We begin with the profound question: Can we design a space with assurance that it will be perceived as a sacred place by those who experience it? Even more profound is this awesome yet humbling responsibility we have, as architects, to interpret the physical expression of a spiritual connection with God. Thus the platform from which I write asserts that we must first comprehend that which connects us to God — employing biblical references as the authentic source for developing such comprehension.
Jim DePasquale
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If we do honor biblical references, we must acknowledge the common tenets of the Christian faith:
• The virgin birth of Christ.
• Jesus Christ is the incarnate Word as the Son of God.
• The triune relationship between God the Father, Son and Holy Spirit.
• The Crucifixion.
• The Resurrection.
• The Second Coming, at an unknown time.
And in so doing, we are deeply moved to accept our obligation to create space that captures the unique holy qualities of these tenets. Anything less is a failure to interpret the mission.
God is the original author of sacred spaces and places as evidenced in Genesis 2:8 where “the description of the Garden of Eden appears to be deliberately cast to foreshadow the description of the tabernacle found later in the Pentateuch. The garden, like the tabernacle, was the place where man could enjoy the fellowship and presence of God” (Frank E. Gaebelein, The Expositor’s Bible Commentary). Living for a moment in the Old Testament, we also learn about the Tower of Babel: “Then they said, ‘Come, let us build ourselves a city, with a tower that reaches to the heavens’ ” (Gen 11:4). It’s an architectural expression that we can only visualize, yet it is most assuredly spiritually inspiring.
But when we fast forward to the New Testament we are confronted with a significant obstacle to this concept of creating inspiring space, for we know that the early church gathering places always referenced people and never a structure. The first of the post-ascension meetings is mentioned in Acts 1:13 as simply taking place in an upper room, and soon after in one anothers’ homes.
But then again, by the fourth century A.D. we have the Constantine-effect and the birth of monumental church architecture. Luther’s ambitions of reformation during the early 16th century countered the use of visual arts in the church — even to the extent where stained glass windows were broken, images of saints were destroyed, and pipe organs were removed. Luther himself had the entire altar ripped out of the front of the church and then the former high pulpit, to which the priest climbed up via a circular staircase, was placed front and center. Thus, another new beginning — of a new relationship and a new spiritual symbolism. Of course, there follows the Catholic Church response to this iconoclasm — in the form of the exuberant Baroque art and architecture. And the Neoclassical style of the 18th century becomes a rather effective attempt to resolve the tension of the Baroque as an ideological opposition to Protestant severity.
Such history of diverse church architecture plants the fertile field from which our own country’s domestic church architecture has sprung. Early settlers bequeathed the United States with a veritable encyclopedia of ecclesiastical architecture. An “Act for Religious Freedom,” authored by Thomas Jefferson, followed shortly thereafter and ultimately became the catalyst to produce an entire new encyclopedia of domestic ecclesiastical architecture.
That same freedom reigns, of course, today. Over the centuries we brought forth spiritual gathering places as modest as the secular models that Puritans sought for their places of worship to the great cathedrals that bloom heavenward. Subsequently, however, we created the megachurch auditoria and bloated worship centers with horribly disproportionate geometry emphasizing the horizontal rather than the vertical — all ugly as sin.
The triple agents of time, geography and economics have, therefore, brought us to a place of confusion in the design of sacred spaces and places. Does anything go? Can we argue that spirituality is found in a sterile shoebox-shaped space as well as in an exquisitely inspiring cathedral? I can only speak personally, for one’s spirituality is a very private matter — but I will add that my postulations are evidenced-based.
Chapel of the Holy Cross
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One such testimony is the Chapel of the Holy Cross in Sedona, Ariz. There the sacred experience begins long before arrival. One initially becomes spiritually connected upon the distant viewing of this strikingly simple form that exists, inseparable in union with its spectacular natural environment.
As Marguarite Brunswig Staude (whose vision is the inspiration for this work as a memorial to her parents), explains: “… We prospected the country, deciding on a twin-pinnacled spur, about 250 feet high, jutting out of a thousand foot rock wall, solid as the ‘Rock of Peter.’ This was to be the pedestal wherein to plant our cross.”
Here the cross does not reassert itself as a spire. It does, instead, powerfully impose itself through the very core of the structure. And the spiritual connection that began as one approaches the Chapel is transcended internally — within the structure literally and within our souls that inhabit the human frame — inordinately successful as “… a spiritual fortress so charged with God, that it spurs man’s spirit Godward!”
There were approximately 75 visitors to the Chapel of the Holy Cross on that September weekday when we visited several years ago. The power of this spiritual place struck me in the most simple, yet profound manner, when my wife noted that every person there had tears in their eyes. Thus the Chapel may be Catholic in faith, but as a sacred place its appeal is universal.
In conclusion, one can undeniably attest to the spiritual influence of architecture on humankind’s inner condition. Our souls can be moved by the awe of space — through its verticality, detail and images. This awe can, and should, be found in traditions both Catholic and Protestant.
Yet worshipers also gather in simple meeting houses to experience a deep connection with God. Is it in ornate, powerfully geometric architecture that we find sacred spaces and places? Or is it in the simplicity of a visually quiet, humble environment — physical counterstatements that happen to validate the fact that God created us as unique individuals? In a rather mysterious way each can also generate that awe which endorses the presence of God.
In conclusion, there are powerful contemporary interpretations of God’s presence, serving as remarkable validations of how ecclesiastical architecture can engender sacred place. But again, one must ask, does the austerity of the first-century catacombs make those places any less sacred? Or is one spiritually moved by a sense of the incomprehensible sacrifices made by those early Christians, under severe persecution, just to claim their place of worship — i.e. their sacred place?
And so it is that Christians, over the many ages of architecture, have commonly found sacred spaces and places — an inordinate diversity of which can all comfort our soul with a peace that passes all understanding.
Jim DePasquale, AIA, a member of Bon Air Baptist Church in Richmond, is currently chair of the Interfaith Forum on Religion, Art and Architecture of the Virginia Society, AIA, and a partner in a Richmond architectural firm. This column is a regular feature of the Religious Herald, appearing in the first issue of each month. Send building, landscape or site-related questions to the editor at [email protected] or directly to Jim DePasquale at [email protected].