Rising over the bluffs of the northern Mississippi River, the Cathedral of St. Paul, Minn., watches like a sentinel over the neighborhoods in the valley below.

For the locals going about their business in the city, it's a reassuring sight — a symbol of strength and endurance in the face of change.

For the faithful who seek out the sanctuary as a refuge and a retreat, it's an unmistakable cue to lift hearts up to the Lord — a prompt to begin praying before they've even walked through the doors. And what a perfect place it will be to pray for our nation before heading to the polls on Election Day.

The St. Paul cathedral has been making those sorts of statements since 1886, when John Ireland, famous for his piety and leadership, was named archbishop. An immigrant from Kilkenny, Ireland, he encouraged other immigrants to move here from the poor neighborhoods of the Northeast. Opportunity abounded here, he told them, and so it did.

The influx of immigrants posed a “good” problem: too many wor-shippers for the capacity of the cathedral. The problem got so bad that, in 1904, many worshippers had to stand outside for Holy Week services. Archbishop Ireland, eager to provide for his rapidly growing flock, announced construction of a new and much larger cathedral.

And so work began, that same year, with the vision of Archbishop Ireland and the design of world-renowned architect Emmanuel Louis Masqueray. The structure was completed in 1915, and the interior, with chapels and artwork ministering to the immigrant communities, was finished 25 years later. It's been making new friends ever since.

Warm Embrace

St. Paul's grand exterior soars more than 300 feet into the sky and is almost equally wide and deep. Built in classic Renaissance style, the edifice would have been right at home in Europe, circa 1500.

Its granite façade is enriched by an abundance of decorative elements — angels, saints and leaves, for starters. Especially impressive are the twin bell towers and the 120-foot copper dome.

A particularly delightful detail is hidden in the back, atop the roof over the sanctuary: an artfully cast bronze angel, hands folded in prayer, lovingly gazing toward the holy house in which Jesus — body, blood, soul and divinity — resides in the Blessed Sacrament.

On my most recent visit, I stepped inside to note how one feels embraced by the gentle curves and arches, despite the nave's mammoth size. The effect is of a powerful place filled with equal measures of peace and strength.

As I made my way to a pew for quiet prayer, my eyes were drawn to three rose windows illuminated brightly by the sun. There's one window each to commemorate the Resurrection, the beatitudes and the North American martyrs. The windows feature saints and martyrs of the Americas, many of whom were immigrants; they encourage us to live as they did. (Let's remember to thank them Nov. 1 and 2, feasts of All Saints and All Souls.)

As I looked toward the tabernacle behind the main altar, I let my eyes rest on the bold and ornate baldachin. I later learned it was designed by Whitney Warren, architect of New York's Grand Central Station. Constructed of black and gold marble, it's a stirring sight: Six columns support a bronze canopy from which two bronze angels rise over the tabernacle and altar.

I also contemplated an image of a dove flying downwards from the face of the canopy. This signifies the Holy Spirit — who, of course, descends to the sacrifice of the altar at each consecration here, changing the elements of bread and wine into the holy Eucharist and most precious blood of our Lord Jesus Christ.

Seven Signals

Around the apse are paintings of seven figures representing the gifts of the Holy Spirit: knowledge, counsel, understanding, piety, wisdom, fear of the Lord and fortitude.

Under the paintings are seven stained-glass windows showing the archangels holding a medallion of each of the seven sacraments. These artful details provided a beautiful moment of catechesis, emphasizing the high point of the Mass and the help of the Holy Spirit for our pilgrim journey.

After my prayer time, I walked about the cathedral, admiring and meditating on the numerous works of art adorning the interior. I noted “The Entombment,” a painting by Theodule-Augustine Ribot depicting Christ being taken down from the cross, along with bronze grilles showing scenes from the life of St. Paul and a fresco of the arrival of Bishop Joseph Cretin to St. Paul in 1851, done by a local artist.

In the ambulatory, I stopped to admire the Shrines of the Nations, a reminder of the universality of the Church — and of St. Paul's exhortation to the Galatians: “There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.” These six shrines are dedicated to saints who represent a national group that settled in Minnesota: St. Anthony for the Italians, St. John the Baptist for the French, St. Patrick for the Irish, St. Boniface for the Germans, and Sts. Cyril and Methodius for the Slavs.

Archbishop Ireland, taking account of other nationalities that would settle in the city of St. Paul in the future, had the foresight to include a shrine for St. Thérèse of Lisieux, the patroness of all missions.

Descending the steps of the cathedral on the way out, I took a last look behind to survey the façade of this great church. Over the entrance is a 60-foot carving of Christ and the apostles with the Latin inscription Euntes ergo docete omnes gentes. This means “Go, therefore, and teach all nations.”

It's a fitting reminder that, just as St. Paul went out to make disciples of all nations, we, too, must go out of our way to bring Christ and his bride, the Church, to the world — regardless of the outcome of this year's important election.

Joy Wambeke writes from St. Paul, Minnesota.