A Visit to Cologne Part 3: In which the author learns that cardinals have little to no power regarding their own Cathedral in Cologne.

Day two in Cologne, we head off to the city’s pride and joy: The Dom (pronounced "dome"). A large cathedral within the Catholic Church and one of the city’s most important structures that survived World War II.

Visiting this place, I immediately think of They Might Be Giants' “The Bells Are Ringing,” a song that shows doctrine and liturgy giving its constituents strict marching orders. What surprises me is that within a sect of tumultuous theology and politics, rooted deeply in tradition, this building is a wildly dynamic and changing structure, constantly morphing to reflect the times.

We took the English tour through the Dom with a doctor of art history. Let me tell you, THAT is the way to take a tour. This guy knew what he was talking about, and answered most of my questions before I got to them.

Now, I know the soot covered building shown above looks like something straight out of Gotham City, and not a hub for progressive architecture, art and symbolism. But take this into account: The organization overseeing the art, windows and icons of the building is autonomous and not controlled by the cardinal or the church, leading to snazzy new Gerhard Richter-designed windows like this:

My crude representation of the window's history follows thus: During World War II, the U.S. was getting ready to bomb the living crap out of Germany. European art buffs came along and said to the U.S. "Hey, would you mind not bombing certain aspects of our history and heritage?" And oddly enough, despite what our last big city bombing would indicate, we obliged — the Dom would not be bombed, and the church would take its best windows out and put them away for safe keeping.

Most of those saved windows made it okay. One didn't, and all they had of its design was a few sketchy black and white photos. I'm not sure what happened in the 60 years from the end of the war to the new installation of Richter's window, but at some point they made the wise design decision to not make a copy of something they can't perfectly copy. They wanted something new and interesting — and it's worth noting that the cardinal installed in Cologne is not a fan of new and interesting in this case.

If you look closely at the window, it's essentially pixels. Of the long, verticals columns, the first and third, the fourth and sixth and the second and fifth are mirrors of each other. The pattern follows in some of the smaller rosettes.

As my hand is jumping up in the air, Dr. Art History jumped on the answer. To me, the guy who spray-painted “Power, Corruption and Lies” on a museum with an installation he hated didn't sound like the person who'd even want to design such a window, though he is a local Kölner and even gave up the design at no charge. But given that they did let him do it, and he wanted to do it, what was the religious or spiritual significance to the artist?

The answers to these questions are almost one in the same. Those in charge wanted a window to reflect the world as it is today. Digital, abstract and ambiguous. Richter will tell you (or so I'm told) that if you see religious significance in the abstract design and the color-filtered light, then there is religious meaning there. If you do not see religious significance, and you merely see and interesting abstract design, then there is no religious meaning there. It's up to you.

And really, isn't that where we're at in the world right now? Digitally connected, constantly being fed pixelated information and using these tools to desperately understand people who believe entirely different things from what we believe. As I think about the window, and what it implies, I find myself in a very cyclical set of thinking. My gut reaction is: “It is digital and represents the abstract and pluralistic nature of our world today, and is for the most part void of any specific spiritual meaning.” But even as I think of it, I'm awestruck by that very thought of our widening understanding of the world and our struggle to find peace with the ambiguous and abstract, and suddenly the window becomes spiritually significant in that sense.

I'd like to think that Richter was hoping people would get into that cycle, blurring the lines between what we see as strictly secular and things seen as strictly spiritual.

All of this is incredible, but not new to the church, and that's what amazes me. At every moment, those in charge of the building's structure and art (whether it's the current secular agency that is in charge or the church), they periodically threw tradition aside and took the building in a new direction. Looking at the walls you see examples and changes from every century reflecting the preferences of the time.

Our guide explained, because I pestered him a lot, that often times a generation would arise that said "Bah! I hate this style" and disregard one window or piece of architecture. A few generations later, the same style would be revered and mimicked. He expects the same will happen with the Richter window. Many people already hate it, but there may come a time when people look back and say "Yes, I see what they were doing and why, and I think this is beautiful."

And the end results? You get the window above (I am of the camp that thinks it's beautiful) crammed into the same building holding these:

The alleged skeletal remains of the three Magi. I was especially thankful of our guides balanced but critical take on these, where he explains that archeological study has indicated that the remains were clearly significant, revered people, there are three of them and they come from the time and place that the three Magi would have come from.

He argues, almost like shining the light of Richter's window directly onto these ancient relics, that it's possible these are not the three Magi in ernest (if you believe such a thing could even be found) but asks "Does it matter that they are?" And he admits that he does not think it matters. The items themselves, whoever they are, represent a historical and artistic significance and an important symbolism for the cathedral regardless.

And anyone refuting their significance to the area: Every sign, logo or ANYTHING in the city either bears a silhouette of the Dom's two towering spires, or an image of three crowns. You can't get a beer without being reminded of this place and what it contains. With that in mind, I'll be writing about the beer next.