On Morningside Heights, in the City of New York, on ground consecrated by the blood of our forefathers in the War for Independence, stands a trinity of institutions which represent with singular completeness the three-fold nature of man: Columbia University, which ministers to the Mind; St. Luke’s Hospital, which ministers to the Body; and the Cathedral of St. John the Divine, which ministers to the Soul.
This little book is designed to assist visitors to understand the meaning and purpose of the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. Some such aid, either written or oral, is needed, for a great cathedral cannot be comprehended in the glance of an eye. Certain features, such as its magnitude and general beauty, are obvious; but inwrought with these is a wealth of meaning which is the soul of the Cathedral—the real Cathedral—and which reveals itself only on intimate acquaintance. When Ruskin called Amiens Cathedral “The Bible of Amiens,” he used a figure of speech applicable to all cathedrals. The Cathedral of St. John the Divine is “The Word in stone.” It is a sacred book, written in massive pier and ponderous arch, in sculptured marble and carved oak, in stained glass window and inlaid mosaic, in embroidered fabric and woven tapestry, whose pages are full of delight, inspiration and help for those who will take the trouble to read them.
The Cathedral performs its function as a place for the praise and worship of Almighty God in two ways—statically in the grandeur and beauty of the temple, and actively in the services held within it.
Like other great cathedrals, St. John the Divine first impresses by its size. Its magnitude is not only becoming to its rank as the chief church of the great Diocese of New York and necessary for the accommodation of large congregations, but it also has a spiritual purpose, for it gives one the feeling of something bigger than one’s self and of a Power greater than one’s own. “The Cathedral gives me a feeling of humility,” said a man to Bishop Greer one day. “When I go in,” said a college girl to him, “I forget myself.” And a man whom the Bishop met in the Ambulatory said to him: “If I came here regularly, something about it,—its size, its spaciousness, its loftiness, its great receding Choir—something about it would compel me to be a churchman.”
The Cathedral is designed also to praise God in the glory of its Beauty. Ruskin, in “The Laws of Fesole,” says that “all great art is praise.” Here we have the three great and enduring arts of Architecture, Sculpture and Painting (the latter as yet only in stained glass,) combined in a wonderful Te Deum of Beauty. For centuries the great cathedrals of the world have been the caskets of certain kinds of art—or, rather, of certain kinds of expression of art—not elsewhere to be found; and in this respect the Cathedral of St. John the Divine fills a place in our American life which no secular building can fill. In the beauty of its general form, in the beauty of its detail, in the beauty of its symbolism, and in the record of human achievement in godly living which these express, the Cathedral stirs the most reverent emotions and creates the noblest aspirations.
But these silent though eloquent physical features are only adjuncts and helps to the active expression of praise in the Cathedral Service. In this, the impressive rites of the church and the congregational participation are aided by music brought to a high degree of perfection, and the preaching from the pulpit aims to interpret the Christian religion in terms of the practical every-day life of to-day.
In short, the Cathedral endeavors to employ all that is beautiful and majestic in Art and Service to bring God closer to men and to draw men closer to God.
Those who live near enough to the Cathedral to be able to attend its services frequently can appreciate the words of a man who lived most of his life in one of the great cathedral towns of England, and who said:
“I account it one of the greatest blessings of my life, and a circumstance which gave a tone to my imagination which I would not resign for many earthly gifts, that I lived in a place where the cathedral service was duly and beautifully performed.... If the object of devotion be to make us feel, and to carry away the soul from all earthly thoughts, assuredly the grand chaunts of our cathedral service are not without their use. I admire—none can admire more—the abstract idea of an assembly of reasoning beings offering up to the Author of all good things their thanksgivings in a pure and intelligible form of words; but the question will always intrude, Does the heart go along with this lip service? and is the mind sufficiently excited by this reasonable worship to forget its accustomed associations with the business and vanities and passions of the world? The cathedral service does affect the imagination and through that channel the heart.”
While the Cathedral of St. John the Divine is a Protestant Episcopal Cathedral, its ministrations are not restricted. “Our democratic age,” said Bishop Henry C. Potter, “demands a place of worship that will not disregard the teachings of the Founder of Christianity. In this Cathedral there will be no pews, no locked doors, no pre-payment for sittings, no reserved rights of caste or rank, but one and the same welcome for all.” And what Bishop Potter prophesied when the Cathedral was first planned is literally true to-day. The charter of the Cathedral requires that “the seats for worshippers in said Cathedral Church shall always be free;” and the Cathedral welcomes everybody to its services, irrespective of denominational affiliations, nationality or worldly estate. The Cathedral also welcomes those who belong to no denomination. Its appeal to the latter was particularly contemplated when Bishop Potter said: “The person in the period of suspense as to certain fundamental beliefs needs something larger, higher, wider and roomier, more impersonal for the time being, than the parish church.” It is hardly necessary to add as a corollary of the foregoing that there are no “strangers’ pews” in the Cathedral; and nobody, however unaccustomed to the Cathedral service, needs to feel any timidity or hesitation about attending. The large proportion of men in the Cathedral congregations is particularly noticeable.
In its present state of incompletion, without Nave and Transepts, the capacity of the Cathedral is taxed to the utmost by its ordinary congregations, and on special occasions thousands are turned away unable to enter. The completion of the Cathedral is therefore imperative; and this is so for more than denominational reasons, for the many notable special services held during and immediately following the late war already foreshadow the position which it is destined to occupy as a great Civic and National Institution. The Board of Trustees recently said: “The city requires a religious edifice where people can gather together in large numbers to express in a corporate way their religious promptings and to find spiritual interpretation of great events.” Such were the gatherings,—to mention but a few instances,—on the occasion of the Kossovo Day service June 16, 1918; the thanksgiving for the withdrawal of Austria from the war November 10, 1918; the thanksgiving for the cessation of hostilities November 17; the thanksgiving of the twelve Liberated Nationalities of middle Europe November 24; the great Thanksgiving Day service for victory November 28;[1] the rendering of Gounod’s “Death and Life” December 1, 1918, and Dvorak’s “Requiem” March 30, 1919, for all who died in the war; the memorial service of the 107th (including the former 7th) regiment April 27, 1919; the Lusitania memorial service May 7; the New York Letter Carriers’ memorial service May 25; etc. People rarely think of the English cathedrals as belonging to the Church of England or of the French cathedrals as belonging to the Roman Catholic church. They are regarded as belonging to everybody. And such, it is believed, is the place which the Cathedral of St. John the Divine will occupy in the minds of the people of the city and nation.
The symbolism of various details of the Cathedral will be mentioned hereafter; but it should be said here that the Cathedral as a whole is a great and wonderful symbol. “The religion which is inwrought with all the history of the American people,” said Bishop Potter, “stands for certain lofty ideals of truth, purity, honesty, loyalty and self-sacrifice. Every ideal must have some visible expression or symbol, and this ideal of our religious faith from the very nature of it demands expression, incarnation, visible and material utterance worthy of its majesty and grandeur.” And the Trustees not long ago said: “New York is the chief city of the Western World. It impresses the imagination at every turn by visible evidence of the power and splendor of material achievements in American life. Such a city should be dominated by a building which, in its greatness, dignity and beauty, bears witness to those spiritual forces without which material achievement is valueless because soulless.”
This ever-changing city also needs the Cathedral as an evidence of stability. Business structures and apartment houses rise and disappear in a generation under the exigencies of the city’s growth. Even parish churches give way under this seemingly irresistible pressure. There is consequently little upon which to fasten permanently one’s memories, affections and historical traditions. Amid the changes and uncertainties of human life, man instinctively looks to the Church for something of permanence—something after all to which he can fasten his faith and upon which he can anchor his hopes. The Cathedral of St. John the Divine, resting in its massive solidity upon the ancient rocks of Morningside Heights, gives an idea of firmness and stability in contrast with the fleeting changes around it and symbolizes Eternity as nearly as anything erected by the hands of man can. It will stand for unmeasured time as an eloquent memorial of the best and noblest of human effort and will serve as a visible bond to bind together generations of high endeavor. “A cathedral,” said Dean Robbins in a sermon on December 17, 1916, “is a symbol of continuity of life through the ages. It is a reminder of the relatedness in which men stand not only to one another but also to those who have preceded them, to all that is still memorable in a not quite vanished past.” And looking to the future he spoke of the meaning of the Cathedral to coming generations when it should have become adorned with associations growing like ivy over walls made venerable by time. “Perhaps they will be greater memories, more glorious associations, than our best hopes can now forecast.... Who can tell what the hidden, wonderful, all-possible future may have in store for our Cathedral, what hopes and purposes and sorrows and rejoicings will receive their consecration within its slowly aging walls?”
THE EXTERIOR OF THE CHOIR, CHAPELS AND CROSSING, LOOKING SOUTHWEST
(Choir School at left)