Raised as a devout Catholic up until the time came for me to get confirmed it was a little unnerving walking into mass on Sunday. I mean the last time I had actually attended a service other than for a special occasion (i.e. baptism, wedding, funeral) hadn’t been since I was fourteen. It wasn’t because I had felt guilty for not attending in ages but the sensation that I was suppose to be there. That sentence feels odd to say coming from somebody who in no way considers them self to be religious. Although raised to know the word of God I had always felt fortunate that my parents never forced me into thinking or believing a certain way.
At first I associated this feeling with the size of the building, St. Paul’s enormity is overwhelming. The detail in the columns; the narratives engraved on the façade made me just want to sit there and take pictures for hours. Required to take countless Art History courses, St Paul’s had been mentioned countless of times and described in so many ways. Seeing it for myself finally, in some ways put all the pieces together.
… to be continued