The Need For Sacred Space II

The Church of Saint

Anne, Jerusalem

I know that I said in my previous posting on this topic that contemporary church architects need to find ways to create worship spaces in architectural styles that reflect our time and culture, but my own favorite church anywhere is Saint Anne’s near the pool of Bethesda in Jerusalem.  Saint Anne’s is built in the style we know as “Crusader Gothic,” though it was built between 1131 and 1138 which is just a shade too early for “gothic.”  Nevertheless, the church gives an impression of being more gothic than Romanesque.  It doesn’t have the large windows and flying buttresses of later gothic but it is far more open and airy than the typical Romanesque designs of the previous century.   It is probably best put as a church in a transitional style and it certainly was avant-garde for its day. 

A church, very similar in feel to Saint Anne’s though I think not nearly as elegant, is the Abbey of San Pietro in Assisi.  While the monastery was established in the  tenth century by Cluniac Benedictines, the current church was built by Cistercian monks in the thirteenth century.  That might be why it appeals so strongly to me.  I find traditional Cistercian architecture very prayerful.  I think in particular of the abbey of Notre Dame de Aiguebelle or Notre Dame de Sénanque, both dating from the 12^th century and perfect examples of Cistercian architecture. 

What is it that makes these ancient churches—though up to the very latest architectural style when they were built—particularly prayerful. 

First, I think, is their utter simplicity that permits for no distraction in prayer.  There are simply no frills. There is nothing superfluous.   While there is invariably a superbly striking representation of the Crucifixion and there is always a unique statue or icon of the Mother of God appropriately placed, there is generally no other decoration.  The glass is generally opaque but not colored.  The altar furnishings are of wood or iron, well designed but without decoration.  Linens are only laid on the altar for the Liturgy and they are of high quality but utterly simple.  The same is true of the sacred vesture in the Cistercian houses: all is well tailored but the beauty is in the design and quality of the material rather than in unneeded decoration.  Vessels are of simple lines and generally of silver and without jewels.  Everything bespeaks the Divine Presence, but nothing calls attention to itself. 

Secondly—and perhaps more foundational—is that the beauty is created not by decoration but by the interplay of proportion and light.  These churches were all built to depend on natural lighting and are designed to maximize the amount of light coming through the upper set of windows along the choir and nave.  The dimensions of the churches are exquisite with relatively high vaults (not cathedral height but certainly of a height that is not merely functional) and spacious layout with nothing having a feeling of being crowded in. There is much use of the particular proportion known as the Golden Rectangle while windows, piers, and other functional features are often grouped in the sacred numbers of three or seven. Rational order is the consistent principle.  There is always a perfect symmetry in the design.  (By “always” I don’t mean to imply that there aren’t exceptions, especially where the original design was later altered.)  The starkness of the design and lack of decoration increase the sense of open space.  And the space gives plenty of room for liturgical action be it processions, or sacramental rituals such as ordinations, weddings, funerals that require sufficient space.  I think the dimensions—both the height and the openness of the design help create that sense of solemnity that quiets us for prayer while the interplay of light and space gives the church a window into the Transcendent Mystery of the Divine Presence.  All in all the starkness creates a sense of “less is more.”

While the Cistercian churches are traditionally minimalist in their décor, there always have been spaces, most notably the chapels that flanked the presbyterium containing the principal altar, that were discreet enough to allow for private prayer.  Other unobtrusive spaces could be found in the transepts and in the aisles of the choir behind the monastic stalls.  Of course the monks had other inconspicuous nooks and crannies for their lectio divina in the cloister, the scriptorium, or other parts of the monastery. 

I wonder how these same principles, the use of light and proportion and the reduction of embellishment to well-crafted essentials, as well as the inclusion of small prayer chapels could be used in contemporary spaces to create a prayerful environment for the liturgy and for personal prayer.

When I see the abbey churches at Spencer and New Melleray, and to a lesser extent Gethsemane in Kentucky I see these principles being used in the renovation of older buildings to great effect.  The Cathedral at Killarney, a Pugin building, is another example of a renovated older church that has been taken down to its basic superb architectural lines, though I think, like Gethsemane, it could use a bit more “softening.” I wouldn’t ordinarily advise stripping down the neo-gothic churches of the 19^th century.  You are never really sure what is beneath the faux marble and plaster-posing-as-stone.  But also, and even more to the point, they are relics of a particular time and culture and generally should be preserved as such.  And care needs to be taken in fitting them out for the liturgy.  Modern design altars in older buildings are usually quite jarring and ugly (ugly makes a peculiar adverb) so.  The contemporary altar (and matching pulpit and archbishop’s throne) in Paris is nothing short of hideous.  A versus populum altar should have been constructed to harmonize with, not contrast with, the setting.  Again it is innovation for innovation’s sake and that shows a distinct lack of spiritual depth and maturity.  You don’t find this lack of aesthetic judgment in the English cathedrals.  I suppose apostolic succession trumps good taste but sometimes I can see why we Catholics had a tough time gaining the esteem of the Granthams.  

I write this because I think contemporary architecture could be well suited for worship spaces if architects would draw from the lessons of what has worked well in the examples I have cited.  Not being an architect or familiar with the language of the trade, I will probably not express myself well but the first rule would be to avoid the spectacular that draws attention from the sacred action for which the church is constructed and puts it on the building itself.

The second rule would be to avoid functionalism and, for the sake of economy, reduce the building to a minimal utilitarianism.  There is a need for quality in materials and luxury in the spatial dimensions that transcends parsimoniousness.  Letting parsimony dictate the design of our worship space is so modern and so American. 

The third rule would be to remember the importance of proportion for beauty.  Height, not necessarily excessive but proportionate to the width and depth of the building, is of particular importance in lifting the human spirit. 

The fourth rule would be to remember the effect created by natural light and to use natural light in relationship to the basic architectural lines. 

The fifth rule would be to match quality with simplicity.  Let the beauty come from the quality of the materials rather than from décor to be applied over the basic design. 

When I see the church of Saint Anne in Jerusalem or San Pietro in Assisi or San Apollinaire in Classe in Ravena or San Georgio in Velabro in Rome—all centuries old—the Liturgy of the Second Vatican Council suddenly makes sense.  The Mass—the Novus Ordo—fits these churches, as old as they are, like a hand fits a glove.  The challenge is how to take the design principles of these churches and express them in contemporary form.  We need to make the artistic and architectural contribution to our western culture that the generations before us did. 

The Need for Sacred Space

A section of the
tapestry of the
Communion of
the Saints in the
Cathedral of Los
Angeles 

I mentioned in a recent posting that while I am committed to the Liturgical Reforms instituted by the Church during and after the Second Vatican Council, I still think we have a long way to go in developing the liturgical forms these rites take to bring out and maximize their spiritual depths.  There are several obvious flaws: while the language of the earlier translation was banal and without poetic tones, the current translation is not only equally prosaic, but aurally incomprehensible.  The translation principles of Liturgiam authenticam are fundamentally flawed and, as anyone who as a student had to unravel the complexities of Cicero knows, one cannot bring Latin syntax into intelligible English.  We need a translation which is not only substantially (as opposed to literally) faithful to the original, but which has some literary polish to it.  And then there is the music.  Directors of music and liturgy (though I suspect that most often the real problem are the priests) need to get over their fear of “bringing out old treasures as well as new” from their storeroom (cf. Matt 13:52).  It has taken us centuries to build up a repertoire of great music for the liturgy and it will take us centuries more to add pieces of equal value and worth.  In the meantime we should not be afraid to selectively use the treasures of the past even if they are in a language many (ok, most, almost all) people do not understand.  On the other hand, the Mass is not colonial Williamsburg and the new must be used alongside the old even if most of the new is not of the same excellence.  And much of the new, by the way, is of the same excellence.  Composers such as John Rutter, John Tavener, Bob Chilcott, Herbert Howells, or Malcolm Archer are contemporary musicians writing excellent Church music.  And of course there is a difference between worship and concerts.  While there is no problem in having the occasional soloist or choral piece, especially during a time appropriate to reflection, better to have music that invites the congregation to participate more fully in the liturgy and not just render them passive attendees.   

But where I would really like to begin is with architecture. I realize that we are entering an extremely subjective topic: much of it comes down to a matter of personal taste.  I am a huge fan of contemporary architecture.  As with contemporary classical and ecclesiastical music, not all contemporary architecture is good.  Some of it is ridiculous and some is even horrid—I think, for example, of the post-modern Canadian Embassy in Washington DC.  Some of it is magnificent, though located in an inappropriate context: for example, the East Wing of the National Gallery of Art (ironically located directly across Constitution Avenue from the aforementioned Canadian Embassy) or les pyramides du Louvre in Paris.  (Both these buildings are the work of I.M. Pei, and while superb in themselves are somewhat alien to their immediate surroundings.)  The Sydney Opera House is an example of a fascinating structure in a perfectly located environment.  The Bibliotheca Alexandrina in Alexandria Egypt is another outstanding example of contemporary architecture.  I could go on, but let me move to church architecture. 

As much as I like contemporary architecture, I have yet to see where it has been made to work well for liturgical space, at least in large spaces.  The monastery chapel of the Carmelite Nuns in Baltimore is an example of a contemporary small worship space that is conducive to prayer.  I found the chapel of the Benedictine nuns at Jamberoo Abbey in Australia to be similarly prayerful.  I also found the same in the Abbey Church of Our Lady of the Genesee upstate New York.  But when this translates to large space such as a parish church or a cathedral, I have yet to find good examples of contemporary church architecture.  The Abbey Church of Westminster in Mission, British Columbia is absolutely horrible.  I have very mixed feelings about the Cathedral in Los Angeles.  I was deeply moved when I visited there, but I think I was (and continue to be) overwhelmed by the tapestry of the Procession of the Saints from the baptistery to the altar.  Take away the tapestry and I am not so sure about the interior of the building while the exterior looks like a TD Bank on steroids.  It is actually, I think, an eyesore.  (Again, I realize this is very subjective.)  As long as we are using the steroids analogy, Saint Mary’s Cathedral in San Francisco is nothing more than an overgrown agitator from a washing machine.  The two British examples of contemporary church architecture: the Catholic Cathedral at Liverpool and the Anglican Cathedral at Coventry would have both been better unbuilt. 

I think the flaw in contemporary church architecture is the same flaw that has made many contemporary secular buildings so hideous.  There is innovation for innovation’s sake—shock for shock’s sake.  It doesn’t lead us to prayer.  There is no sense of the sacred, of the mysterious. 

Some think that the solution is a return to previous styles of architecture.  There is a school of Catholic architecture, more or less led by Duncan Stroik of Notre Dame University, that builds churches in retro style.  I will give Stroik and his better disciples credit where credit is due: for the purity of line and the excellence of craftsmanship.  But I have to pan them for their retreating into the past rather than moving forward and making right out of the mess of modern churches. 

I remember once being on a tour of the National Cathedral (Episcopal) in Washington DC.  The National Cathedral looks like it was just lifted out of a fourteenth century village in England and plopped down on Mount Saint Albans in North West D.C.  About half-way through the tour, one member of the group raised her hand and said to the docent: “When you build an American Protestant Cathedral in a pre-Reformation European style, are you saying that neither America nor Protestantism have anything worthwhile to contribute?”  Good question.  Our American heritage has a wonderful architectural heritage of Protestant Church construction.  Look at Bruton Parish Church in Williamsburg.  Look at the First Congregational Church in Litchfield, Connnecticut.  Look at Old North Church in Boston.  Why did the Episcopalians build a “Catholic” and English Cathedral?  It’s lovely, but it is a testimony against our American culture. 

In the same way, for architects today like Stroik, James McCrery, or David Meleca to go retro says something about how they—and their clients—see our contemporary culture and that, in turns, has vast implications for our mission of “Church in the Modern World.”  Now, don’t misunderstand me, from their work I have seen—either in person or in examining photographs—I cannot say enough good about the quality of design and execution.  My problem is with the philosophical and theological underpinnings of their work.  It fits the “Reform of the Reform” mentality that the Church needs in someway to take shelter from our modern world in its past glories but this isolationism encourages a false and even gnostic ecclesiology in which the Church retreats into itself and abandons its mission to confront the world with the Gospel.  It encourages the Christian to step out of his or her world to pray and creates a false dichotomy between the (arcane) sacred and the secular rather than empowering us, as a Church, to sacralize the secular.  

Worth The Trip

The windows of the
apse in Suger's Abbey
of Saint Denis

One of my favorite churches is the Abbey of Saint Denis in the northern suburbs of Paris.  It’s fame comes from its being the birthplace of Gothic architecture and while that is certainly one of the reasons that draws me there, there is just a wonderful aura of the sacred that fills the place.  There has been a church on the site since the days of Saint Genevieve, the fifth-century nun who is said to have saved Paris from Attila the Hun and who has long been the patron saint of the city.  The church was the burial place of the French Kings from Clovis through the Merovingians down to the French Revolution.  After the Revolution the remains of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette were moved from the Cimetière of the Madeleine where they had been buried in unmarked graves and reinterred in the crypt of Saint Denis.  Louis XVIII, the king at the Bourbon Restoration in 1814 is also buried there. 

The royal connections served the abbey well.  In the Middle Ages the Kings of France granted the abbey the right to hold a semi-annual fair and it was one of the largest commercial exchanges in Europe as merchants came from Italy and Spain as well as Scandinavia, Britain, and Ireland to do business.  Saint Denis was neither the largest nor the wealthiest abbey in France but it was among them.  In 1122, Suger, a monk of remarkable talent was named Abbot.    As abbot of the Royal necropolis, Suger was guaranteed a place at Court but Louis VI and Louis VII recognized his particular talents and relied heavily on his participation in the royal administration.  It was only after fifteen years of royal service that the abbot could turn to his monastic duties and one of his ambitions was the rebuilding of the Abbey Church. 

His first project was a new west front to the church, basing his idea loosely on the Arch of Constantine with its three portals.  This replaced the single door of the 9^th century church and made access to the church all the easier for the large crowds Suger hoped to draw.  Above the central portal Suger constructed what is believed to be the first “rose window” in architecture.  Much smaller than the massive walls of glass that would ornament Reims or later catherals, the window nevertheless represents a breakthrough in engineering,  The west front and the interior narthex behind it are a very interesting example of the transition from Romanesque to Gothic.  Finishing the new front, Suger moved to the other end of the church and built a new choir and apse.  It was here that the gothic became most clearly visible.  Suger modeled his design on the writings of Pseudo-Dionysius’ The Heavenly Hexarchies and its nine choirs of angels.  Suger surrounded the altar with an apse of nine bays, each containing a radial chapel.  Each of the traditional three levels—the pavement, the triforum and the clerestory—held massive windows flooding the sanctuary with light.  In order to support the roof—now that the walls were virtually of glass—several new features including external flying buttresses were introduced.  It was a radical innovation that would influence all European architecture for the next four hundred years. 

Today there is no monastic community at Saint Denis but the Abbey Church serves as a cathedral, the seat of a suburban diocese to Paris.  The royal tombs are, for the most part, empty as the royal corpses had been disinterred and thrown into a common grave at the time of the Revolution.  But when you go to Paris Saint Denis is well worth a trip out north of the city.  In some respects it is superior to Notre Dame.  It is certainly not as crowded and much easier to enjoy but I personally think the architecture is far more pure and conducive to both prayer and admiration than Notre Dame.  Notre Dame has somewhat of a squat  and shopworn feeling to it, like someone stepped on it and crushed it just a bit, whereas Saint Denis has that feeling of light pouring down from heaven and the soul soaring upwards that Abbot Suger aimed for in his design.