The news that Immaculate Conception Church along with the other Catholic churches in Streator, could possibly be razed fills me with fear. Fear of losing my church, my childhood, and my hometown.
I know that I am part of the problem. In 1984, my family moved west to California. After high school, I went into the Air Force and life guided me to Upstate New York rather than back to my childhood home. I am part of the exodus of people looking for greener pastures in other cities and other states. So, maybe I have no right to complain. I am not a registered Illinois voter, a registered parishioner, and I do not have a nickel invested. But I still love the city of Streator. I love my childhood there. I love the sights and sounds and the people. I love the person that my time in Streator made of me. These churches are a defining feature of the city and their absence will affect more than the Catholic population.
St. Anthony was MY church. I grew up on Washington Street, walking distance to St. Anthony’s School and church. From my yard I could always look up and see those towers. I could see them from Lathrop’s house on North Park Street and after dodging the trees in City Park,from near Scudder’s house on Kent Street. From most points in Streator, I could look up and know where home was. Not much has changed. Driving in for a visit, approaching Streator on Route 18, I’ll look for those two points out on the horizon and know that I am almost to my ancestral homeland. Along with the spider-like water tower, the steeples make Streator one of the few towns in Central Illinois with a skyline whose defining feature is more than a grain elevator. Like a beacon, they give me direction. I can look up and know where I am or where I need to be.
Looking at the big picture a cynic could say that these structures aren't unique. They are pretty generic as late 19th century American Catholic churches go. But Goethe called architecture "frozen music", and that is what these churches give to Streator in a way that nothing else in town does, and for the foreseeable future, nothing else will. When I look up at the steeples of St. Mary's, St. Stephen's, or the dual steeples of St. Anthony's, I see height and beauty. They own the only architectural awe in town.
Looking at the big picture a cynic could say that these structures aren't unique. They are pretty generic as late 19th century American Catholic churches go. But Goethe called architecture "frozen music", and that is what these churches give to Streator in a way that nothing else in town does, and for the foreseeable future, nothing else will. When I look up at the steeples of St. Mary's, St. Stephen's, or the dual steeples of St. Anthony's, I see height and beauty. They own the only architectural awe in town.
And these churches weren’t built by the government or some multi-national corporation. They weren’t put here by some Rockefeller or Carnegie or even Disney. Those magnificent structures were built by the working people of Streator. The people who may have lived in your neighborhood or sat in the very room in which you are reading this article, put in their time, talent, money, and hard work to build up those parishes and finance those buildings. Citizens of Streator created or at least sponsored these works of art and I can't fathom that there'll be new commercial buildings on the horizon to rival them.
It isn't just the outside of these buildings that sing. Streator is a working class town. One wouldn't expect to see anything special here. But I have always thought of these churches as our own art museums.
Newsflash. Despite my years of Catholic education, I never was the best Catholic. And that started as a kid sitting in the pews of St. Anthony. Generally there for mass, I was more likely to find myself looking about. The experience started just walking through those big wooden medieval doors into the wide open space, the ceiling a mile high. Too clueless to ever be cursed with Catholic guilt, I wasn't one to be intimidated by those apostle statues. Atop the 12 pillars on either side of the nave, they looked down, welcoming me back.
I find my seat. Who's here? Any cute girls from school? Is the funny hat lady sitting in the front row again? Without fail, my eyes would be drawn to the stained glass. Supersized saints and the sun piercing its way through the glass, I would find myself lost in the detail and the illumination of color.
Looking to the high altar on the back wall, it draws my eyes up and up until I couldn't tell if the crucifix at the top was of the altar or painted on the ceiling as part of the fresco of Christ's Ascension. But that was the point, wasn't it? Was it part of Heaven or Earth?
And with my eyes to Heaven, music from the great organ reverberated around me, shaking the building, shaking the pew, and shaking my body. And the scents of candles and incense fill the air and fill your nose giving you a multi-sensory experience that was like nothing you've ever known.
It isn't just the outside of these buildings that sing. Streator is a working class town. One wouldn't expect to see anything special here. But I have always thought of these churches as our own art museums.
Newsflash. Despite my years of Catholic education, I never was the best Catholic. And that started as a kid sitting in the pews of St. Anthony. Generally there for mass, I was more likely to find myself looking about. The experience started just walking through those big wooden medieval doors into the wide open space, the ceiling a mile high. Too clueless to ever be cursed with Catholic guilt, I wasn't one to be intimidated by those apostle statues. Atop the 12 pillars on either side of the nave, they looked down, welcoming me back.
I find my seat. Who's here? Any cute girls from school? Is the funny hat lady sitting in the front row again? Without fail, my eyes would be drawn to the stained glass. Supersized saints and the sun piercing its way through the glass, I would find myself lost in the detail and the illumination of color.
And with my eyes to Heaven, music from the great organ reverberated around me, shaking the building, shaking the pew, and shaking my body. And the scents of candles and incense fill the air and fill your nose giving you a multi-sensory experience that was like nothing you've ever known.
Telling our children that art and beauty and history are to be cast aside when they become financially inconvenient sends us to a bleak future. What else is in Streator to attract the eyes and imagination of its citizens? Certainly not seeing those vaulted arches turned to a pile of rubble. If we lose them, how will we ever find our way home?
