Washington National Cathedral
Recently I was in the USA, speaking at the University of Lynchburg, and then at Washington National Cathedral doing a thing for their Lent programming. Obviously, I asked to climb the Cathedral. Now, the last time I climbed a Cathedral in the USA it was in San Francisco, President Biden and over a dozen world leaders were in a hotel opposite, and I really pissed off the Secret Service. So I obviously thought… why not climb the Cathedral in Washington DC, too??? (spoilers: I don’t think I annoyed the Secret Service this time)
The first thing you need to know about Washington National Cathedral is that it’s not actually the National Cathedral. Unlike the UK the USA does actually (technically?) have separation of church and state, so there isn’t an official national religion, or a national Cathedral. However, just like their siblings in the Anglican Church of England, American Episcopalians are simply filled with audacity, and just started calling ‘the Cathedral Church of Saint Peter and Saint Paul in the City and Diocese of Washington’ ‘Washington National Cathedral’, the name stuck (because it’s way catchier), and people just started holding services of national importance here. This is chaotic as fuck, and I love chaos, so I will be calling it Washington National Cathedral throughout this post.
Despite the audacity present in the name, Washington National Cathedral is still only the second largest church in the USA, and is completely dwarfed by the (still unfinished) Cathedral of St John the Divine in New York - it is, however, more than double the size of Grace Cathedral in San Francisco, and I only had two hours to look round before my event, so we’re not going to be able to look at all of it in this post.
The Cathedral was built between 1907 and 1988, and it is a very decent attempt at European Gothic; in fact, it has a much clearer understanding of the style than many other revivals, but does, of course, fall down in some details. It’s also absolutely packed with stained glass and weird hidden spaces. So let’s get into it!
After a long drive up through Virginia, we got to the Cathedral in the late afternoon, I was shown the chapel I’d be speaking in later that evening, and then we got to looking around.
The Chancel was blocked off with scaffolding due to organ repairs (very expensive), but we walked through the nave, the blue toned stained glass and dimmed lights creating a sense of quiet as the day moved towards evening.
Under the crossing tower there’s a great pulpit, this was the place from which Dr Martin Luther King Jr. gave his final Sunday sermon, before he was assassinated in 1968.
The pulpit itself is a strange object, and speaks to the connection between the American Episcopalian Church, and the Church of England from whence it came. Carved out of stone that was removed during repairs to the the tower of Canterbury Cathedral, it is known as ‘The Canterbury Pulpit’, and I was struck, as an Englishman, by the imagery chosen for the pulpit itself. Textual references to the Church of England run along the bottom of scenes showing English knights and Kings, martyrs of the Reformation, an exhortation from a burning man: “Lord, open the King of England’s eyes”. Strange stuff to find in the National Cathedral in the capital city of a country that famously got rid of the King of England long before this Cathedral was built.
Between each of the panels were carvings of men - the one that struck me the most was that of John Wycliffe, a theologian, translator of the Bible, and reformer, who now has a Church of England Theological College (priest training school) named after him, but who is, otherwise, a fairly niche figure.
The pulpit was surrounded by a movable wooden platform, and though I did crawl underneath it, the light down there wasn’t good enough for any photos of the floor beneath, or of the carved legs of the pulpit itself.
Also in the nave is the grave of President Woodrow Wilson in what is, vibe-wise a decent approximation of a Medieval Cathedral aisle chantry chapel, with carvings reflecting his heritage and interests, the presidential seal on the floor, and a chest-tomb between two columns, straddling the aisle and the main body of the nave.
Keeping to the south side of the church, there’s also a gorgeous little side chapel called “the children’s chapel”, with a mini organ, small chairs, and a wonderfully carved ceiling that’s been lowered, deliberately, to create a child-sized space in the vast cathedral.
You access this little space via another side chapel, and just beside the doors to enter there’s a statue of the child Jesus, his hands reaching out, polished gold by all those people who instinctively reached back.
As you move around you’ll notice that this is a Cathedral with a LOT of stained glass - over 200 windows - but there’s one window that’s unique in all the world.
Look up! There it is! Do you see it yet? Look closer…
There, in the centre of this window celebrating the wonders of space, is a fragment of rock from the moon. It peers down at us, the circles of clear and dark glass surrounding it seem to turn this piece of the distant moon into the pupil of a great winking eye, watching over us all from the stars.
But you can get photos of all these spaces and famous details anywhere. Let’s abandon the standard tour, and get to climbing!
Being built much later than the medieval Cathedrals I tend to climb, the Washington National Cathedral has a lift. I thought this was cheating, but up we went. Exiting the lift we took a slight turn, and I saw a locked door. “Does that go to the clerestory?” I asked. A nod. “Can we go?” I asked. Another nod. A rattle of keys, a turn around a corner, and suddenly… open space.
I sometimes forget that it is unusual to be as familiar with such spaces as I am, and found myself laughing as Nathan, chaplain at the university, who’d come along for the climb, cried out in surprise as he turned the corner, and was faced with the vastness of the space.
We were stood on the small balcony in the west wall, the cathedral spreading out before us. Above our heads, the rose window, the painted details in the glass now visible at such close proximity.
The balcony was wide, and didn’t require any careful shuffling, so along I strode, through another doorway. Up one or two steps.
Around another corner, through another door.
Into the clerestory, the highest passage in a cathedral nave. I was so excited, because it’s rare to be allowed in clerestories in the UK, the passages are incredibly narrow, and often without barriers, meaning so you have to be in harnesses and sign paperwork, and promise in no uncertain terms that it’s not anyone’s fault but your own if you die.
Up here the weak light from the setting sun cast sparks of colour across the light stone, and the nave spread out before us, the elevation symmetrical and repeating, arch upon arch upon arch.
It is unusual to have stained glass in a clerestory, as it limits the light coming into the building, but close up, these windows were riots of colour. I can imagine, on a bright day, the splinters of light they throw go much further, painting the plain cathedral stone with wondrous colour.
Edging along the clerestory, the rose window in the west wall becomes more and more visible, shining out over the balcony we’d just passed along, those fine painted details once again lost to a pixelation of distant colour.
Edging along the clerestory, the rose window in the west wall becomes more and more visible, shining out over the balcony we’d just passed along, those fine painted details once again lost to a pixelation of distant colour.
Here the passage turns, and you can peer down into the north-east triforium, where the organ renovations are going on, the gleaming pipes half-standing under the renovation’s bright lights.
In an attempt to make the scaffolding prettier, they’ve printed some faux-stonework on it, which looks strange and out of place, especially from above - but it’s nice to see the building being cared for.
We pass below even more stained glass, the windows older, with more classical designs than those in the nave.
Here, the transepts each boast vast rose windows, just like the one in the nave. In fact, the one to the north is actually larger than the nave window, and is the largest in the cathedral! Let’s go and stand under it, and appreciate the scale!
So it’s along the walkway again, slipping through the little openings in each pillar, then around a tight corner. The metal railing turns to stone, here, and behind our backs the the enormous north rose window rises up, the bottom sections full of deep reds.
Opposite us, the south window, it’s cooling blues a balance to the north, the glass glowing in the dim and partially lit cathedral.
We linger here a moment, taking in the views. There are no visitors, now. Not this late in the evening, and the only sound is that of workmen, clattering about the organ space to our left, their hi-vis figures tiny and diminished below us.
Then onwards, around another corner, up a short flight of stone steps, and out, into the open air. The grey skies of DC in February gathered overhead, almost blending with the stone.
We’re looking out from a strange little balcony, a passage along the outside of the walls. The tile underfoot is slick with the slime of old rainwater. Careful now, as we retrace our steps along the transept, but this time on the outside of the building.
Now the central tower looms into sight, crowned with scaffolding. Don’t worry, we’ll climb it soon.
We’re on the western edge of the north transept roof, here. with wonderful views over the great west towers as they shudder up, pinnacle and buttress, to a grey and rain-soaked sky. Somewhere over there is the famous Darth Vader grotesque. (I feel like I must inform you now, if you’re here for that… you will not see it.)
Step along the edge of the roof, just a little more, and the flying buttresses which so define the silhouette of this Cathedral line up below, reaching up and out, like outstretched arms, bearing the weight of the walls and roof, channelling it along their strong curved archways, and then down, into the earth.
Up here there are a few carvings, though less than on some highly-decorated medieval churches I’ve climbed in the UK. Here’s a little friend, as an example.
There are also a lot of pinnacles, but many toppled during a great earthquake in 2011 which did huge amounts of damage to the Cathedral. Repairs are still ongoing, and up here the work of the Cathedral masons is clear to see, with rising spurs of clean new stone, and the raw and waiting shapes of broken pinnacles, ready for new stones to be laid.
Let’s head back along the roofline, and inside, onto a wooden walkway above the vaulted ceiling.
Here, inside the north transept roof space, where, in an older structure there would be wood, the great concrete roof structure soars overhead, like the ribs of a whale. To the north, the inner wall, never designed to be seen, reveals the secret brick structure of the Cathedral, hidden almost everywhere else by skins of stone. It’s like being consumed by a strange beast.
Like many hidden parts of Cathedrals, the mess of construction is evident here, with plans changing before my very eyes. Even new Cathedrals aren’t immune to a blocked and re-opened archway or two!
Then on, into the central tower itself, The first floor is a great empty space with doors on all four sides, and in the corner a spiral stair, exposed, and reaching up into the darkness. The only light here trickles through a few high windows, with a wash coming in from the south, where the masons work, high up in the roof. One doesn’t impose on a Cathedral mason without invitation, so here is but a shadowy glimpse into their world.
To the east, however, is another locked door. Behind it, the roofspace, similar to the last, but so vast that the lights, concentrated by the door, don’t reach all the way to the east, leaving it shrouded in darkness.
I scrambled around the wood barring the way, and stepped onto the back of the vault, it’s hard to understand the incredible scale, here. So here is an image Nathan took of me, as I began my journey into the darkness, careful to keep to the centre of the ridge.
The vaults kept going, on and on, metal girders skimming overhead. It made me wonder at how much I was missing down below, blocked off, as it was, by the organ repairs. I’ll have to come back another time. But until then, let’s walk above the opulence, in the naked chaos of things.
After a while the vaults changed, curving and colliding to create the apse, and turning, I saw how far I’d come, alone, in the darkness. I paused for a moment, crouched on the concrete, and stared all around me, taking it in, before returning the way I’d come.
Through the door, and back into that strange central space, and the staircase was calling through the darkness… But here, too, there is a lift, and my guide leads us into it, pushing the button for the middle floor.
The door opened to a ringing room, with views over the south aisle, with finished and unfinished pinnacle repairs in bright stone, shining even under grey skies!
The windows of the room have views across DC, with the Capitol and Washington Monument just visible, in the distance.
The great west towers are visible, too, monopolising the view along one wall.
Some of the Cathedral bells are above our heads, there’s ten of them, apparently. But I am told I cannot go and see them for some reason or other. I accept this when I am told that, instead of going to see the bells, I can finally (finally!) climb a spiral staircase, so even though we’re going down, it’s time to climb!
To the bells!
Yeah. Not THOSE bells. The OTHER bells.
This Cathedral is unusual in having both a peal of bells, and a carillon. So we’re going to see the 53 bells that make the Cathedral Carillon, made in Loughborough, about ten miles from my home, and well over 3500 miles away from Washington DC. It’s strange, how close home can become, when you’re halfway up a Cathedral on the other side of the Atlantic.
The bells are hung in a great cage of girders, and as we descend the spiral staircase, it looms up in front of us, vast and weighty, the wind whipping through the open sides of the tower, ready to carry their song into the world.
The Cathedral carillon is vast and heavy - in fact, it’s the third heaviest in the world, with the largest of it’s 53 bells weighing 12 tons.
The carillon is a strange instrument. It has, at it’s heart, a small room, built in the centre of the bell cage. Inside there is a keyboard, which is used to play the bells. Each press of a key causes a hammer to strike a bell in order to produce a sound, and in this way, tunes can be played. The room is locked today, but we can still peer through the windows and get a glimpse at the heart of this great instrument.
Now we’ve seen (some of) the bells, let’s take one last look at those famous west towers, wind pouring through the open tracery.
And now let’s descend, returning, for a final time, to that strange nothing-space in the centre of the tower. We’ll head west this time. Along the nave.
Now, normally, spaces above the vaults of a church look like the things you’ve just seen. Roof beams, girders in newer builds, some kind of walkway, or a balancing act above the tops of the vaults. This was different.
Ascending the steps and stepping through the archway you’re suddenly surrounded by dry wall, white paint, a corridor lined with store rooms. Sensible, I thought. Churches are always in need of storage space, I thought. And then I went through the door at the end of the corridor. And my brain exited my head and dribbled down onto the floor, alongside every expectation I had about the space in a Cathedral that sits between the top of the nave vaulting and the underside of the roof. Because here, hidden inside the roof of Washington National Cathedral is… a cinema?? A theatre??
There’s a light rig, rows of plush chairs, a projection room?!
I expressed my confusion to the priest who was tagging along for the climb. “Sometimes we’ll have Chapter meetings in here”, he said. “You do know that’s what a Chapter House is for, right??” I said. He just shrugged.
To him, it was his every day experience, and having a secret cinema hidden in the roof of a cathedral was perfectly normal. He and Nathan began to move on. I stayed, staring, alone, as my medieval expectations reformed around me, and I was reminded, in no uncertain terms, that despite the architectural style, this is, in fact, a Very New Building. And that meant having mod cons. Like Elevators… and Cinemas hidden above the vaults.
I made my way out, looking back, again and again, trying to sear the strange place into my memory.
Then, as suddenly as the whitewashed cinema appeared in the cathedral, it was gone, replaced with stone walls, winding passages, and leaded windows. this sudden transition made it all the stranger, I think.
Looking back through one of the windows, I could see the central tower, and the great span of roof which hid that cinema beneath it’s typically gothic-seeming lead, and I realised I’d never be able to look at this stretch of roof the same way again.
This is the great glazed section above the west doorway, but below the west towers. Apparently, before the Pandemic, there was a café here. I like that idea. The views across the city are beautiful from up here, and the hidden nooks and corridors, lined with windows, make it a truly romantic space.
Currently, however, it’s unused, and almost desolate. Forgotten chairs in an otherwise empty space.
Once again, in a climb, I am stymied by time. Evensong is coming up, and so we cross to a lift, and descend to the ground.
Down here I am led through chapels and aisles, the size of the place becoming apparent once more. In every corner there’s a new sight, and not enough time to photograph them all. There’s only time to stare.
On the way to the chapel for evensong we take a moment, just a moment, to sneak past a media event, under some velvet rope, into a chapel designed to look older than the rest of the Cathedral; a valiant attempt to create the accidental eclecticism of the ancient and constantly-rebuilt Cathedrals of Europe.
Behind the chairs and cameras and abandoned coats of an ongoing event, tucked in the corner, is a memorial to Matthew Shepard, and an exhortation for peace.
I think of him, as I head to evensong. Of what it means, to be queer in this space. Of what a privilege it is to live as myself. As the choir sings I pray for him, for my friends, for us all, in such divisive times. And then, in a small room, hidden in the bowels of this place, I stand before a crowd of strangers, open up my book, and begin to speak.
