Church hill

I recently attended a service in Belleville. I admit to not being a regular church goer but I am interested in the icons and mythologies of various faiths. I was late arriving for the morning funeral service at St. Michael the Archangel and, with the mass already under way, I slipped into a pew under a piazza about midway up. A soprano voice travelled through the crisp acoustic of stone and marble and wood of cathedral architecture. I began to study the details and amidst the solemn atmosphere found myself contemplating sacred spaces.

I thought about the lives of those who laboured; the artisans, men and women whose hands gave shape to this place of worship. Design, symbolism and interpretation of faith are worked into every detail. Architects, stone carvers and masons, woodworkers, stained glass artisans and metal smiths brought skill and devotion to beauty of expression.

The five-storey vaulted ceiling, supported by oak beams, is held high by silent marble pillars, 12 in number. Each support is topped with a stone-carved gargoyle-like rendering of an apostle. Piano and voice transcend the crevices; incense drifts on high; priests, choir girls and boys in liturgical gowns; a pyramid of devotion candles huddles in a corner; a bath of holy water shines in the day.

As I observed the high mass, my thoughts carried me to a less ornate but equally distinct place of worship I once attended; a Cree First Nation tepee on Moose Factory Island in James Bay. It was here that I began to realize ceremony in an individual way. It was a place I somehow felt the deceased, Tad Duff—to whom the St. Michael service was devoted—would also have appreciated.

The liturgy of the Cree celebration was focused on humankind’s inter-relationship with all things living: Divine nature. While on a much smaller scale than the cathedral, the details of the tepee were executed with the same care and reverence as those invested in St. Michael’s. The artisan know-how that formed the tepee is rooted in ancient, pre-Christian times. The ‘pillars’ of the structure are poles often shaped from the tamarack or beech tree. At the time the poles were originally harvested, a prayer and offering were made honouring the sacrifice. Setting up the tepee, the key support poles aligned with the four directions of the earth and also symbolize the seasons. Each of the additional poles is named for a family member; grandmother pole, grandfather pole. A flap door opens to the dawn and has an icon placed over the mantle conveying sanctity.

The tepee, serving as both domicile and place of worship, while also portable, is fashioned with each element holding distinct meaning. Inside, a cushion of evergreen boughs are placed as a floor. A number of stones, especially chosen, form a circle at the center of the structure.

The circle contains a small fire and while the fire serves utilitarian purposes—cooking, heat source, curing, drying—it is also a center for storytelling…for prayer. The role of ‘keeper of the fire’ holds high esteem as the fire circle denotes the spirit in all.

Drumming, chanting, incantations rose through the space and gathered with the fragrance of smudging sweet grass. All of it rounded with the smoke of the fire before lifting through the peak vent to greet the Great Manitou.

The bell of St. Michael’s now tolls from the steeple for the consecration part of the Catholic service. “The deep-toned sonorous bell, which cost I am told seven hundred pounds, and was brought all the way from Spain,” author Susanna Moodie wrote in the mid-19th century, “was purchased with the voluntary donations of the congregation.” Ms. Moodie went on to say that the “bell, remarkable in its fine tone, can be heard eight miles into the country as far as the village of Northport, eleven miles distant, on the other side of the bay.”

The ceremony now over, I am slow to leave. Everywhere are inscriptions and dedications. Finally I step out into the sunlight and draw down my hat. I take in the view from ‘church hill’; the light and shade of downtown Belleville’s rooftops; the Bay of Quinte distant. Next to me, a towering birch tree grows from a snow bank. Its shadow leans against a backdrop of limestone walls.

I head across the parking lot and over to the church hall to take part in a convention that surely unites all beliefs. Food. The sandwiches were egg salad; some ham; all delicious. There were plates of pickles and olives and cherry tomatoes and cheeses. And desserts: I openly confess to eating the last date square.