I was prepared to love the restoration of Notre-Dame in Paris. Creating a pathway around the perimeter of the cathedral to introduce the great stories of Scripture to those unfamiliar with the faith seems an excellent plan; it will provide an informative and enlightening experience for tourists and visitors. Meanwhile, highlighting the direct pathway from the baptismal font to the altar in the center of the church makes a strong statement concerning the living Catholic tradition. A church is not a museum. It is a place where the Christian people gather to celebrate the sacraments of Christ. The liturgical act stands at the core of a church building’s whole reason for being. The Second Vatican Council affirmed this when it said that the liturgy is “the summit toward which all the activity of the Church is directed, and the font from which all her power flows.”
Therefore, the liturgical furniture—font and altar, ambo and chair—is not merely a cluster of sacred objects among many other treasures of the cathedral. It plays a primary role because it is essential to the unfolding of those events that make the cathedral what it is. Knowing that the liturgical furniture of Notre-Dame would be newly designed, my expectations were high. Unfortunately, they were disappointed.
Let’s start with the font. It is a pedestal font, large enough to immerse an infant, but without capacity for the immersion of adults. Immersion baptism is not required, of course, but it is the fullest expression of the liturgical sign. The absence of this option is particularly unfortunate given that France is currently experiencing a boom in adult baptism, even as infant baptism continues to decline. The restored catechumenate was first pioneered in Paris in the mid-twentieth century. Its use is now growing in France again, not only among immigrants and their families but also among native-born French whose parents did not baptize them in infancy.
The font has a cover. This is a practice with an unhappy origin. In the Middle Ages, covers were added to baptismal fonts to keep people from stealing the water for magic. Most renovated churches that place the font near the entrance expect the faithful to bless themselves with the water from it. This is a beautiful gesture, and children are especially enchanted by it. What a shame that you cannot do this at Notre-Dame.
The platform on which the font stands is roped off, so that no one can get close enough even to touch it, much less touch the water in the basin, which is blocked by the cover. By cordoning off the space where the font is situated, the area takes on the aspect of an art installation, rather than a liturgical space.
The font’s cover sports a wavy design, created, I presume, to suggest flowing or churning water. Visually suggestive but, alas, phony. It is also puzzling because it would have been so easy to design a font in which the water actually flowed, if that’s what you wanted (I am not sure it’s always desirable but it’s certainly possible). Furthermore, there is a small silver cross affixed to the top of this ill-considered lid. It is a mini symbol. In contrast, there is no paschal candle, which is a major symbol—marked with a cross at the Easter Vigil—that typically stands at the font throughout the entire year (aside from the Easter season).
Moving on to the altar, I was astonished to discover that it too is cup-shaped—a half-circle with a flat top—situated on a platform three steps high, so it’s not accessible to those with physical challenges. Made of bronze, it certainly is weighty. But it enjoys no relationship to the rest of the building. Like the font, it seems to have dropped in from somewhere else. This altar is not the axis mundi. It is a visitor from outer space. I say this with all due respect for the saints’ relics contained within it and the profound beauty of the ceremony by which it was dedicated.
The website of the Archdiocese of Paris explains that the artist who designed the furniture, Guillaume Bardet, is interested in “the forms and uses that are the ferment of our humanity.” This is both vague and basically secular. The same text asserts that his creations achieve “a timeless character.” But is this liturgical furniture timeless? Clearly not. It is most definitely modern art. The baptistery “embodies circularity,” the artist’s website tells us, “allowing visitors to move effortlessly within its space.” (Well, not quite effortlessly, since the raised platform on which it stands is not accessible.) I was left wondering whether circularity, as such, is a value. It seems to be for the artist, as the altar too is a semi-circle. But what is this meant to convey?
Bardet’s website also reveals that “[t]he ambo, characterized by its distinctive capital T shape symbolizing freedom, was the initial concept that took shape within his vision.” Does a T shape symbolize freedom? If so, this is the first I’ve heard of it. As any liturgist can tell you, a “symbol” that calls up no natural associations isn’t a real symbol.
There is a lot to admire about the restored Notre-Dame Cathedral. Its brightness illuminates the stunning medieval architecture, its devotional spaces are pristine, and its overall pastoral plan and liturgical layout have been strengthened. Nevertheless, a tension exists, and you can sense it in the absolute disconnect between the liturgical furniture and everything else. Dwarfed by an immovable and inappropriate relic of the past—Nicolas Coustou’s late seventeenth–century pietà flanked by statues of Louis XIII and Louis XIV around the old high altar—the new sanctuary furniture associated with the central activity of liturgy feels like a strange visitor in a space where it ought to be most deeply rooted.
