St Pauls

This is a true tourist destination, it also doubles as a tomb for Britain's fallen heroes, and a lookout.  I begin with this notation, droll as it is, because I believe that places of worship need to be judged by their utility in regards to faith.  We didn't attend a service, and so, we were tourists.

Sydney has a cathedral, St Mary's, and if there was a truth to St Paul's to be found, at least part of it must be that Catholicism really has figured out the flying buttress.

The stain glass windows, the ornate golden filigree adorning scenes of the passion and holy saints are indeed masterfully done.  I do not seek to diminish them, They are without any doubt things of beauty, but they are far from unique.  Instead, I would like to not some of the things that are.

The tomb of Wellington in the undercrypt is the first of these.  Interned in 1852, Wellington's final resting place is a strange sight.  Being so close to a figure who I had read so much about in my teenage years was humbling, what was strange was how little I was moved though.

Perhaps it was the circumstance, a tour was in full swing as Michael and I wandered past.  I suppose that's the true measure of greatness, having your own spot on a guided tour.  When he had been laid to rest the great ceremony had filled every corner of the city.  His heroic officers bore his casket to the site.  The congregation was thirteen-thousand strong, including both houses of parliament, and they recited the Lord's prayer in unison 'like the roar of many waters'.



But now, it was a handful of Americans, and two slightly bemused Australians who forgot to take a photograph of the plaque.  Perhaps all this is an undignified thing for me to say, perhaps it is telling of the human condition.  Who knows?

Working our way upwards to the Whispering Gallery high above the Cathedral's floor, I experienced one of the most peculiar auditory sensations of my life.  Relegated to silent worship above the masses, the priests of the church would communicate around the base of the dome through an ingenious and precise alingment of stone.  A whisper, breathed so softly it couldnt be heard more than a metre away can travel the full circumfrence and be heard perfectly well.



It is such a strange sensation that i cannot readily explain it.  Something akin to, telepathy, or parseltongue or the voice of God speaking to Elijah at Horeb after fire and storms.  You hear it, but don't at the same time.  It really feels as though it occurs in your mind before it reaches your ears. I took a moment to wonder what words must have travelled along that wall, news of great fires, of wars and rumors of wars.  Michael and I couldn't really say anything to do the setting justice, so we settled on hello.

And then we climbed to the summit.  Without a doubt, it is a tall construction.  Depsite this, the view isn't entirely astounding.  I've climbed many heights in my time and for all its grandeur, St Pauls stands now amoungst a city of skyscrapers which dwarf it with plastic and steel.  In a way, St Pauls has been humbled by that, but in that humility it is here to stay.  It probably wasn't what its architects had envisaged, but it is well with my soul.