Like many Americans, I’ve not been terribly fond of Emmanuel Macron. He seemed to be a technocratic leader who has managed to hold the presidential office in France for the past seven years strictly faute de mieux—for lack of a more acceptable, or less alarming, alternative.
But Macron and his administration have just made a gift to the whole world this Christmas with the successful restoration of Notre-Dame de Paris, one of the greatest and most venerable of Europe’s medieval cathedrals. Notre-Dame was severely damaged by an enormous fire of mysterious origin on April 15, 2019, a catastrophe that sent shock waves through France and around the world. Notre-Dame’s destruction struck many observers as a potent symbol of the dying West, and the moribund state of Christianity. Making matters worse, it was by no means clear that this iconic shrine could be rescued and brought back from ruin without radical and hugely expensive reconstruction. In secular France, such a massive expenditure would not be an easy sell. Macron insisted that the work be completed within five years, a time frame that appeared unlikely.
Predictably, the project became engulfed in intense controversy. Leftists and Yellow Vest populists deemed it a waste of resources and a luxury project for the elite classes—especially for the two billionaire businessmen who made large initial contributions (amounting to 300 million euros) to the project. It seemed obscene to spend so much on such a “useless” project, when the same funds could go toward the alleviation of pervasive social inequalities. Even those favoring the restoration were fiercely divided. Some wanted to treat it as an imaginative architectural experiment, which could include an extensive and startling modernization of the structure. One such design would have transformed the roof of Notre-Dame into an educational greenhouse, with the spire functioning as an apiary.
Eventually the controversy settled down, and the work went ahead, aimed at a restoration of the status quo ante. On the weekend of December 7, more or less on schedule, the great cathedral was opened to the public, looking brighter and more magnificent than it has in centuries. Comparisons were made to the recent restoration of the Sistine Chapel, another aesthetic cornerstone of the West, which had freed the vibrant colors of Michaelangelo’s original frescos from the veil of soot and wax that had covered them for centuries. In both cases, restoration amounted to something much more than a reset. It was like the beginning of a new life.
Macron gave an emotional speech during an opening tour of the cathedral on December 7, thanking all the workers who had made this feat possible. The next day, he spoke with equal passion to a sanctuary packed with an assemblage of world leaders, including President-elect Donald J. Trump. In both speeches, Macron’s manner was uncharacteristically stirring and uplifting, and not only because it was a political triumph for him. Though he spoke of the restoration as a “national” achievement, he clearly understood that it represented more. It was a glorious affirmation of the West—as well as its Christian roots—in the face of all the forces arrayed against it, including its own lapses in self-confidence. At a time when so much about the future of the West seems uncertain, Notre-Dame’s restoration was a powerful morale boost—a Christmas present to us all.
How did the success of this project, and the perpetuation of Notre-Dame, come to mean so much to so many, including those who are not Catholic, Christian, religious, or even French? How did we come to think of this building as part of our common life?
One might well ask similar questions about Christmas itself. Think of all the features of the holiday, from the shared meals to the shopping and gift-giving to the Christmas trees and decorations in homes and public places to the lyrics of familiar Christmas carols: these ornaments are among the precious few commonalities of our otherwise fragmented and centrifugal culture. It is easy to see why some decry the gaudiness of the season as a colossal waste and a diversion from the true meaning of Christmas. And they have a point. But these features of the holiday embody good things we still share, tokens of hope and joy and delight in our common life. They also carry forward a common knowledge, packed inside them like hidden cargos. We do not want to give them up. Nor should we.
The common knowledge embedded in Christmas shows itself in popular stories like “A Christmas Carol,” and movies like Miracle on 34th Street or It’s a Wonderful Life. They prepare the way for the development of a distinctive moral sensibility, even in those not preparing themselves for such an eventuality. Santa Claus performs this function, too. He may not quite be what the theologians would call a “figure” of Christ, but he offers us an early glimpse of what it means to live in a world charged with moral meaning, in which justice and charity are brought together and redemptive love is recognized as the most powerful force in the universe.
Some Christians decry Christmas and its material excesses as a betrayal—a substitution of comforting idols and “Christian civilization” in place of the rigors of the faith itself. They may be right. But we should not be too quick to demand more of our neighbors than they (and perhaps we ourselves) can deliver. That approach lacks in generosity, even if those who champion it imagine themselves to be faithful tellers of hard truths. Surely a better way is to be thankful for the blessings one has, to seek to restore and cherish the beauty of ancient and consecrated buildings, and, in the words of the transformed Ebenezer Scrooge, to honor Christmas in our hearts and try to keep it all year.
Yes, we live in a corrupt world. When has it not been thus? And yet we are embodied creatures, whose frailty means that we stand in need of familiar things that we can see and touch: our homes, our towns, our families, our countries, our customs, and our culture. This includes our beautiful old cathedrals, into which we cannot step without feeling the upward pull of God’s love, as well as a horizontal communion with history. And we cannot step into Christmas without feeling in ourselves the warmth and gladness that surpass understanding, along with an unaccustomed kindliness, and a sense of communion with those around us.
These material things are not everything, but they are a good beginning for coming closer to everything that matters. So thank you, France, and thank you M. Macron. Joyeux Noël.
Top Photo by DIMITAR DILKOFF/AFP via Getty Images
 "Instead of a holiday rush, some passengers prefer to travel on Christmas Day")
