The French concept of laïcité: the story of a village cross

I live close to one of Europe’s most-travelled pilgrimage routes – the road to Saint-Jacques-de-Compostelle. This proximity has often made me toy with the idea of making a pilgrimage of my own, but frankly, it’s a long, long way to the wild western coast of Spain. Last weekend I had the opportunity of making a much shorter pilgrimage – less than three hundred metres from my front door. How could I resist such an easy alternative?

The hill above my village has been graced by a life-sized effigy of Christ on a seven-metre-high cross since 1943. Usually I can see if from my kitchen window, but for over a year, the skyline has been empty. In a winter storm, the cross fell, and Jesus broke his arm. The original cross was the initiative of a local priest, Julien Salles. He believed it would watch over Saint-Sernin-les-Lavaur during the German Occupation. Since then, it has often been the other way around, and the villagers have had to watch over the cross. ​

Anyone who climbs up the steep hillside to our cross can enjoy a magnificent panorama of the Lauragais, the Montagne Noire and the Pyrenees. Towards the end of the 10th century, there was a motte and bailey castle up there. One major disadvantage of such an elevated position, particularly if you are a wooden cross, is its exposure to all the winds and rains that nature has to offer. Despite this, the solid oak construction of 1943 lasted forty years. The faithful erected a new one in August 1983. In 2009, the cross was felled once more. This time, the mairie decided to bury the base of a new wooden cross inside a concrete plinth, but that did not stop the wood from rotting, and a decade later I looked out of my kitchen window one morning and thought, where’s the cross?

The view from the cross

The villagers prepare themselves for a short pilgrimage

So there we were on 19 October 2019, almost the whole village gathered outside the church ready to start our pilgrimage. The mayor gave us a short historical resumé, then off we went. The intrepid attacked the hill by its shortest, steepest route, the majority took a longer path around the back, and the infirm were ferried to the top in a couple of 4x4s.

For a pilgrimage, there was a disappointing lack of religious representation. When I reached the top, I was expecting at least a priest, or even a nun or two. Instead, we were simply a gathering of villagers celebrating the rebuilding of our most notable and most noticeable monument. And a fine sight it now makes: Jesus has been re-armed and firmly attached to a sturdy new cross of galvanised steel. This one should outlast the Eiffel Tower.

After a photocall, the assembly headed back down to the village. A pause at the church would perhaps have been in keeping with the spirit of a pilgrimage, but instead the mayor led us all to the Salle des Fêtes for a different kind of spirit: whiskey or pastis, accompanied by a celebratory buffet.

Over a glass I reflected that my short pilgrimage was a good illustration of the French concept of laïcité – the strict separation of civil society and religious society. The mairie can pay for the upkeep of the village church, repair fallen crosses, and provide a good buffet, but it must not involve itself in religious practices such as entering a place of worship.