From Palms to Palm Readers – Part II

The day after my spiritual high at Blessed Sacrament/St. Joan of Arc, Dave, Andy and I did some sight-seeing in the French Quarter.  When we visited New Orleans the last time, the weather was dreary and I was fighting the flu so I missed seeing the St. Louis Cathedral (The Cathedral-Basilica of Saint Louis, King of France).  It is a splendid church, towering over Jackson Square in the French Quarter.  Opened in 1794, St. Louis Cathedral boasts itself as the oldest continuing Catholic community in the United States.  (The current structure replaces an earlier one destroyed by fire.)

A street band performs on a bench across the sidewalk from St. Louis Cathedral.
A street band performs on a bench across the sidewalk from St. Louis Cathedral. (I borrowed this photo.)

What I found the most striking about the cathedral wasn’t the beautiful spires or stone, but the way it seemed to be completely ignored by the groups of palm readers, musicians, artists and magicians who set up shop on the sidewalk  just yards from the grand Jubilee Doors.  And that was the stuff that was readily apparent.

Mind you, the music, like all music you hear on the streets of New Orleans, was good…  and loud!  And the bands I saw did not seem organized, rather more like individual musicians who showed up at the same spot at the same time and began to jam.  No matter how big or small the combo, they all had a bucket or hat to collect donations from the passersby.

Closer to the doors of the Cathedral, palm readers with names like “Mother this” or “Sister that,” had small tables set up with bag chairs on either side so their customers could sit comfortably while having their futures told.

The sanctuary of the The Cathedral-Basilica of Saint Louis, King of France, New Orleans.
The sanctuary of the The Cathedral-Basilica of Saint Louis, King of France, New Orleans.

Stepping through the doors of the Cathedral, the narthex was a transitional space between the noise and confusion of the world outside and the peace and quiet orderliness of Heaven.  Once inside the sanctuary, it was like stepping into one of the old churches I’d toured in England.  Everything God was done on a large-scale, reflecting the omnipotence of the Almighty.

Everyone inside spoke in hushed whispers.  And, except for the step-ladder I later noticed in what I thought was a quality photo of the altar, it was a very traditional Catholic worship space.

I wondered for a moment if the interior of this immense church could rock the way little Blessed Sacrament/St. Joan of Arc did.  At first I couldn’t picture it, but then I remembered, this cathedral was just a building.  The real church was the people outside the doors who gather for worship.  And, if they are anything like the people directly outside the cathedral doors, the potential was definitely there.

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