study the careful marble carving the entire service and would get elbowed by my brother when I’d forget to stand up, sit, or kneel.
Other bits of the Catholic experience appealed to my budding apprecation of theater— the golden embroidered vestments, the frankinsense, the shining golden accoutremonts, the weird hats, and the solemn pageantry.
My feelings are clear: I love the art of this church but am reminded of how much better my life is without the Catholic religion and its beliefs. I imagine that there are as many Jewish atheists who feel a similar pang for the beautiful ceremony and meaning within the Judaic traditions while eschewing the dogma. And I can continue to carry its inspiration and allow its influence into my work despite the fact that it was constructed for a religious purpose. Human artisans made it with their heart and hands and gave it to others in a spirit of love and wonder.
The formal entrance with a larger-than-life figure of Joan d’Arc with her broadsword.
If you are ever in Hershey, PA, I’d encourage you to stop in St. Joan’s and sit for a few minutes and take in the beauty of the art of this mini-cathedral.
