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Saturday, 2:19 p.m.
Saint Jean-Baptiste Church
76th & Lexington Avenue
I understand as soon as I walk through the door and see the enormous windows on either side of me: stained glass is one form of art that should never be taken out of context. In a museum, it is exquisite but empty. I can't understand it placed in front of a light box with a printed caption tacked below. In a sacred place, it takes on a new dimension; I can almost sense the thousands of faithful who have prayed here, looking beyond the glowing mosaic of color to the Truth that lies beneath.
This church is one of many in the city dating to an era when a church without stained glass was almost unthinkable. Right away, the four huge windows on each side draw me in. The central arch soars into a dome at the far end, with smaller circular windows around its perimeter.
It's very quiet here. (I'm trying to take off my jacket with a minimum of rust ing.) A scattered handful of worshippers sit or kneel in the vast expanse of the sanctuary. I walk to the rows of votives to light one; much to my dismay, I find that they are electric. Little lightbulbs are fastened in the top of the red plastic, and by pushing a button you can turn one on. How convenient.
The windows are a curious mix of biblical and contemporary scenes: "Piux X and Frequent Communion" faces the Annunciation. The former depicts the pope administering wafers and sips of wine to nine small children. The scene is not very realistic—they look awfully well behaved for little kids. I think of the children I've seen in church, the ones who wrinkle their noses or turn their heads and purse their lips when their parents hold them up to the chalice.
The faces of most of the people depicted in the windows are expressionless. It's a relief to come upon a scene charged with emotion: in "The Manna," a cloud hovers near the top of the window while Moses gestures with ferocity toward the ground, where the Israelites, grateful and fearful, gather up the bread. Perhaps he is warning them about taking more than they will use. In "The Washing of the Feet," Jesus bends low over the feet of one of his disciples. He and the disciple are in tent, concentrating on each other. A rapport exists there, but nowhere else in the group.
There are mosaics on the wall under the windows, including one in which Jesus is condemned to death. Pilate is stone-faced, unmoving. "What is truth?" he asks defiantly. His eyes, though, reveal a deeper understanding of what he has tried to get around. "The Wedding Feast at Cana" is next. Jesus points at the jars, and Mary looks adoringly at him: "Do whatever He tells you." Here, as in many of the designs, the people look conspicuously unreal, especially the soldiers in the foreground; their stagey poses detract from the simple power of the design. And there seem to be too many colors in each window, crowding each other, as if the artist didn't trust himself or the power of his medium.
The silence is broken by a man entering the church; he makes a snippy remark to the homeless man slumped in a corner, dozing. I want to ask the scolder what he's here for. When he leaves, I take the dollar that I was going to use for a candle and leave it on the corner of the sleeping man's jacket.
3:51 p.m.
Marble Collegiate Church
3 West 29th Street
Entering this church is like entering a place of business; I have to go to the receptionist and ask to be shown into the sanctuary. She seems unwilling: "I'm sorry, but the man who gives the tours isn't here today." No, I explain, I don't need a tour; I just want to see the stained glass. She still doesn't trust me. Finally, after I'm reduced to begging, she calls the janitor and asks him to let me in.
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