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
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