High on a hill in the central part of France a great church overlooks farmlands, villages, woods, and streams that sweep around it and away to the world beyond. It is the Abbey of Vézelay, built in the twelfth century. Here the Second Crusade was preached, and famous kings assumed the cross.
Passing beneath the portico into the cathedral, one stands mute, breath held. This is no brooding monument to time, enclosing space in gloom. There is no dim and cavernous imperceptivity here, nothing autocratic, fearsome, and remote. In this great edifice, space is infolded by white pillars that soar into a seeming eternity of light.
Simplicity rests tranquilly upon the altar. And, over the portico, a loving Saviour, sculptured in stone, recommends, beseeches, entreats, and inspires the activity of love among his followers.
