There's something strange we believe, very deeply and without being told to believe it: that some earthly things, especially the most beautiful and beloved and ancient, are permanent. We believe it so deeply that we mistakenly assign to the manmade what is actually true about man.
Stand beneath the towering columns that seem to weigh more than all the planets, and we mistake their heaviness, their oldness for the eternal. A single tumbling stone would be enough to crush us. We mistake our vulnerability, our fragility, for fleetingness.
Our hearts break when our deepest desire, for something eternal, is confronted, shaken with the truth that all things pass away. It's unsettling, remembering that nothing remains.
But the breathtaking stone and glass - and I really mean that, the sight is literally breathtaking - they were always meant mostly to teach us not about the marvels of history or man's imagination or his capacity for beauty, but the marvel of man himself.
You are more enduring than vaulting stone, more exquisite than stained glass, more precious than centuries of labor. A thousand dazzling cathedrals could not equal the splendor of your existence.
Deep down, I think we sort of believe an ancient cathedral is more than any single man. But man is the only cathedral that endures forever.
We should let earthly beauty capture us, move us, pierce us. That vaulted stone, those impossible windows, the bells, the candles, the organ that melts your limbs—they are among the most powerful teachers.
And sometimes, we should even let the slow crumblings and sudden losses of earthly beauty sadden us, because it opens up a great and trembling truth: All things pass away. God never changes. God alone suffices.
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