Grace Cathedral, San Francisco

Climbing a Concrete Cathedral 5000km from home

Have you ever climbed a concrete cathedral under the watchful eye of a US Secret Service sniper? Do you want to? Well then, join me on this brand new Cathedral Adventure (and be warned, it’s a long one!)

Sat overlooking the Pacific Ocean, a full 5000km from my usual stomping grounds in the UK, Grace Cathedral in San Francisco is a concrete confection of truly silly proportions. Perched on the top of a hill, the Cathedral is the length of an entire city block, and with it’s attached school and offices, takes up the entire width of the block too. I was told that on the rare occasions they have to call emergency services, they have to send four volunteers to stand at each corner of the block, to flag them down and point them to the exact location of the emergency, because the address is just… the block.

I was in San Francisco to preach at Grace Cathedral, and then read some poems, so I spent my days in the rafters and roofs of the cathedral, and my evenings on the ground floor - so I apologise for the lack of that bright San Franciscan light through the windows in those ground floor photos. I had better, stranger, more dangerous, things to photograph during the day.

Before we begin to climb, however, indulge me in a short explanation of the main quirks of the cathedral:

Firstly, the orientation: The cathedral is rotated 180° compared to a standard church floorplan. This means that the high altar is geographically west, and the main entrance and nave are geographically east. In order to make this work in my church-addled brain, I will be using Liturgical Compass Directions throughout this post, this means that whichever end of the Cathedral contains the altar high altar is East, and all other directions stem from that. Keep this in mind when we see the north aisle covered in solar panels (because it actually faces south).

More importantly, we musth note and explain the building material (concrete), and the ceiling. Or lack thereof.

San Francisco is fairly earthquake-prone. In fact, the fires that swept the city after the 1906 earthquake destroyed the previous Grace Cathedral (built in 1862), and a few decades later, a mass fundraising effort for this enormous new iteration was announced.

The cathedral is entirely concrete, with the architectural details cast in. It’s an impressive fusion of brutalist texture and gothic shape.

This was partially to do with costs, and partially to fend off earthquake damage.

The ceilings are made of great concrete ribs, with tiles filling in the voids, here you can see the ribs, lit up before my event, with the finished chancel roof behind:

On the left, you can see a small patch of tiles, starting out over the crossing, and then abandoned. I was told, when I asked, that, yes, this open ceiling is partially to do with costs, but also that, when they were putting the tiles in, there was an earthquake, and some fell from where they were working, down into the church. A dangerous incident that made finishing the ceiling an easy thing to cut, when they were making cost-saving decisions.

This open ceiling makes for a very, very, interesting climb, so let’s get deep into the hidden passages of this strange place, and see what there is to see!

First, there’s some staircases, narrow passages, neon lighting, rough bunker-like concrete walls - very different to the carefully polished walls and columns down below.

Then, as always on these climbs, a doorway, a rattle of keys, a crack of natural light filtering in from the cathedral’s vast windows.

We’re above the north aisle, here. To the left, the open ribs of the ceiling; to the right, little slits in the wall open out to the individual triforium balconies; ahead, the rest of this corridor, disappearing off into the strangely repetitive gloom.

Let’s start our exploration by doing my favourite thing to do: Looking down…

Here the open ribs of the unfinished ceilings become framing devices for the cathedral below, the bright modern glass of the windows like jewels amidst a sea of concrete.

Moving to the right, the slits of light from the triforium balconies beckons. Unlike in most cathedrals, this isn’t one long passage, but separate sections, each bay with its own individual balcony, looking out over the nave.

The bright light of the Californian sun shot shards of brightly coloured light across the bare concrete, and to the west, the rose window glimmered in polychromatic glory.

Heading east along the passageway, dipping in and out of the shafts of light, each of the balconies offered a different view.

Until there, peering around the corner, was the crossing, and the end of the line. The passageway ends here. There’s only a triforium level in the nave. If we want to go further east, we must go up.

All the way up, above the vaulting.

So it’s back along the corridor, and one last look east, before we’re back through that tiny door, and heading up…

Up we go, step by step - there’s a brief moment outside, but that external exploration will come later, for now all that matters is the access to the roof, proper.

Up here the structure of the cathedral is laid bare. Cobwebs of steel and concrete unite to cross the vast yawning span of the open space below.

Among the structural necessities narrow walkways (some, very steep) give access to the roof hatches, the lighting cables, the sound system. It’s like seeing the arteries of the place, open and exposed, the tranquillity down below only possible because of this frenzied and pulsating tangle of steel, concrete, and cable.

But it isn’t all structural: peering down, the decorated roof bosses sprout, strangely elegant, from the points where the concrete ribs meet.

The west window bisected by the central roof beam, still glimmers in the darkness.

The cathedral shines up, from below.

Heading east, we reach the crossing, the spotlights trained on the altar directly below us trail their cables out across the walkway.

Here the support system for the cathedral’s flèche (which we will see soon, do not worry), pushes up in strangely organic forms, all I could think, staring up at it, was that the the density of the cylindrical beams is almost like an ant hill, filled with plaster, when all the soil is washed away.

By this point, the organist had been rehearsing for some time, and the soundtrack to this section of the scramble was very dramatic indeed.

Eagle-eyed readers will notice a ladder hidden amidst the tangle. I was not allowed to climb it for safety reasons (boooo), so instead, let us look at the transepts.

Here, the roofs become bare metal, and the contrast between the rough unfinished concrete and bare metal, and the beauty below, could not be more stark.

There are doors to the roof up here, in the transepts - but first, let’s head east, and check out that one finished section of vaulting.

It’s much darker here, with the light from the windows blocked out, and the ever-present spotlights directed into precisely-drilled holes in the vaulting, carefully positioned to highlight specific parts of the church below.

I’m used to scrambling about in dark enclosed roof spaces, but after the vast open spaces I’ve just been through, it feels strange. So there’s only one thing to do about that… head outside, to the open spaces and bright sunlight of the roof.

Look! There’s the flèche, thrusting up through the crossing!

The west towers, looming over the city!

It wasn’t until I was out there, looking across the rooftops, occasionally dotted with secret service agents in all-black tactical gear, that I realised what a bad idea it was to be climbing that specific cathedral, on that specific day. The APEC summit was happening, right next door. Surrounding streets were shut down, and police checkpoints were everywhere. Dozens of world leaders were staying in a building I was now staring down upon from a convenient rooftop perch. There were guns everywhere. Including, as far as I could tell, one trained on me. But, you know, how often do you get to stand on top of a cathedral 5000km from home and stare at an ocean you’ve never seen before? So we turned up the volume on the staff walkie-talkie in case the Secret Service phoned the Cathedral office to yell about us, and insist we come down, and we got to circumnavigating the cathedral itself.

The cathedral is situated at the top of Nob Hill, and from its roof, I could see all the way to the Pacific ocean. As you round the east end, the Golden Gate Bridge even makes an appearance.

The skies were blue and beautiful, the cathedral warm beneath my feet, and I was reminded, once again, how lucky I am to experience such wondrous things.

As we turned the corner of the south transept, staring up at that thin flèche, I spotted something… A bird, perhaps? A statue, surely, to fend off the pigeons which, looking at the quantity of netting covering the cathedral’s nooks and crannies, were definitely unwanted… My guide had never heard of one being installed, but then, why would she?

Zoom in…

Further…

I was staring through the zoom of my phone, when it moved it’s head.

I immediately sent a photo to an ornithologist I just happen to have on speed-dial for church-based nonsense. He quickly replied with a tentative id: A Juvenile Peregrine Falcon.

On one hand, this was completely unsurprising, Peregrine Falcons often make their homes on cathedral and church spires in the UK, in fact, they are regularly encouraged by the custodians of the buildings in question. Leicester Cathedral has a nesting platform for theirs, and a live webcam.

On the other hand, how strange, to have travelled 5000km across the world, from a city with a Cathedral which was home to peregrines, only to discover a peregrine, checking out the suitability of a Cathedral, to perhaps make a new home.

After spending some time watching the bird, we moved on. There are two towers at the west end, and I had plans for them both.

The north tower, for some reason, required a sketchy ladder climb, whilst the south tower had a spiral staircase. This wasn’t going to stop me from climbing both, however. And we may as well do the sketchy climb first.

So, emptying my pockets of things which could fall, I scrambled over the detritus of decades of maintenance which was piled up at the bottom of the ladder, and, facing the hotel that President Biden and over a dozen other world leaders were currently inside of, I prepared to piss off the Secret Service even more.

From the top of the tower I could look out over the cathedral, and over to the south tower (see you soon!)

Oh Look! That big white building is where the APEC conference is taking place! Hello world leaders! Hello Secret Service!

What a view! Let’s go down the ladders, and head on over to the south tower to see it all again, but from a very slightly different angle!

But first… once you have descended a ladder, it is always nice to remember to look up, as well as down. There’s beauty there, too. In this case, in the vast open sky, framed by the soaring concrete columns of the empty tower.

The South tower isn’t empty, though. She’s got bells! Let’s go and see them!

As I was looking at this bell, I found myself thinking… that decoration at the top looks familiar… and then, reading the inscription, I realised it was made in the same bell foundry in England that made the newest bell in my own, 1100 year old church. A little taste of home, so very far away.

Anyway, you came for the climb, so… let’s slip through this comedically narrow doorway, and make our way up the spiral staircase behind.

As promised, the same view, but different. So let’s head down, there’s still aisle roofs to walk along, after all.

Here’s the north aisle, the lead in the windows painted white, I assume to fend off the effects of the Californian sun’s bright rays, which are so efficiently captured by the ranks of solar panels which take up much of the aisle roof.

Now for a little scramble over to the south aisle!

From here, the view of the bay is so clear, the hills in the distance crashing down to the sea, like earthen waves upon the shore.

“But Jay!” you may be thinking “We may be on the roof of the south aisle, but we haven’t actually seen inside it!” and you are correct! Let’s head through the door at the base of the south tower, pass through this vast and ominous bit of wasted space, and find ourselves some stained glass and roof vaults!

Ah! Here’s the rose window again! We know where we are now!

Can you believe we were scrambling about up there erlier?

On this side, the passageway is much the same.

The open rib vaults gifting us these dizzying views of vast stained glass windows…

The repeating bays of the nave, marching away in front of our eyes…

Oh! Look! The sun is setting, the light dim, the shards of coloured sunlight no longer slicing through the air. We’ve spent the whole day climbing around the rafters, and yet how can you ever tire of such a place? How can you be anything other than astounded?

Let’s just take one last moment to appreciate the textures up here, the finished details, and the rough wood, long decayed, but, immortalised in the cast concrete. Remember, concrete cathedrals are so rare! And this collision of Gothic and Brutalism is so beautiful!

Now back along the corridor, all the way to the west end…

And down the stairs, down, down, to the balcony outside the columbarium (the place where ashes are kept).

Quick, while the light still holds, let us fill ourselves right to the brim with this place!

The south aisle, stretching away before us…

And down again. A little rush through the nave, past the yoga class, as it sets up atop the labyrinth. There are a few hidden spaces left to see!

Here! A door, another door, a locked hatch above a sink. Swing onto it! Climb up!

Here is the great organ, the one we heard playing earlier!

An instrument so big it has ladders inside of it, for the climbing.

Then back down, ladder after ladder. There’s so much to see, and so little time!

The vestries, store cupboards, hidden passages, rooms full of banners, and candles, and flags. Snowdrifts of treasure and garbage, thrown together in a way only churches can attain.

Then quick, the chapels! The sun is setting!

Here’s Keith Haring’s triptych “The life of Christ”, illuminated and glowing in a quiet AIDS Memorial Chapel.

The tiniest fragment of the AIDS Memorial Quilt, each piece, a life, loved and lost.

Pause. How can you rush this? How can you rush?

Along each wall, the history of the church, the fire that led to this vast building we have just explored:

Let us see one last side chapel, just one. The windows dark with the end of day.

And now, darkness. The cathedral is closed. They turn out the lights. The city outside illuminates the windows, faintly, like a memory of the sun.

It is time to go home. Though, for me, in this place, home is 5000km away... and as near as a striking bell.

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Poem of the Post:

Sky Burial
Nick Flynn

Vulture, follow me up: here is the arm
my mother held me aloft with (as

well as she could, until she couldn’t), it
is cut free of her body now, pulled

away from her shoulder, away
from her breath, as you, Vulture, point

your wing toward her offered heart, toward me — 
let’s pound her fingers into paste, pound the hand

open, come down, I chant, each word opens
the sky, the clouds need to be warned — once

she was hand & now she is wing, once she was dirt &
now she is air, she was food & now she is bird, she was

lifted & now she is gone.

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