When Buildings Speak

I recently returned to Italy after serving as spiritual director for a ten-day pilgrimage to the Holy Land. Saints and theologians have called the land where Jesus lived “the fifth gospel” since first-hand experience of the holy places adds a new dimension and deeper understanding to what Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John recorded for us. The experience helps us enter into a more profound contact with the Person and the mysteries of Jesus Christ.

One particular element that produced this contact was the architectural work of Antonio Barluzzi, an Italian layman who worked closely with the Franciscans in the Holy Land and designed a number of churches for them in the early 1900s. Considering just three of his works, the Church of the Beatitudes on the Mount of the Beatitudes, the Dominus Flevit chapel on the Mount of Olives, and the Church of All Nations in Gethsemane, it is clear that even the buildings in the Holy Land can speak.

The Eloquent Beatitudes

The Church of the Beatitudes is an octagonal building: this already speaks a great deal, since eight is the number of beatitudes. Also, Jesus rose on the eighth day, the day after the Jewish Sabbath, so the number eight is also symbolic of new life. In the center is the altar and tabernacle; on the floor are mosaics with the symbols and names (in Latin) of the three theological virtues (faith, hope, and charity) and the four cardinal virtues (fortitude, temperance, prudence, and justice). The images and text are written so that in order to read them, you must be facing the tabernacle. Above the tabernacle in the dome are eight stained glass windows with the beatitudes written on them. The dome itself has a gold interior, representing heaven.

Without much ado, Barluzzi has made a profound statement: the practice of the virtues leads us to Christ. The virtues direct us to Him, and it is He who, by means of His grace poured out on Calvary and through the sacraments, helps us to live out the Beatitudes so that we can ascend to the glory of heaven.

The Church Overlooking Jerusalem

The Dominus Flevit chapel (the Latin name means “the Lord wept”) commemorates the location of the events in Luke 19:41-44 and Matthew 23:37-39, where, “as Jesus drew near, he saw the city [of Jerusalem] and wept over it, saying, ‘If this day you only knew what makes for peace—but now it is hidden from your eyes’” (Luke 19:41-42).

The chapel is small but is built in the shape of a teardrop, recalling the Lord’s own tears shed there. The chapel’s altar overlooks the Old City of Jerusalem with a majestic panoramic view of the Temple Mount and the Dome of the Rock (which occupies the place where the Temple formerly stood) through a clear glass window.

However, if one stands in the middle of the church and gazes towards the crucifix on the altar, the gilded dome of the al-Aqsa Mosque forms a golden orb behind the cross, like a rising sun or halo. In this way, Barluzzi shows that Christ is the new Temple and the fulfillment of the Old Testament prophecies.

All Nations Belong

The Church of All Nations in Gethsemane is called such because sixteen different nations gave donations for the mosaics and cupolas, an impressive feat given that the First World War had just ended and many of the contributors had been bitter enemies in the conflict. What immediately calls the attention of pilgrims is the large “Rock of the Agony” in the center of the church in front of the altar. Surrounded by a low fence that resembles a crown of thorns, the rock is held to be the place where an angel comforted Christ as He lay prostrate during His agony in the Garden.

However, there is another feature that might escape notice; the windows are made, not of stained glass, but of alabaster. The result is that very little light enters into the church. Even as the summer sun was beating down mercilessly on the pilgrims outside, inside the church, lights were needed to illuminate the principal features of the altar. The effect is that those who enter unconsciously are brought back to that night before His passion when Jesus suffered His piercing agony; the darkness provides the atmosphere for entering into the mystery of the Passion and Death of our Lord.

Uglienss In Architecture

These churches in the Holy Land speak to us of the mystery of Christ and His Church without using words; can the same be said of churches throughout the world? In theory, yes: sacred architecture is a serious field of study, and when pilgrims visit Saint Peter’s Basilica in Rome, or Mont St. Michel and Sacré-Coeur in France, it is impossible for them not to be drawn into the divine mysteries. (Visit the Institute for Sacred Architecture for more insights.)

Yet, recently there has been a trend to produce churches that are more modern in style and appeal. The results have been mixed: many consider such newer churches to be, in a word, ugly, and the trend is not without its detractors (such as Michael Rose’s book, Ugly as Sin).

I assume the architects and builders of such churches have the best of intentions, and I am fairly convinced that no one sets out to build the “ugliest church in the world.” What goes wrong, then, in such cases?

Sometimes the argument is made that churches are buildings for the people; the people make up the Church, the reasoning goes, and so it really doesn’t matter what the church building looks like as long as it functions. There is a certain truth to this: Mass can be celebrated fruitfully in Saint Peter’s, or on a mountain, or in a church that looks like a warehouse.

Enter Into the Mystery

Yet, if we are going out of our way to build a church, a place dedicated to God, it seems only right that it be done in the way that helps us best enter into the divine mystery. People often say, “I don’t care what my car looks like, as long as it runs.” That’s fine for a vehicle; however, when it comes to our churches, such a minimalist perspective seems to run counter to the generosity of our faith. Likewise, since we live in a fallen world, and all of us get distracted, we need all the help we can get in order to enter more fully into prayer.

Others contend that beautiful churches are expensive; a warehouse church is cheaper. Building a church in general is expensive: I wonder, however, how much cheaper a warehouse church is, given that most are built by important architects and engineers. Again, it also seems that whatever helps us to pray better, and can help others, even those without faith, to enter into contact with God, would be worth the cost.

Beauty Leads Us to God

Perhaps Pope Benedict XVI explained it best when, at a Wednesday audience in 2009, he commented on what two older styles of architecture bring to our faith:

Dear brothers and sisters, I would now like to emphasize two elements of Romanesque and Gothic art that are also helpful to us. The first: the masterpieces of art created in Europe in past centuries are incomprehensible unless one takes into account the religious spirit that inspired them. Marc Chagall, an artist who has always witnessed to the encounter between aesthetics and faith, wrote that “For centuries painters dipped their brushes into that colourful alphabet which was the Bible.” When faith, celebrated in the Liturgy in a special way, encounters art, it creates a profound harmony because each can and wishes to speak of God, making the Invisible visible. . . .  The second element: the strength of the Romanesque style and the splendour of the Gothic cathedrals remind us that the via pulchritudinis, the way of beauty, is a privileged and fascinating path on which to approach the Mystery of God. What is the beauty that writers, poets, musicians, and artists contemplate and express in their language other than the reflection of the splendour of the eternal Word made flesh? (Audience, 11/18/09)

The second point is worth consideration: beauty has the capacity to lead us to God. In a world where people often refuse to read or to listen, the encounter with something beautiful offers the privileged possibility of an encounter with God, who is Himself supreme Beauty. Consider, for instance, a dear friend of mine, who years ago, made a trip to Egypt. At the time, he was an avowed atheist, but gazing into the vast desert, overwhelmed by its silent simplicity, he exclaimed, “My God, how beautiful you are!” That moment marked the beginning of his conversion.

True beauty leads us to God. This does not necessarily mean carbon copying the Romanesque and Gothic styles, which may not speak so easily to the generations of today. However, the need for beauty remains so that buildings can talk, and, when they do, they speak to us of God.