Triumph of Beauty

The use and role of art in the Catholic faith is boundless and intentionally so. As we can trace it from the graffiti of the catacombs to the great cathedrals of Europe, art has always stood as both sign and symbol of our faith. Catholic artists are called to use their gifts and talents to best reveal the truth and beauty of the faith. For the Church of Rome, the role of art and architecture was and has remained a tool of testimony.

In her latest book, How Catholic Art Saved the Faith: The Triumph of Beauty and Truth in Counter-Reformation Art, noted art historian Elizabeth Lev takes us through passages that art historians often neglect. That is, how art assisted the Church and helped restore the faith with the Council of Trent.

The book is divided into three sections, addressing the Protestant challenge to Catholic teaching on the sacraments, intercession, and the human place in salvation. Each chapter examines an issue and then presents and explains art (mostly from Italy) created to address that issue. The last chapter examines Michelangelo’s Last Judgment, which Lev calls “the ultimate Catholic response to the Protestant Reformation.” The book also includes a twenty-page set of short biographies of the major artists Lev discusses.

After the Protestant Reformation in 1517 and its destruction of sacred art, the Church had to defend its art. The Council is rarely discussed by art historians, and if discussed, almost always treated as an oppressive menace to the artists of the time, rarely as a call to action. Lev points out what Trent and the Counter Reformation meant to artists and the renewed responsibility it gave the artist. To frame her insights, she describes the influence of the saints on the artists of the time including Saints Philip Neri, Charles Borromeo, and Ignatius of Loyola.

As Franciscan spirituality was the inspiration of the Renaissance, the study of the body as the divine in our space and time remained a constant reminder of Christ with us. For the Protestant, the portrayal of the body of Christ became problematic.

With Jesuit spirituality, the stimulus for the artists shifted from the presence and place of the sacred to witness and transcendence. If the Renaissance focused on Christ as the Word made flesh, the artists of the Counter-Reformation were now charged with the presence of Christ in the Eucharist. Those very points disputed and rejected by the Protestant Reformation now became central.

Though mostly referred to by art historians as “Mannerism,” the art of the Reformation that followed Luther’s revolt is rarely examined as a statement of faith and as the bridge from the Renaissance to the Counter-Reformation. Starting with artists of the Reformation such as Michelangelo, Del Sarto, Bernini, Caravaggio, Gentileschi, Peter Paul Rubens, and Reni, all working with fever and fervor, Lev carefully shows us how the sacramental faith and the witness to the Most Blessed Sacrament become central in the Counter-Reformation.

With the theme of metamorphosis and the use of tenebrism and deliberate ambiguity of form and void, the painters and sculptors as well as the architects of the Counter-Reformation depicted the Sacraments of Holy Eucharist and Penance, guiding the Church and her faithful to both personal and communal transformation. As Lev tells us, “The debates of the present called upon these witnesses from the past and the artists were expected to close the gap of the centuries between those lives and the present through the employment of their prowess.”

Importantly, How Catholic Art Saved the Faith both answers those unanswered questions of Catholic art history and tacitly asks where we are now. As she writes, “The challenges and circumstances that the Church faced 500 years ago bear a striking similarity to the ones the faithful face today.”

As we find ourselves coming out of a severely mannered period of church art and design, we must ask: Was Modernism indeed our Mannerism? If so, how do we as Catholic artists and architects respond? Elizabeth Lev sheds new light on both the past and perhaps our future as we approach what may be a Second Counter-Reformation in sacred art and architecture.

Anthony Visco is the director of the Atelier for the Sacred Arts where he designs and produces works for the liturgical environment. He also teaches courses in sacred art both in Philadelphia and Florence, Italy.

| House Churches and Sacred Space

House Churches and Sacred Space

This engaging book offers a fresh perspective on how Christians understood and embodied their liturgical worship in the first three centuries. The author questions the conventional narrative that the early Church identified itself exclusively as an eschatological body of believers that rejected ideas of sacred space prevalent both in Second Temple Judaism and in the pagan environment, and saw no need for places dedicated specifically to ritual and worship.

The first generations of Christians did not have buildings set apart for liturgical celebrations, but assembled in domestic settings. Such “house churches” are the focus of this study, and Cianca defines them as unrenovated, private living space used for Christian worship. The author, who teaches classical studies at Bishop’s University in Canada, distinguishes early house churches from the later domus ecclesiae, buildings that were renovated and adapted in a more enduring fashion for liturgy and sacraments.

The mixed social structure of early Christian communities was reflected in the different types of housing where they met. These ranged from the domus and country estates of the upper classes to apartments of different sizes, as well as shops used for commercial and residential purposes. These varied forms of urban dwelling provided the setting for the daily life of the familia, the Roman household that could include extended family members, slaves, and visitors.

Cianca elucidates cultic and ritual practices in these domestic spaces, for which there is ample literary and archaeological documentation, including portable altars and shrines. The worship of household deities, such as the Lares and Penates, was an integral part of Roman family life. In the earliest stages, Christian communities would by necessity have met in inhabited spaces where pagan domestic cults had a visible presence. She is aware that much of her argument is hypothetical, and she is careful in making her claims.

According to Cianca, many Christian households, including those that hosted meetings for prayer and worship, would have continued to practise at least elements of Roman domestic cult. This claim is surprising, given that a stream of Christian apologists, such as Tertullian, Cyprian of Carthage, Lactantius, and Arnobius of Sicca, unequivocally reject pagan worship (both public and domestic) and exhort Christians not to take part in it.

Cianca muddles the waters by arguing that in earliest Christianity “attitudes toward the domestic gods were not always consistent.” While some authors considered these deities harmless and others saw in them a real threat, all condemned their worship. Cianca observes that domestic cults could not easily be set aside, because they were so essential to what being Roman meant. However, the same can be said of public sacrifices, from which Christians were bound to abstain.

The material evidence the author cites for the enduring adherence to, or perhaps rather tolerance of, pagan domestic cults in Christian settings is very slight: a bacchic frieze in the assembly room of the building in Dura Europos, commonly identified as a mid-third century domus ecclesiae, and material remnants of ancestor cult in the chapel complex of the villa at Lullingstone in Kent from the second half of the fourth century. Both cases, coming from the peripheries of the empire, are later than the period of house-church Christianity under scrutiny in this book.

The paucity and ambiguity of the available data does not support the weight of Cianca’s argument. Many believers made some compromise in times of persecution, and it is quite likely that even in Christian households, vestiges of Roman domestic cult continued. This may also be concluded from the fact that Christian authors continued to rail against it. In general, however, Cianca seems to underestimate the distinct self-identity of early Christians and their consciousness of being separated from the outside world.

At the center of this study is the thesis that, “despite a lack of materially articulated or physically separate space, the house-church Christians were indeed meeting in sacred space.” This sacred space was, by practical necessity, temporal not permanent, and it was constituted through and in ritual performed by the body of believers, especially the Eucharist.

Here Cianca draws on the insights of social anthropology and ritual studies, including the contributions of Arnold Van Gennep, Jonathan Z. Smith and Catherine Bell. The study would benefit from a more in-depth consideration of Victor Turner’s work on liminality and communitas, where he offers a complex description of the sacred that accounts for the important role of ritual.

Cianca’s non-theological perspective offers new insights into a field often obscured by denominational controversies, but also falls short of an adequate analysis of, above all, the meaning of the Eucharist for early Christians. The choice of endnotes makes the scholarly use of the book more difficult. For this reviewer, the significant contribution of this relatively short study lies in its conception of ritually constructed sacrality, which “allows for an organic, slower-moving development of early Christian sacred space, rather than reading a sea change into the building of the Lateran in Rome.”

Rev. Uwe Michael Lang is a priest of the Congregation of the Oratory of Saint Philip Neri and teaches at Allen Hall Seminary in London. His book Signs of the Holy One: Liturgy, Ritual and Expression of the Sacred was reviewed in the Fall 2016 issue of Sacred Architecture Journal.

| Paradox: Gothic Becomes Classic

Paradox: Gothic Becomes Classic

Anne-Marie Sankovitch’s opus stands tall in its purpose to demolish tired narratives based on dichotomies between structure and ornament, and the Gothic vis-à-vis the Italian Renaissance, as she does in The Church of Saint-Eustache in the Early French Renaissance, a careful study of the most important French Renaissance church and the only parish church in Paris to be raised in the sixteenth century.

First begun as a chapel in the early thirteenth century, the present building was constructed from 1532 to 1632. The church’s website says that we don’t know the name of the first architect. Sankovitch’s thesis is that Jean Delamarre became chief architect when work began in 1532.

He springs to life by her nuanced demonstration of how his Italianate forms and use of the orders were not merely fixed onto a Late Medieval fabrique in hybridization, but rather evolved with “agility” and expressivity so as to create a unique synthesis—which she refused to nail with a label. She argues that his presumed knowledge of both the Quattrocento and Serlio’s Seven Books of Architecture is crucial, but shows little of it and does not fully cite the latter anywhere.

The book’s timeframe is largely restricted to political and urban dynamics in the reign of Francis I. The king sponsored Saint-Eustache and self-identified with Philip II, who constructed Notre Dame, so that Notre Dame may be showcased as model for the grandeur and plan of the new church.

What of symbolic values? National historicism, or retrospection, is well recognized, and I like her idea that Cluny III provided a Romanesque model for Saint-Eustache’s framework due to “perception of a shared antique heritage,” which underlies the so-called Renaissance of ca. 1200. This was indeed Delamarre’s solution for embracing “the classical concept of a system of autonomous elements” in order to effect coherence—while serving as authentically French means for rejecting the anti-classicism of the Flamboyant style. This point, struck at the end of the book, at long last explains Sankovitch’s opening sentence that Saint-Eustache is “paradoxical.”

This book is Sankovitch’s published Ph.D. dissertation of 1991 from New York University’s Institute of Fine Arts. It was brought to fruition a decade following her death in 2005 at the age of 47, at the initiative of Marvin Trachtenberg, Edith Kitzmiller Professor of the History of Fine Arts at NYU, who also wrote an introductory essay.

His contribution was complemented by pithy contributions from Jean Guillaume, who wrote the foreword, and Étienne Hamon, who responded to it. They must be read altogether as portals into the book as it unfolds in seven thematic chapters and in 354 black and white photographs. The fact that her life’s (ultimate) work was produced by Brepols under these circumstances testifies to its importance.

However! It is not a monograph, from Alpha to Omega. The book does not contend with later construction campaigns; nor does it address questions of decoration, fenestration, space and light, theology and liturgical practice. The martyred namesake saint is dropped into a footnote; anecdotes on parishioners and tombs are nonexistent; and Sankovitch ignored the Wars of Religion (1562-1598), which destroyed the Valois monarchy and its Renaissance in France. Quotations were not translated.

The distinguished ad hoc team assumed Sankovitch’s readership would consist of architecture purists and French Renaissance specialists. What justified their work was her revised dating and alternative discourse on the complex origins of Early Renaissance architecture in Paris in the 1530s, via rigorous formalist description, especially of the support elements—piers and columns, capitals, and consoles—which she developed with laser-beam focus.

No one had done this before, and as a result, Sankovitch was empowered to dismiss the “ossified” oppositional criticism, not merely react against it. Viollet-le-Duc’s diatribe, the loudest of all, is happily muffled. Sankovitch’s method necessitated the retrieval and editing of her detailed photos, which are virtual eyes into her thinking—although one is tested by the inability to “see” the whole, and the constant flipping through pages.

Be warned that the formatting was left unfinished. There is no index or list of illustrations (and the in-text captions are brief); archival documents are excluded from the bibliography; and a first name is not always identified. An appendix of the chronology, at least up to the dedication of the church, in faraway 1637, would have been helpful in rescuing blocks of information from ponderous footnotes. In the end, however, a sympathetic reading is finely rewarded.

Simone Zurawski, Ph.D., is associate professor in the department of history of art & architecture at DePaul University. A member of the board of the Vincentian Studies Institute, she is writing a book on the iconography of Saint Vincent de Paul with the foundlings in nineteenth-century French art and architecture.

| Mystic Cave

Mystic Cave

The Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem, one of Christendom’s most eminent and ancient houses of worship, is unique among the loca sancta of the Holy Land. Like the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem, also erected by Constantine under the special patronage of Saint Helena, it bears both the ornaments and scars of its exceptionally long history.

Unlike the tangled and truncated structure that now enshrines Christ’s tomb, however, the monument to the birth of the Savior has almost miraculously survived seventeen long centuries of earthquakes, fires, and wars. Thus, despite a series of significant refurbishments and the lamentable decay ensured by the senseless stalemate of the status quo, the church has essentially preserved its original architectural genius intact.

In order to assure that this exceptional patrimony remains preserved—for the deterioration had reached a crisis state—a long-overdue cooperative effort of restoration was initiated in 2009. A team of experts began a thorough survey of the building in 2013.

As an outgrowth of this undertaking, Michele Bacci, historian of art and special consultant in the project, has addressed the remarkable lack of systematic studies of the shrine with The Mystic Cave: A History of the Nativity Church in Bethlehem. (Among his other books is The Many Faces of Christ: Portraying the Holy in the East and West, 300 to 1300.)

The nicely clothbound text is richly illustrated in color and enormously well-researched and documented. It is a shame that the bookmaker’s art was not always equal to the contents (pages 43–58 mysteriously reappear after page 306, for example).

The curious title—“Mystic Cave”—is a phrase lifted from Eusebius of Caesarea, who used it to describe the holy grotto designated by tradition as the site of Jesus’ birth: “God’s second home after heaven,” as a medieval author quaintly called it. A mysterious energy somehow infuses the place, absorbing the grace of the Incarnation and making it accessible to pilgrims. The architectural rendering of this cave into a coherent cultic space forms the leitmotif of Bacci’s text, which stresses the rich interplay between the humble grotto and the sumptuous upper church serving as its liturgical crown.

The book follows a simple chronological order, tracing the development of the church in three great acts of mise-en-scène: the sequential staging of the Constantinian shrine, its sixth-century renovation, and the magnificent twelfth-century joint redecoration by the Crusader Latins and Byzantine Greeks. The fourth and final chapter is a sad and extended tale of lost cohesion, passing through Muslim encroachments, ugly Christian factionalism, and the multiplication of devotional distractions.

Certain major features of Constantine’s basilica remain a mystery. Excavations in 1934 rediscovered the original mosaic carpet, a luscious pavement which lies several feet below the present floor. The sanctuary itself was an octagonal space, placed at the eastern end of the long nave and installed on a vertical axis directly over the grotto.

An oculus seems to have been cut into the floor, boring down into the cave so that worshippers might gaze down during services. This layering of the locus sanctus established the essential coordinates of the church, while subordinating the cave to the public eucharistic liturgy above.

After suffering damage, perhaps by riotous Samaritans or perhaps through a fire, a major reconstruction program was undertaken in the mid-sixth century, most likely under the emperor Justinian. Without altering the essential layout, much lovely ornamentation (still visible) was added. The critical innovation, however, was the opening of the grotto to the private devotion of the pilgrims, who could now descend beneath the bema into the holy grotto itself, entering from the southern transept and re-emerging in the north end of the church.

A climax of the story comes in the third chapter with the Crusader period, above all the gorgeous mosaics dating from the 1160s. Bacci expertly exposes the design of the vast pictorial program, executed in classical and dynamic Comnenian style.

One element missing in his discussion, however, is the observation of the placement of Passion scenes in the south transept and Resurrection scenes in the north. This reinterprets the pilgrims’ descent into and ascent out of the “mystic cave” as a baptismal-like passage from death to new life, crossed by way of the Lord’s Incarnation.

Bacci is correct that for many pilgrims today the upper church has unfortunately become a non lieu, a mere transitional space leading to the grotto below. Since the time of his writing the renovations have happily continued, however, and having visited the basilica frequently before, I can testify that the wonder of the newly uncovered upper church at Christmas 2018 promises a new era in the history of this august sanctuary.

Rev. Anthony Giambrone, OP, is a Domincan friar of the Province of Saint Joseph, assigned to the École biblique et archéologique francaise de Jérusalem, where he is professor of New Testament.  Besides his academic publications, he is a regular contributor to Magnificat and Catholic Digest.

| The Making of Church Screens

The Making of Church Screens

All Saints Church in Kenton, England
All Saints Church in Kenton, England

The eleven essays collected in this volume study the partitions separating the nave from the chancel or choir. A common feature of medieval churches, they are now mostly lost, casualties of the Reformation and early modern shifts in taste toward more open, unified interiors. Occasioned by a 2012 conference convened by the Cambridge University Medieval Panel Painting Research Center, which brought together scientists, conservators, historians of religion, and art historians, the papers vary widely in their scope and methods.

Though designed to demarcate and preserve the sacred nature of the space surrounding the altar and control lay access to it, these screens constituted a porous barrier. Extending laterally across the east end of the nave at its junction with the chancel, they typically feature a central opening, often furnished with a gate or door, situated on axis with the main altar and “signed” above by a large crucifix—the “rood” in England. Arguably the single most important representational image in medieval churches, such crucifixes were a particular target of Reformation iconoclasts, usually destroyed and replaced by panels bearing scriptural texts.

The essays reveal the varied terminology for these screens across and within countries, a range that reflects their diverse functions and forms. In addition to separating the nave (the church of the laity) from the chancel (restricted to the clergy), the screen structure also provided an elevated platform for preaching, liturgical reading, and the performance of religious drama.

“Screens” are an appropriate characterization of the wooden partitions in English parish churches and Dutch churches. The major item of furniture in such interiors, they generally were comprised of a solid dado topped by open tracery or arcading in the upper section and a rood loft. The monumental stone structures discussed in the papers on German and Italian churches were much more imposing: in Italy they are sometimes referred to as “bridges.”

The first seven essays, four of which are technical in nature, concern English rood screens in parish churches. One provides an overview. In addition to the Crucifixion, iconographic programs often included the Last Judgment in the chancel arch and, on the dado, apostles and local saints or saints favored by the patron. Such programs both reinforced church doctrine about the salvific economy and also promoted social cohesion while enhancing the prestige of the donor.

Other papers examine such features as wood types, moldings and jointing, pigments and paint application in screens. Among the interesting discoveries: costlier materials were used for the creation of the crucifix, and the account books of churchwardens provide a rich source of evidence of material and labor expenses.

The remaining two essays on English screens situate them within their social and cultural contexts. One interprets the Reformers’ effacement of their images and Latin inscriptions, supplanted by scriptural texts in the vernacular, as an effort to impose uniformity on the textual diversity of the late medieval church interior. The other relates the series of English royal saints depicted in the dado of a Norfolk screen to the late medieval appreciation of genealogical diagrams.

The remaining four essays turn to Europe. Focusing on a selection of German and French screens, one rejects the charge that they obstruct vision and reframes them as a key factor in the creation of a dynamic environment. The innovative paper demonstrates how the screens were “animated” by the performance of the liturgy and of religious drama, and by the movement of the worshipper during the mass and when walking about the nave.

A paper on Dutch screens notes their survival (sans imagery) through the Reformation and describes how they were adapted for the Calvinist celebration of the Lord’s Supper, held four times a year and restricted to the “truly converted.” Another essay, by Donal Cooper, summarizes recent scholarship on Italian screens, mostly in urban mendicant churches, and the sociological significance of their restriction of access to the altar in which both gender and social status are implicated. The final essay, on choir screens in Scandinavian parish churches before 1300, suggests that thirteenth-century developments on eucharistic teaching influenced the trend toward lighter, more transparent structures.

Geared to specialists, this collection presents a wealth of fresh material, including color photographs, mostly of English parochial screens and their carpentry details. Readers looking for sustained reflection on the theological and religious function of screens, and on how they could serve both to separate and unify, may be disappointed. Of the themes specified in the subtitle, the volume is more satisfactory in exploring the “making” and “preserving” of medieval church screens and less in plumbing their “meaning.”

Dianne Phillips is an art historian specializing in late medieval Italian art. She lectures on religious imagery to parish groups and college classes.

| Churches of Tomorrow

Churches of Tomorrow

In 1961 the Anglican Peter Hammond famously addressed in his book Liturgy and Architecture the relationship of church design to a reassessment of the church’s purpose. But until recently, the relationship between modern architecture and liturgy has still been largely overlooked. With its focus on the culture of American Catholicism, this new volume by Catherine Osborne makes a highly valuable and scholarly addition to a rising awareness of the connections between modern church architecture, liturgy, and the sacred arts in the twentieth century.

Broad in scope and researched over many years, this illustrated volume focuses on the contributions of American “Catholic modernists” in the last century. Osborne, who most recently taught in the department of Theological Studies at Loyola Marymount University, draws on holdings in libraries and archives from universities and dioceses, as well as interviews with many architects, artists, priests, and church members across the country.

She focuses on such questions as: How did many American Catholics come to believe that modern church design could help shape a discussion of modernization within the Church at large? What criteria did twentieth century American Catholics—especially those educated in theology and liturgical practice—use to judge sacred art?

At the center of her story is the work of Maurice Lavanoux (1894-1974), the editor of the journal Liturgical Arts, who served for forty years as secretary of the Liturgical Arts Society, a New York-based group which promoted the “advancement” of the Catholic arts. Amplifying and translating theological debates from Europe into an American context, he was influential in promoting the application of modernist design principles in Catholic church architecture, and for understanding the cultural manifestation of the Church as a living, changing body rather than a timeless and fixed entity.

As Osborne points out, his efforts helped many American Catholics see the necessity of moving beyond redundant discussions of the Neo-Gothic Revival. He urged instead the view that modern church architecture can be a means of engaging with deeper theological questions about the role of the Church in changing societal movements, values, and technological and material innovations.

In particular, Osborne documents an alignment between the advances in building technology that followed the Second World War and the Catholic Church’s embrace of a more modern theological perspective. Church leaders hoped that a more contemporary approach to church design would also spark a renewal of Catholic congregational life: advances in engineering would have theological implications. Undergirding Osborne’s far-ranging investigation is her argument that this collective sense of progress laid the groundwork for the social importance of modernist church design, which in turn helped to account for the reciprocal advocacy of creative change in sacred art and theology.

This reviewer would have liked a closer description of actual built projects, and an analysis of how the many issues described by the author could be read in terms of a church buildings’ spatial ordering, circulation, structure, and details. Osborne does for instance include intriguing details of new, even experimental forms of Catholic worship space at mid-century, including Mark Mill’s surreal proposal for a Chapel on the Moon (1967); Cardinal Bea’s proposal for a submarine chapel; or Paolo Soleri’s 1970 study Arcology: The City in the Image of Man.

Such visionary projects illustrate what Osborne calls the “Teilhardian moment in American religion and architecture.” She extends her exploration of Catholics’ concern for their physical environments into a discussion of urbanism and theology, as well as Catholic interpretations of Harvey Cox’s The Secular City (1965).

The book helpfully expands our understanding of the works of American architects and artists who built and designed for Catholic worship (including Marcel Breuer, Pietro Belluschi, and Barry Byrne), and the arguments that shaped an evolving understanding for the role of religious art and architecture. A valuable and fine-grained account of a broad subject, it will be a useful resource to architects and artists engaged in designing contemporary Catholic worship spaces, as well as those interested in the history of modern church architecture, liturgical arts, and the patterns of change in American Catholic culture.

Karla Britton is a Professor of Art History at Diné College in Tsaile, Arizona. She wrote Auguste Perret, the first monograph in English on the French architect, and edited Constructing the Ineffable: Contemporary Sacred Architecture.

| Protecting Sacred Sites in the Secular Age

Protecting Sacred Sites in the Secular Age

In 2014, I had the opportunity to pass through Durham to finally see in person the cathedral I had particularly admired from afar. That experience confirmed that Durham Cathedral was the apogee of the English Romanesque, but I also felt a certain hollowness, as if something was missing. More than a house for the tombs of Saints Cuthbert and Bede, the cathedral itself was a corpse, a building unensouled.

The fear of this reality inspired Marie Clausén to write Sacred Architecture in a Secular Age: Anamnesis of Durham Cathedral. Picking up her book, I was thrilled by the title. Here is someone, I thought, with a keen interest in saving Durham Cathedral from the emptiness an irreligious society has imposed on it.

In fact, Clausén, an academic book editor and poet, accepts that Christianity is passing away and will soon be gone. Christianity cannot save Durham or other ancient churches. What can, she asks? Is there a way that Durham can rise to new life when Christianity loses its significance?

At the core of the problem is the reality of a mechanistic modernity. The world has become desacralized in an attempt to tame nature and utilize it to seek pleasure and power. She is extremely perceptive in her portrayal of the ills of the modern globalist economy and draws on a variety of sources such as the conservative philosopher Roger Scruton and the psychiatrist Iain McGilchrist to demonstrate the ways our world oppresses the human person. Her most compelling passages describe the urban and architectural expressions of post-industrial neoliberalism, which are the antithesis of buildings such as Durham Cathedral.

Aware that this post-industrial neoliberalism is the face of secularism to most people, she finds a moral imperative in presenting the spiritual nature of the world so that with the collapse of Christianity she expects, the modernists will not win. If we are not careful, she warns, the transition from a Christian world to a secular one will empty our sacred buildings of meaning.

If we are to save our ancient sacred architecture, as Clausén emphatically believes we should, we must understand the nature of a properly secular spirituality. With its status as the most beloved building in Britain, she uses Durham Cathedral as the cornerstone on which to build a case for this post-Christian religion.

For what she proposes is not irreligion but a new religion. As David Foster Wallace says, “Everybody worships, the only choice we get is what to worship.” For Clausén, there may be a spiritual realm or there may not be, but our minds perceive something “numinous” about certain ancient piles of stone and it is our duty to connect with and protect these places, if only for our own sakes.

Although she is clear that nothing she says necessitates an actual deity, hiding behind her rhetoric of transcendent reality, “ghosts” within our sacred buildings, and the timeless nature of historic structures is Being itself, a philosophical god, an Unknown God. If Durham Cathedral is to be the centerpiece of a new religious worship, it will be at most what classical Christian thinkers call “natural religion,” the worship due to God understood through natural reason, not based on divine revelation.

Will this be enough to save Durham Cathedral? When it became clear that the ancient pagan gods were mythological and the stories about them were fabricated, the atheistic rulers attempted to maintain the pagan cults to no avail. If our worship is a lie, we soon grow tired of the duty. Clausén believes this is the fate of Christianity, but will a spirituality predicated on the unknown fare any better? Will not the disillusioned of the secular age reject the imposition of a religion based on vague personal perception?

Perhaps the only hope for Durham Cathedral is not in a vague, secular, natural religion, but in a clear statement of the truth of a divine being that became flesh and fills our sacred spaces and our souls. Clausén herself admits that anything less than traditional Christian worship at Durham Cathedral will appear inauthentic.

Without it, Durham will remain a museum piece, and not the spiritually pregnant edifice she wants. In this secular age of skepticism and existential mystery, Durham Cathedral needs to be a solid place to stand where we know our myths are true.

Can we save Durham Cathedral? Should we even try? These are, ostensibly, the questions at the heart of Sacred Architecture in a Secular Age. Flitting methodically between an apologia for secularism and a lament for a more numinous age, Clausén looks through her architectural subject to the existentialism that haunts modernity. Ultimately, though, the question is not “Can we save Durham Cathedral,” but “Can Durham Cathedral save us?”

Nathaniel Gotcher is an ecclesiastical designer and studies the theory of liturgical space with a focus on the Gothic tradition. He holds a Bachelor of Architecture degree from the University of Notre Dame with a minor in Medieval Studies.

| Mundum Pulchritudo Salvum Faciet

Editorial: Mundum Pulchritudo Salvum Faciet

“Is it true, prince, that you once declared that ‘beauty would save the world’? Great Heaven! The prince says that beauty saves the world! ... What beauty saves the world?”

—Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Idiot

Saint Vitus, Rome
Saint Vitus, Rome

The list of artists, architects, and dancers who are canonized saints is not very long. Yet the artists who tried to live saintly lives is. I knew one myself. Catholic artists live to make the world a more beautiful place and to allow Christ to be present in man’s highest creation. That creation is an art which edifies man and glorifies God.

I knew a ballerina who tried to portray joy in all that she did. She knew that it seemed natural to make dance about oneself, about novelty or eroticism. Her goal instead was to sanctify the art form, to reject the worldly and revive the good, the true, and the beautiful. The finest ballets share this with great art and architecture: a profound story is told, the music uplifts, and the performance is a work of excellence.

She was devoted to her craft, spending countless hours practicing and studying the works of great ballerinas. She pushed her body like an athlete to be the best physically and like a musician to be the best technically. Like all classical artists she sought out great teachers both living and dead, and wanted to bring new classical works of choreography to the public.

She was not a prodigy in high school, but pushed herself to improve and each year she gained technique and roles. She disliked mediocrity, especially in herself, and wanted to be perfect as her Heavenly Father is perfect. Her strength, like many Catholic artists, came from daily Mass and its extension, Eucharistic adoration.

Like some of the greatest artists and even saints, she died young, at twenty-three. She is my daughter, Raffaella Maria Adelaide Stroik. This was the prayer she wrote:

God, the Most High, I thank you for this opportunity to use my gifts that you graciously bestowed on me. I praise you and bless you for this expertise. May I use them to help glorify your holy name. May the talent and beauty I possess point to the exquisiteness that you bestow on the world. May all those that see it glorify your loveliness, for all things flow from you. Jesus, the searcher of minds and hearts, I invite you into my heart today. Create a new one within me. Replace my stony heart with one that beats only to love you. I want nothing, if not you. Send forth the Holy Spirit, the Bearer of love, joy, and peace, to rest upon me. Keep me free from harm, pure in heart. Keep me joyful in mistakes, passionate in holy desires. Keep me strong in adversity, confident in fear. Remind me that my soreness and bruises are proof that I loved fiercely. Help me to not let the suffering go to waste, and to offer it up to you as purification for my shortcomings. Saint Vitus and Saint Genesius of Rome, pray for me.

Duncan G. Stroik is the editor of Sacred Architecture Journal.

| S.O.S: Save Our Spire

S.O.S: Save Our Spire

Viollet-le-Duc's Gothic spire. Photo: Charles Marville, AIA/AAF Collection, Library of Congress
Viollet-le-Duc’s Gothic spire. Photo: Charles Marville, AIA/AAF Collection, Library of Congress

The French people have a lot of experience in rebuilding churches. World War II, World War I, various nineteenth-century governments, the French revolution, the Huguenots and before that, the barbarian hordes, all took a toll on these heavenly palaces. Not to mention fires and damage due to the travails of time. This latest fire, watched by tens of millions on the internet, calls for the rebuilding of the roof, the spire, and part of the ceiling of Notre Dame in Paris. Other elements such as stonework, stained glass and the magnificent organ are likely to be restored.

What is turning out to be the most controversial aspect of the vaunted restoration is the spire. In 1793 the original spire of Notre Dame cathedral was mutilated and taken down by the revolutionary government. For sixty years artists recorded the grand old dame without it.

Then in the 1850s, it was redesigned and rebuilt as part of a major conservation and rebuilding of the cathedral by the influential gadfly Eugène-Emmanuel Viollet-le-Duc.

One hundred sixty years later the French government had erected scaffolding and was commencing to restore the spire when it perished in a horrific conflagration. There was a huge outpouring of sympathy and donations, up to $1 billion, for the cathedral.

Why would people care about a cathedral in our modern secular age? It is clearly because Notre Dame is a beloved monument, a symbol of France and one of the best-known and most visited works of architecture in the world. But even more importantly, though perhaps not consciously felt by all, Notre Dame Cathedral is a sacred place.

Sometimes the goal is to rebuild the building similar to the way it was, and at other times the goal is to rebuild it bigger and better. In the case of the Notre Dame spire (or flèche) that burned, it was a nineteenth-century replacement. Designed by Eugène-Emmanuel Viollet-le-Duc, the preeminent Gothic architect of the nineteenth century, the spire was larger and taller than its predecessor.

Viollet’s spire was an octagonal flèche which rose 305 feet from the ground and 146 feet above the roof. According to Viollet, the wood structure weighed 550 tons and the lead covering was 275 tons.

What did Viollet do? He enlarged the spire by adding a second level to the base and stretching the central conical roof. He enlarged the base and modified the interior structure so that it could better withstand the storms that are the enemies of towers. After one such storm, Viollet verified that the spire had only moved twenty centimeters.

Interestingly, the octagonal base of the spire was rotated so that four of its corners aligned with the roof ridges. This allowed Viollet to arrange larger-than-life copper statues of apostles and evangelists above where the roofs meet. These are the sixteen statues sculpted by Victor Geoffroy-Dechaume that had already been removed for restoration when the fire struck. The statues stepped up the roof toward the base of the octagon with its columnar buttresses.

Beyond the buttresses, eight gothic arches with tracery like the windows of the nave supported a first level. A second level with smaller arches supported gables with tracery and gargoyle downspouts. The corner buttresses held pinnacles which are like miniatures of the central spire.

This conical spire was beautifully ornamented with hundreds of croqs or crockets on its ridges which soared ninety-five feet up in the air. On top there was a large cross with a weather-vane rooster containing relics: a thorn from Christ’s crown of thorns and relics of Saint Denis and Saint Genevieve, patron saints of Paris.

So why not replace Viollet’s spire with something new and improved? If the purpose is to do something that contrasts with the cathedral, a modernist spire will succeed. If the purpose is to be taller or made out of modern materials, many architects would be only too happy to oblige.

But what if the requirement is to do something better than Viollet, something more beautiful than the iconic spire at the crossing of one of the most well-known churches in the world? Using the Gothic language, that would be difficult to achieve. Nothing Gothic on this scale has been done since the completion of the National Cathedral in Washington, D.C., in 1988, and there are few architects adept at its syntax.

If that were the goal, it would disqualify all of the designs heretofore proposed. Of course it is conceivable that someone could design a new spire more beautiful than Viollet’s, but why should we even consider it?

The only criticism of Viollet’s spire I have heard so far is that it wasn’t original. Its youth, only 160 years old, is not a sin or a reason to replace it as if it were a nonfunctioning plumbing fixture. Unless someone can convince Parisians that Viollet’s spire was not in keeping with the cathedral’s architecture, had some functional structural flaw, or was ugly, then why not rebuild Viollet’s spire in all its Gothic glory?

Duncan G. Stroik is the editor of Sacred Architecture Journal.

| Spiritual Exercises: Muziano’s Circumcision Altarpiece

Spiritual Exercises: Muziano’s Circumcision Altarpiece

Chiesa del Santissimo Nome di Gesù all’Argentina in Rome. Photo: Damato
Chiesa del Santissimo Nome di Gesù all’Argentina in Rome. Photo: Damato

Built right after the Council of Trent, the Church of the Gesù (1568) stands in the heart of Rome on what seems to be an island flanked by streams of busy streets. The stark imposing façade proudly displays the monogram “IHS,” representing not only the name of Jesus in Greek but in Hebrew, the name the angel defined as “He who saves his people from their sins.”

Inside, with its eclectic array of artistic styles, one is greeted by an exuberance of angels and saints, biblical scenes, and relics, most notably the body of Saint Ignatius of Loyola, the arm of Saint Francis Xavier, and the arm of the martyred Saint Andrew Bobola—all underneath a ceiling that portrays the Name of Jesus resplendent in heavenly glory.

The interior of the Gesù as it appears today with the Circumcision painting by Capalti, which replaced Muziano’s in 1846. Photo:
The interior of the Gesù as it appears today with the Circumcision painting by Capalti, which replaced Muziano’s in 1846. Photo:

Photo: akg-images/Andrea Jemolo
Photo: akg-images/Andrea Jemolo

From the busy streets of Rome, the Gesù is a retreat into sacred beauty. But most importantly, it presents the visitor with the itinerary of a spiritual pilgrimage leading to union with God through means of the visual, so that he may be filled with the love of Divine Mysteries. It offers a moment of edification that can lead to conversion from sin.

Saint Ignatius’ Influence

One of the greatest influences in the decoration of the Gesù was the Spiritual Exercises of Saint Ignatius of Loyola, published in 1548.1 These meditations were a means toward union with God and his saints using the imagination. Ignatius writes: “When the contemplation or meditation is on something visible, for example when we contemplate Christ our Lord, the representation will consist in seeing in the imagination the material place where the object is that we wish to contemplate.”2

This representational meditation is an anamnesis, a remembrance of and participation in a sacred event. The mystery becomes alive, by adding color, architecture, emotion, and landscape. The meditation thus becomes a point of encounter between the soul and Christ and his saints. Sacred imagery becomes the visualization of the spiritual pilgrimage to the divine union the Spiritual Exercises pursue. It emphasizes not the anger of God at sinful humanity, but the merciful redemption of mankind through the sacrifice of Christ on the cross, by the shedding of his blood.

The Circumcision is the Gesù’s patronal feast, celebrated on the first of January. It is important especially due to the admiration for martyrdom during the era, as it unites the name of Jesus with the blood of Christ as the only means of salvation. In his circumcision, Christ first sheds his blood, prefiguring his eternal sacrifice on the cross. It is one of the first moments proclaiming that man has the hope of participating in the triumph to come, which is eternal life with Christ.

Muziano’s Biblia Pauperum

At the Gesù, from 1587 to 1589, Girolamo Muziano (1532-1592) portrayed the Circumcision of Christ at the church’s high altar. It depicts two important themes: that the Son of God, born of the Virgin, is given the name Jesus; and that this was the first moment that the salvific blood of Christ was shed, in expectation of the crucifixion which he willingly received out of love for man.

The Gesù represents the Jesuit tradition of designing churches as catechetical, devotional, and liturgical edifices in which the true teaching of Divine Revelation was enshrined in its decoration. The decoration acted as a “biblia pauperum,” where the visuals were “books for the poor or unlearned.”3 The altarpiece was a means of teaching and edification, or moving the senses, to desire invisible divine mysteries much in the style of an evocative sermon. The Holy Name and redemption is further emphasized by two other important chapels in the church: the left transept’s chapel originally dedicated to the crucifixion, the right one to the Resurrection.4

In light of the biblia pauperum, an altarpiece must be a faithful portrayal of the life of Christ. Muziano’s masterpiece is a pictorial commentary and meditation on Luke 2:21: “And at the end of eight days, when he was circumcised, he was called Jesus, the name given by the angel before he was conceived in the womb.”

Another source of the biblia pauperum can be found in liturgical sources such as the Breviarium Romanum, which usually gives the feast a spiritual or moral interpretation. The readings for the Matins of the Circumcision emphasize that Christ humbled himself as a small child, being born under the law. Like any child, he is circumcised to be dedicated to God, although he is in truth the holy and consecrated one of God. The breviary instructs the worshipper to circumcise his heart from sin, based upon Saint Paul’s teaching in Romans. As Christ underwent circumcision according to the law, he prefigured the forgiveness of sins which would be accomplished by the shedding of his blood and the Resurrection.

Fidelity to sacred Scripture, Tradition, and the liturgy is the foundation for the simple meditations of the Spiritual Exercises. These divine sources provide the first step for the representation prescribed by Ignatius. It is this tradition that Muziano follows while using artistic imagery and a holy imagination.

The visual technique of the Spiritual Exercises emphasizes that the Christian use his imagination to see the events in Christ’s life more spiritually and even mystically. Christ’s presence is in the here and now, and through this divine union, the soul can have a foretaste of transfiguration through grace.

Much like the Spiritual Exercises, Muziano’s art draws men closer to God. It goes beyond the catechetical purpose of merely educating the unlettered. Paintings are truly an educazione, that is, a formation beyond mere intellectual understanding. It is one that develops the interior life of the soul’s union with God.

The Circumcision

Muziano’s Circumcision. Photo: The Jesuits and the Arts 1540-1773
Muziano’s Circumcision. Photo: The Jesuits and the Arts 1540-1773

The original painting of the Circumcision by Muziano takes place in a loggia or a balcony of the Temple of Jerusalem, with the main figures situated on an orthogonal platform like actors on a stage.5 Christ is lying on a table/altar, which can be seen as a pictorial commentary on the Gesù’s actual high altar, situated below the painting which shall contain the unbloody sacrifice.

The child Jesus is not surrounded by a large crowd of figures that could distract from his place. The Son of God Incarnate with the humility of a child is the protagonist6 among a group of individuals supporting his role. The Mother of Jesus, the high priest, attendants, and pious men and women observe the scene.

The loggia or balcony opening up to a paradisaical vision of hills and valleys, trees and the heavens, and the setting of the sun, encourages the contemplation of the truth of the beauty of nature from which one can see something of the beauty of God.7 The landscape by its ideal beauty represents the presence of the numinous, while a liturgical and devotional dimension is given by the vertical perspective of the altarpiece and especially those of its figures.8

This altarpiece’s place within the greater plan of the Gesù also adds to its imaginative representation. The beauty of lapis lazuli, the gilding of sacred vessels, the painted ceilings, and the overall plan of the nave, point beyond themselves to the ineffable and divine beauty of God as earth leads to heaven. The beauty of creation becomes a meditative way to attain to a union with God whose beauty goes beyond human conceptions or symbols, which ultimately lack in the ability to describe this transfiguring reality.

Matter and divinity are united as if reflecting what Muziano’s biographer Ugo da Como describes as his artistic philosophy, that “art cannot be separated from life.”9 As art imitates the beauty of the various material aspects of life, it gives visual expression to the invisible and spiritual. Art cannot separate itself from the portrayal of life united to divine grace even during this earthly pilgrimage. Materiality is not negated but celebrated in its beauty, which is ultimately found in God.

Art That Portrays Life Eternal

Worshippers first gaze as they enter the Gesù ad orientem towards the Circumcision, with various mysteries of Christ’s life in the side chapels. As they lift their gaze skyward, a celestial fresco of the Triumph of the Name of Jesus (1679) by Giovanni Battista Gaulli (1639-1709) gradually transforms vibrant color that fades into the light of heavenly glory. Art then starts to portray life eternal.

Its founding principle is the humanity of Christ, which can be portrayed, and thus his earthly history becomes the door through which man can fulfill his desire to see, touch, hear, and taste Jesus’ divinity. Images make present in a mediative way the divine presence in a very incarnational manner. The senses find consolation, a flourishing of sanctified desire, in the portrayal of the sacred, rather than desolation of a deprivation of the beauty of God—a sensual and spiritual desolation where there does not seem to be love or hope by the seemingly palpable absence of God.10

In the altarpiece, the high priest is performing the rite of Circumcision, assisted by a Levite holding Jesus. Joseph looks on from the left, leaning on his staff, while the Virgin’s sorrow is evident.11 As Ignatius of Loyola observes, the beseeching child looks “to his mother, who has compassion for the blood that flows from her son.”12 Such sorrow reminds us of the prophesied sword that shall pierce her heart, and her witness while standing beneath the cross where Christ’s blood was shed.

The surrounding figures are in awe and grief, especially the prophetess Anna, the old woman standing in contrast to the youthful and sorrowful face of Our Lady.13 The gesture of the hands is eloquent of the apprehension of Mary and Anna; these gestures also reflect a spiritual elegance and modesty promoted in the artistic style of the era.14 Nearby are attendants carrying ointment and oils for the wound, and water to wash the hands of the priest.15

The figures have a sense of balance and proportion. The bodies resemble classical stylization, showing an ideal beauty understood in the Renaissance era to emphasize what is good, and thus what is true. The painting never separates the three transcendentals of goodness, truth, and beauty.

In the altarpiece, there is no exuberance or variety of emotion or color, decoration, or figures, that would distract the viewer from contemplating the sacred event. The painter’s prudence is evident. His painting unites the beauty of the human figure, the dramatic landscape of varying colors of blue revealing the dimming sunlight, the fine architecture of the High Renaissance, and divine history common to sacred art of the era.16

Muziano’s Way of Beauty

Through this via pulchritudinis, this way of beauty, Muziano reveals the dynamic of grace. The human condition is not negated, but divinized, thereby beautifying it, perfecting it, and ridding it of the stain, ugliness, and distortion of sin.

The Circumcision is a depiction not simply of one episode in Jesus’ life—it is a visually expressive moment where the Lord speaks to the soul of the individual looking at the painting. In it, the Lord reveals the mysterious and divine meaning of the historical event as spiritually relevant for the present. The Jesuit Jeronimo Nadal (1507-1580) points out that what is asked is not circumcision in the flesh or by the rule of the law, but of one’s heart.17 Circumcision of the heart means that the Christian should fiercely battle against temptations and the disordered passions of the flesh, which lead to perdition.

Without this battle, there is no union and interior beauty given by God’s indwelling in the soul. The circumcision of Jesus in the life of the believer is about the shedding of sins in order to rise to the heavens while on earth. A foretaste of Heaven would be the transformation of one’s interior life into a true tabernacle of God’s presence.

The Triumph of the Name of Jesus by Giovanni Battista Gaulli, 1679. Photo: Nguyen
The Triumph of the Name of Jesus by Giovanni Battista Gaulli, 1679. Photo: Nguyen

Muziano’s altarpiece was replaced with one of the same subject in 1846 by Alessandro Capalti (1810-1868). When it stood in its original place above the high altar, contrasting to the luminously magnificent ceiling painted by Gaulli with the triumph of the name of Jesus glorified in the heavens, the two together revealed the whole expanse of creation and pointed to its redemption through the blood of Christ, who was Incarnate of the Virgin Mary and who was given the name Jesus at the moment of his circumcision.

Alphonso Lopez Pinto is a theologian who researches sacred art. He is passionate about bringing the richness of the Catholic heritage to the faithful.


Dr. Pinto recommends as a good introduction to the history on the Church of the Gesù Aurelio Dionisi’s Il Gesù di Roma: breve storia e illustrazione della chiesa-madre dei gesuiti, third edition, updated and revised by Gualberto Giachi, Rome: ADP, 2005).

1. See Gauvin Alexander Bailey, Italian Renaissance and Baroque Painting under the Jesuits and its Legacy throughout Catholic Europe, 1565-1773 in The Jesuits and the Arts (1540-1773), edited by John W. O’Malley SJ, Gauvin Alexander Bailey, and Giovanni Sale SJ (Philadelphia: St Joseph’s University Press 2005), 123-198.

2. Ignatius of Loyola, The Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius: Based on studies in the language of the autograph, translated and edited by Louis J. Phul (Mansifeld CT: Martino, 2010), 170-171.

3. Howard Hibbard, “Ut picturae sermones: The First Painted Decorations of the Gesù,” in Baroque Art: The Jesuit Contribution, edited by R. Wittkower and I. B. Jaffe (New York: Fordham University Press, 1972), 40.

4. Bailey, “Italian Renaissance and Baroque Painting under the Jesuits,” 143.

5. Patrizia Tosini, Girolamo Muziano 1532-1592: dalla maniera alla natura (Rome: Ugo Bozzi, 2008), 456.

6. For the protagonist in Muziano’s paintings, see: Paola di Giammaria, Girolamo Muziano: Brixien pictor in urbe da Brescia a Roma, Acquafredda: Banca San Paolo di Brescia, 1997), 80.

7. Ugo da Como, Girolamo Muziano: note e documenti (Rome: lstituto italiano d’arti grafiche, 1930), 29-35.

8. Patrizia Tosini, Girolamo Muziano 1532-1592: dalla maniera alla natura (Rome: Ugo Bozzi, 2008), 289.

9. Como, Girolamo Muziano, 15.

10. Ignacio de Loyola, Ejercicios Espirituales (Santander: Sal Terrae, 1990), n. 317.

11. See Jeronimo Nadal, Adnotationes et meditationes in Evangelia quae in sacrosancto Missae sacrificio toto anno legvntur : cum Evangeliorum concordantia historiae integritati sufficienti : accessit & index historiam ipsam euangelicam in ordinem temporis vitae Christi distribuens (Antwerp: Martinus Nutius, 1595), 29.

12. Ignacio de Loyola, Ejercicios Espirituales, n. 266; See, Nadal, Adnotationes et meditationes, 29.

13. Tosini, Girolamo Muziano 1532-1592, 456.

14. Ibid.

15. See Nadal, Adnotationes et meditationes, 29.

16. Paola di Giammaria, Girolamo Muziano, 82.

17. Nadal, Adnotationes et meditationes, 31.

| Comfort or Beauty? Assessing Aesthetics and Mission in Protestant Church Design

Comfort or Beauty? Assessing Aesthetics and Mission in Protestant Church Design

Over the past several decades Evangelical Protestant churches have sought to build buildings that differ from traditional church architecture in order to attract unchurched individuals to the church. (I use George Barna’s definition of an unchurched individual as someone who has not attended a Christian church service within the past six months, excluding special services.)

This missions-based theory of church design is known as architectural evangelism. It proposes that traditional church architecture acts as a barrier for the unchurched and thus churches should build buildings rooted in secular typologies, using few or no ecclesiological markers, and constructed with low-cost materials. Familiar with this kind of building, the unchurched will be more apt to attend.

Supported by national conferences, monthly periodicals, and specialized design firms, architectural evangelism has visibly altered the religious built landscape of America. However, there has been little study of whether it does what it intends. In the past ten years, two studies examined how unchurched people responded to church architecture. Both Barna Research Group’s Making Space for Millenials and Lifeway Research Group’s “Sacred Space” concluded that they preferred more prototypical or traditional churches over secular-based churches.

Yet, these studies tested only a handful of images and did not explore the architecture. This paper looks at the results from an in-depth research study exploring the efficacy of architectural evangelism. Specifically, the research aims to explore the nature and relationships between the exterior design of Protestant churches and the judgements and preferences of unchurched people.

Influence of Evangelism

American Protestant church design has developed prototypical formulations through reflections on the relationships between liturgy, worship praxis, and space. It is also deeply influenced by the missionary or evangelistic call to reach individuals with the Gospel.

Historically, Protestant leaders have moved out from their churches, relocated to unchurched areas, and used non-church types of architecture, including warehouses, tents, schools, and theaters. This changed with the advent of the missionary theory known as “Church Growth theory”—the foundational missions theory of architectural evangelism.

Church Growth theory, developed by Donald McGavran and Americanized by his students at Fuller Theological Seminary, sought to utilize sociological tools to gain an understanding of a setting’s social, linguistic, and cultural context. Church leaders could then develop, refine, and utilize evangelistic tactics that were reproducible, effective, and contextual. (See McGavran’s Understanding Church Growth for an introduction to the theory.) Church Growth theorists found that in mass evangelism efforts like Campus Crusade and the Billy Graham crusades, a large number of individuals were converted yet few ultimately integrated into a church.

Church Growth theorists developed and propagated the idea that a more effective evangelism tactic would be to use the local church as the source of the evangelistic call. They shifted the direction of mission efforts from “going out” to reach the unchurched to “attracting” them into the church.

The rise of Church Growth theory was fueled by the adoption of its principles by several prominent Evangelical megachurch pastors. Among the best known are Robert Schuller of the Crystal Cathedral, and Rick Warren of Saddleback Church, both in southern California, and Bill Hybels, former pastor of Willow Creek Church outside Chicago. They used sociology to understand the unchurched. An example of such work is journalist Lee Strobel’s book Inside the Mind of Unchurched Harry & Mary. They tried to create a church with no barriers to unchurched participation.

This included architectural design. As a heading in a 1996 Willow Creek Leadership Conference brochure read, “Traditional church forms can be barriers to our communicating with unchurched people.” Therefore, the question for church architecture became how to design a building that would remove barriers of communication such that the Gospel could be presented to individuals familiar with contexts such as the modern office building. An example of this work is Martin Robinson’s A World Apart: Creating a Church for the Unchurched.

Architectural Evangelism’s Prescriptions

Their discussions ultimately produced a missiological design logic for unchurched church architecture. Several design prescriptions formulate the basics of architectural evangelism’s missiological logic.

In short, the logic states that traditional church design is a barrier for unchurched and therefore churches should: be designed with more modern and familiar secular styles; remove ecclesiological markers; and avoid ornate buildings to avoid perceptions of hypocrisy. Unchurched individuals will have a higher level of preference, sense of comfort, and ultimately will be drawn to the church.

To examine the efficacy of architectural evangelism’s design prescriptions, a research study was completed using what is called an image-based sorting task interview. It used four case studies, with 200 participants.

The study used four churches in two locations: southeastern Michigan and southern California. In each location two churches were selected, one that had adopted the tenets of architectural evangelism and one that had not. Each had a worshiping population between 500 and 1500. Each selected self-affiliated with Evangelical Protestantism, the trans-denominational movement which has the highest adoption rate of architectural evangelism.

Two hundred individuals participated in the research: twenty-five from each case church and twenty-five unchurched people living close to each one. The churched individuals were chosen in proportion to each church’s age and sexual demographics. The unchurched participants were recruited so that there were corresponding age and gender demographics with the churched participants.

Image-Based Sorting Task Interview

The research utlized an image-based sorting task interview. Each participant was interviewed in a one-on-one in-person format for approximately one hour.

Twenty-five exterior images of churches constituted the set of test images. The images were selected according the design’s use of four architectural characteristics:

1. Ecclesiological elements

(strong, moderate, none)

2. Historic styling

(historic, non-historic)

3. Roof design

(pitched, flat)

4. Compositional hierarchy

(pre-modern, mixed, post-modern)

The images were selected to create a fully-crossed set with each image designated as a combination of the design criteria. (We’ll look at 1, 3, and 4 here.)

Participants were asked to respond to a series of prompts which asked them to rank the images according to preference and to sort them according to their:

1. Sense of comfort in approaching or entering the building

(comfortable, uncomfortable)

2. Perception of aesthetic quality

(beautiful, ugly)

3. Perception of proto-typicality

(looks like a church, does not look like a church)

4. Past experiences

(looks like a church I’ve had experience with, does not look like a church I’ve had experience with)

The data was analyzed for statistical significance and correlation using standard statistical tests (the Kruskal-Wallis statistical test with corresponding post-hoc measures and Spearman’s Rho correlation analysis.

Mariner’s Church Chapel represents the high end of the scale of the case study research (most preferred, most beautiful). Photo: Visioneering Studios and davega photography 2009

Mariner’s Church Chapel represents the high end of the scale of the case study research (most preferred, most beautiful). Photo: Visioneering Studios and davega photography 2009

East Hills Church in Riverside, California, represents the low end of the scale of the case study research (least preferred, least beautiful). Photo: Author
East Hills Church in Riverside, California, represents the low end of the scale of the case study research (least preferred, least beautiful). Photo: Author

Preferences for Exterior Church Design

The interview asked individuals to rank the set of images according to their preference. Architectural evangelism expects that unchurched individuals would have a higher preference for modern non-church architecture, for architecture with few to no ecclesiological elements, and with flat roofs and post-modern compositional hierarchies.

However, the results suggest that this may not be the case. On the effect of ecclesiological elements, we found that unchurched respondents strongly prefer church buildings with a strong use of ecclesiological design elements, followed by a moderate use, and least prefer buildings with no use of ecclesiological design elements. Churched respondents also prefer church buildings with a strong use of ecclesiological design elements, and vary on secondary preference for moderate or no use of ecclesiological elements. Churched individuals that attend churches that adhere to architectural evangelism had a higher tolerance for no ecclesiological markers.

On the effect of roof design, we found that both unchurched and churched prefer buildings with sloped roofs over buildings with flat roofs. And on the effect of compositional hierarchy, we found that unchurched and churched respondents do not prefer churches designed with a modern compositional hierarchy. Churched individuals who attend architectural evangelism churches prefer more mixed façade composition hierarchies.

Overall, both groups preferred the use of traditional ecclesiological design profile. This result stands in stark contrast to ideas found within architectural evangelism theory.

Comfort with Exterior Church Design

The participants were also asked to rank the set of images according to the level of comfort they would have attending the church for a church-sponsored service or event. They were asked to rank the images within a 5-point Likert scale from Very Comfortable to Very Uncomfortable.

On the effect of ecclesiological elements on the participants’ perception of their comfort in being in the church for a church event, we found that the unchurched consistently found church buildings with stronger use of ecclesiological elements in their design to be more comfortable. Churched individuals from architectural evangelism churches were more comfortable in mixed compositional hierarchies than pre-modern hierarchies.

On the effect of roof design, we found that everyone felt more comfortable with church buildings with sloped roofs than church buildings with flat roofs. And on the effect of compositional hierarchy, both churched and unchurched judged buildings with a modern compositional hierarchy as less comfortable. Unchurched individuals find buildings with a pre-modern or mixed compositional hierarchy to be more comfortable than modern buildings. Churched individuals agree, with a slight variation. Churched individuals from architectural evangelism churches find mixed compositional hierarchies to be more comfortable.

Overall, the use of traditional ecclesiological design correlates with higher judgments of comfort by the unchurched. Again, this finding is contrary to the design prescriptions of architectural evangelism—suggesting that the efficacy of the prescriptions may be in error.

Importance of Beauty

In addition to comfort and overall preference, the interview asked participants to complete a ranking and sorting exercise based on their perception of aesthetic quality, prototypicality, and past experience. Some of the key observations are:

First, participants found churches designed with a strong use of ecclesiological elements, sloped roofs, and pre-modern use of compositional hierarchy to be the most beautiful.

Second, they judged churches designed with low-cost or austere construction methods to have the least aesthetic quality (i.e., to be ugly).

Third, they judged a church to be prototypical if the church’s design made strong use of ecclesiological elements, had a sloped roof, and utilized a pre-modern compositional hierarchy.

The study then sought to explore the relationships between the judgment criteria via statistical correlation. This revealed an important observation.

Most notably, the strongest correlation to unchurched preference is not comfort, as predicted by architectural evangelism. The strongest correlation to both preference and comfort is judgments of aesthetic quality—or an individual’s perception of beauty. Furthermore, this is stronger in the unchurched than in the churched.

Second, comfort and preference is positively correlated with judgments of church prototypicality. This observation stands in contrast to architectural evangelism. Finally, past experience, while positively correlated, plays a much lesser effect on comfort and preference than aesthetic quality.

Efficacy of Architectural Evangelism

The research suggests that the efficacy of architectural evangelism’s design prescriptions may be limited. Unchurched individuals are not primarily driven by perception of comfort, nor do they prefer churches designed with non-prototypical secular based modern forms. Rather, they, like churched individuals, are primarily motivated and drawn to perceptions of beauty—which are best understood as churches designed with prototypical form, including strong use of ecclesiological elements, sloped roofs, and pre-modern and mixed compositional hierarchies.

Ultimately this research suggests two ideas contrary to architectural evangelism: First, the Protestant church interested in attracting unchurched individuals should stop asking what the unchurched find comfortable, and begin asking what they find beautiful; and second, aesthetics is not a superfluous expenditure for a church, but at its root, is a part of its mission.

Rev. Dr. Matthew Niermann serves as the Associate Dean of the College of Architecture, Visual Arts and Design at California Baptist University. Situated at the intersection of architectural empirical aesthetics and Christian missiology, Matthew’s research explores the contextual compatibility of Protestant church design in the United States.

| He is Here

He is Here

It may have been partly the bright light, I admit, after all those crepuscular chapels. As soon as I opened the door, before I saw the altar, or the tabernacle, or the crucifix, when all I could see were pews, I felt at home. “Jesus is here,” I thought with complete certainty.

My family and I had been received into the Church at the Easter Vigil three months before. I was in Oxford for a conference on Newman. A theologian friend, John Saward, also a convert, had given me a tour of the city, particularly the old college chapels. Some memorialized our former Anglican heroes. Saint Mary the Virgin on High Street memorialized our hero Newman when he was an Anglican.

Saint Mary the Virgin on High Street at the University of Oxford. Photo:
Saint Mary the Virgin on High Street at the University of Oxford. Photo:

And the reverse as well. It included the spot where the Reformation father Thomas Cranmer had been tried and convicted for tearing England away from the Church.

It had been a lovely day, full of the history and architecture I had loved as an Anglican, and was missing as a new American Catholic. (Our new parish was particularly inane and ugly. You wonder what serious architect could have thought it worth building.) All that history, beauty, all those lovely old chapels and churches. Then John suggested we end the day praying in the chapel of one the Catholic halls.

I don’t remember which chapel we visited, but a room of Anglican beauty it was not. It was fairly spare, with few shrines or candles or statues, and Ikea-style pews. Nothing to make your heart soar. But Jesus was there.

A Fussy Anglican

I had been a fussy Anglican. The aesthetic side of religion mattered much to me. I said then that beauty conveyed the eternal. Now I suspect I didn’t believe in the eternal as much as I thought. After we entered the Church, that feeling gradually left me. Ugly buildings and sloppy celebrations and sing-songy music that would have left me grumbling all Sunday afternoon didn’t bother me.

It was what my new brothers and sisters found meaningful, I thought. I had entered their Church and should not demand my own way. More than that: after years of deep commitment in what had been (somewhat unknowingly) a subjective form of Christianity, I was struck, and drawn, and compelled by Catholicism’s objectivity. It came as a liberation from a piety that depended either on what a Catholic would call scruples or a dangerous over-confidence in one’s closeness to God.

Jesus sits there in the tabernacle. He is there, whether or not I believe it, or feel it, or want it. He is there even if the church is ugly, the mass badly celebrated, the music insufferable. I loved the fact that Jesus is, as I liked to say, always just around the corner. My Anglican friends would roll their eyes, and some of my Catholic friends shake their heads, but with Jesus there, I could put up with pretty much anything.

I still feel that way. The Church who so calmly, serenely, objectively declares the truth, who brings Jesus to us body and blood, soul and divinity, transformed my mind and life. Give me the worst suburban mass over the most beautiful Anglican choral Eucharist. That world I don’t pine for.

Now, as the shrinking and aging diocese of Pittsburgh starts closing churches, one of which may be ours, I feel somewhat differently. Three or four years after we entered the Church, we stopped going to the church in whose boundaries we live, the ugly one, for several reasons. One is that the 1961 building is so ugly: a semi-overturned ark, red brick-walled, with inane abstract stained glass windows, and behind the altar a tall bas relief of Jesus giving what seems to be the Queen’s wave, the one where she holds her wrist still and moves her hand from side to side. His left hand, too. The choir sits facing the people on risers to the right of the sanctuary.

Recent pastors have done what they could, one putting the tabernacle behind the altar, another putting a statue of Mary behind it to the right. But still, they can’t do much with the building. It doesn’t feel like a sacred space. It feels to me like a space made not to be sacred. Jesus is there, but the building tries to tell you he’s not.

This is a Catholic Church

The parish we go to in the working class town across the river was built by Italian immigrants one-hundred-some years ago. Everything in the church says “This is a Catholic church”: the stained-glass windows picturing the biblical stories, the traditional stations along the nave, the Lady and Saint Joseph shrines on either side of the altar with their candle racks and their big statues, the shrine to the right with the Pietà and the statues of Saint Pio, Saint Thérèse of Lisieux, and Saint Anthony of Padua, the fresco of the Holy Family above the altar, the carved wood reredos with the realistic crucifix and the traditional gold tabernacle below it.

I still love the objective reality of the Church, and especially the reality that Jesus is here—and here no matter with what kind of church we surround him. Life can be hard. Faith can be hard. What I really need is for a church that says not only “Jesus is here,” but here is the history and here are the stories and here are Our Lady and the saints, this is where a taste of heaven can be found.

I light a candle at Saint Joseph’s shrine for a dying friend every Sunday. I then pray kneeling before that Pietà, meditating on the Mother of God holding her dead son, the dead son of God. I sometimes just sit in the pews and look around at all the things in that church that say “Jesus is here.” I need that.

Saint Paul Cathedral, Pittsburgh. Photo:
Saint Paul Cathedral, Pittsburgh. Photo:

David Mills, consulting editor of Sacred Architecture, is editor of Hour of Our Death ( and is writing a book on Catholic death and dying for Sophia. He is the former editor of Touchstone and executive editor of First Things.

| Reciprocity Between Window and Wall in Renaissance Florence

Reciprocity Between Window and Wall in Renaissance Florence

The “window wall” of the Tornabuoni Chapel in Santa Maria Novella, Florence. Frescos and stained glass by Domenic Ghirlandaio, 1485-1490. Photo: Author
The “window wall” of the Tornabuoni Chapel in Santa Maria Novella, Florence. Frescos and stained glass by Domenic Ghirlandaio, 1485-1490. Photo: Author

Renaissance art was essentially public art, even as it was commissioned by single individuals and religious and civic organizations. The donor was keen to see the monument in a public place, accessible to all. It was a mark of status, a demonstration of piety, and a call for remembrance and prayers.

Religion, economics, and politics were linked. “Governments underscored their legitimacy with memorable images in which divine and civic virtues were combined,” explains the Renaissance specialist John Paoletti. The wealthy merchants’ status depended on their acumen and their largess in the decoration of the religious orders’ sites.

Prayer was another powerful incentive to pay for religious work. The patrons of the time were deeply convinced that prayers for the dead were essential for their ultimate reception in heaven. The chapels they supported were the sites where priests daily offered masses dedicated for the souls in purgatory. The prayers of the living were believed to be efficacious in obtaining forgiveness for any errors committed by individuals on earth and thus hasten their entry into heaven.

Florence’s Stained Glass

Let us look at the stained glass in Florence. Too often scholars neglect the stained glass of Florentine churches in favor of narrow studies of the frescos and the artists’ personal styles. The guidebooks often skim over the windows to concentrate on the non-translucent decorative elements.

In most cases the windows, frescos, and the altar pieces were commissioned as an ensemble. The city is splendid since so many works of art remain in their original locations and therefore the ensembles remain together.

The patrons were powerful families in Florence. They were keen to acquire the finest product using specified materials to reflect the imagery dear to the family. We have ample evidence through tax records and contracts between artists and patrons that issues such as size, time of completion, and guarantee of the artist’s personal contribution, not simply his workshop, would be part of the enterprise.

These contracts frequently specified materials. They might mandate a high-cost blue pigment derived from crushing lapis lazuli, a semi-precious stone, for example, or real gold leaf, not a yellow paint substitute.

We will look at three churches. First, Santa Maria Novella, a foundation of the Dominican order located in the northwest part of the city. Then we will look at Santa Croce, the Franciscan church in the southeast part of the city. Finally, Florence’s cathedral, Santa Maria del Fiore, in the center of the city.

Santa Maria Novella

Families jealously guarded their rights to decorate chapels. The Ricci family had long held the right to decorate the walls of the chancel of Santa Maria Novella, but fell into financial straits, forcing them to declare bankruptcy in 1348. The original frescos in the chapel, painted by Andrea and Bernardo Orcagna in the mid-fourteenth century, had by the 1480s become severely water damaged. Still financially vulnerable, the family sold its right to the Sassetti family, wealthy bankers of the Medici.

Francesco Sassetti wanted a series of frescos to honor the life of Saint Francis of Assisi. The Dominicans opposed having images of the “competition” set in a central worship area of the church. Sassetti subsequently shifted his attention to Santa Trinita, which, although not a Franciscan foundation, accepted the subject matter. The Sassetti chapel there, painted by Domenic Ghirlandaio, included a portrait of the donor and six impressive scenes of the life of Francis.

The Riccis then sold their right to Giovanni Tornabuoni, who promised to continue the subject matter of the earlier, damaged frescos. He had risen to prominence as treasurer for Pope Sixtus IV, who reigned from 1471 to 1484. A fresco of him kneeling in prayer appears immediately to lower left of the window wall. His arms, a rampant lion quartered in green and gold, appears in the window he faces.

The chapel is renowned for its extensive and well-preserved fresco cycle and windows created by Ghirlandaio and his workshop between 1485 and 1490. (Ghirlandaio was buried at the church when he died in 1494.) The windows were fabricated by Alessandro Florentino. The chapel is dedicated to the Assumption of the Virgin and the major themes are the Life of the Virgin and the Life of Saint John the Baptist, the subject matter of the original frescos.

On the left wall, below the Massacre of the Innocents, we see the Marriage of the Virgin to Saint Joseph. On the window wall above the donor portrait, we see the Annunciation, with the Archangel Gabriel kneeling before Mary. In the window, Saint Dominic holds lilies, Saint John the Baptist holds a cruciform staff, and, at the top, Saint Peter carries a book and keys.

The central section begins with the Miracle of the Snow. The legend tells that the Virgin appeared in a dream to Pope Liberius, asking for a church in her name. The following morning, despite it being August, snow fell, outlining the dimension of the church. Begun in 432, the basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore is one of the most venerable in Rome.

Above the Miracle is the Presentation of the Christ Child in the Temple Above that is the Assumption of the Virgin, who lets down her girdle to Saint Thomas, a reference to the tangibility of her physical assumption to heaven. To the right, the row begins with Saint Thomas Aquinas wearing a star-studded robe and holding a sun of divine radiance, symbol of his inspired theology. Above him Saint Lawrence, a deacon in Rome, holds his grill, the symbol of his martyrdom. At the top is Saint Paul, a complement to Saint Peter on the left.

Saint Thomas Aquinas in the Tornabuoni Chapel, Santa Maria Novella, 1485-1490. Credit: Author
Saint Thomas Aquinas in the Tornabuoni Chapel, Santa Maria Novella, 1485-1490. Photo: Author

The completion of the chapel in 1490 is recorded in a Latin inscription placed on the arch in the fresco of Zachariah receiving the angel’s message: An [anno] MCCCCLXXXX quo pulcherrima civitas opibus victoriis artibus aedifichiisque nobili[s] copia salubritate pace perfruebatur (During the year 1490 the most beautiful city for wealth, victories and commerce, famous for its monuments, enjoyed abundance, health and peace).

Chapel of Filippo Strozzi, Santa Maria Novella, Florence. Frescos and stained glass by Filippino Lippi, 1487-1502. Credit: Author
Chapel of Filippo Strozzi, Santa Maria Novella, Florence. Frescos and stained glass by Filippino Lippi, 1487-1502. Photo: Author

The chapel to the right of the main altar was commissioned by Filippo Strozzi and decorated by Filippino Lippi between 1487 and 1502. Strozzi had been exiled to Naples and the commission was part of an extensive campaign to rehabilitate his family name. A contact has been preserved between the patron and the artist, one that his heirs continued after Filippo’s death in 1491.

The frescos of the window wall are executed in primarily grisaille, or neutral tones. In one, a pagan muse, music, holds a lyre and instructs a child to play the pan flutes. The illusionistic architecture creates a three-dimensional “trompe l’oeil” foil for the deeper colors in the glass.

Lippi also apparently designed the windows. In the main window, the Madonna and Child appear below a wreath with the Lamb of God. Below, under the Strozzi coat of arms showing a gold shield with a red band carrying three white crescents, we see the apostles John the Evangelist and Philip, name saint of the patron. On the left wall, Saint John the Evangelist resuscitates the Christian woman Druisana who had welcomed him in her home in Ephesus, a legend from early Christian times.

The Spanish Chapel

Each religious order was keen to promote its work in religious and social spheres, and did so in the decoration of their churches and buildings. We can see that in the Spanish Chapel, off the smaller cloister immediately to the left of the basilica. It honors the Dominicans in an extraordinarily complex and original composition. It retains one of the most admired fresco cycles of its time.

On the left side, the thirteenth-century Dominican philosopher Saint Thomas Aquinas sits enthroned, flanked by figures from the Old and New Testaments. Below him are personifications of the sciences and academic disciplines, such as canon law, music, and grammar, and below each of them its most notable proponent in history. Euclid sits below Geometry, for example.

On the next wall, the altar wall, we see a moving narrative of the crucifixion. On the right wall, directly across from the image of the enthroned Thomas, the Dominicans honored their history as preachers by depicting luminaries of the order, Thomas Aquinas and Saint Peter Martyr, campaigning against heretics through text and speech. The entrance wall honors Saint Peter Martyr.

The Franciscans’ Santa Croce

The Franciscans were no less distinguished. Santa Croce’s numerous chapels were decorated by important families. The Baroncelli Chapel is one of the most celebrated. Located in the southern transept of the church, it commands a distinctive place within the building.

Baroncelli Chapel, Santa Croce, Florence. Frescos and stained glass by Taddeo Gaddi, 1328-1334. Credit: Author
Baroncelli Chapel, Santa Croce, Florence. Frescos and stained glass by Taddeo Gaddi, 1328-1334. Photo: Author

In the center is a large two-light window with three rows of saintly figures. A series of six images presents, from the bottom, John the Evangelist and Bartholomew, Louis of Toulouse and Sylvester, and Peter and John the Baptist. At the very top of the window Saint Francis receives the stigmata from the seraphic vision. Five of the saints in the windows are name saints of members of the Baroncelli clan as they are listed on the tomb: Pietro (Peter), Vanni (a diminutive of Giovanni for John the Baptist and John the Evangelist), Salvesto (Sylvester), and Bartolo (Bartholomew). The Baroncelli coat of arms, a white shield with transverse bars of red, crowns the window.

Detailed images of the window show the color palette favored in Florence. In contrast to the insistent red and blue of French medieval glass, the Florentine windows incorporate a significant mixture of green and yellow.

The chapel was probably completed from 1328 to 1334 (the date of 1328 is inscribed on the Baroncelli tomb). The Baroncelli were discerning, ordering an altarpiece from arguably the most important painter of the era, and the fresco cycle from his most distinguished pupil.

The altarpiece, showing the Coronation of the Virgin, is signed by Giotto, responsible for cycles of frescos in the Basilica of Saint Francis in Assisi and the renowned Scrovegni Chapel in Padua. Scholars have debated to what extent the master executed the work and what part his assistants played, as he accomplished his extensive work with the aid of a large workshop. A long tradition dating from the fifteenth century ascribed the frescos to Taddeo Gaddi, who was a close associate of Giotto, and the windows are associated with him as well.

The chapel’s dedication honored the Virgin Mary and both the frescos and the altarpiece elaborate narratives of her life. We perceive a dynamic reciprocity among altarpiece, window, and frescos. The viewer’s eye darts from subject to subject across the walls and within each scene; we read a story.

Altarpiece and Window

Both altarpiece and window command a central place. Light penetrates the space through the intense colors of the window just as the gold gilt of the altarpiece radiates light from its surface. Both altarpiece and window preserve a hieratic order, emphasizing presence. The saints, suspended in glassy brilliance, suggest to the viewer the glories of transfigured light enjoyed in the beatific vision. In contrast, the frescos, spread in bands across enveloping space, communicate an earth-bound narrative.

In the window wall, the narrative at the top on the left shows the Annunciation to the Virgin, the moment when Gabriel tells her that she will be the mother of the Messiah. On the right we find the Visitation, when the expectant Virgin visits her cousin Elizabeth who is pregnant with John the Baptist. Below, on the right is the Nativity of Jesus and on the left, the news communicated to the shepherds.

The second scene is a brilliant nighttime composition, showing two startled reclining shepherds illuminated by the glow of the angelic appearance. Gaddi’s image has remained a touchstone in art, with painters coming after him striving to capture a night scene with such clarity and intensity. Just below, the three Magi look up to a glowing star, in which the Christ Child stands, and on the right they kneel down and worship him.

Barely glimpsed, on the left, is a cycle on the early life of the Virgin. It shows Joachim, her father, expelled from the Temple because he has no child, an angel telling him of the promise of a child, his meeting with his wife Anna at the Golden Gate, the birth of the Virgin, her presentation in the Temple, and her marriage with Joseph.

To the right stand monumental figures of David holding the severed head of Goliath and above him Jesse, the founder of the line of David. Jesse was often depicted in conjunction with the Birth of Christ, following Isaiah: “And there shall come forth a shoot from the stump of Jesse, and a branch shall grow out of his roots.”

The Bardi Chapel

Santa Croce’s Bardi Chapel, to the right of the main altar, was decorated by Giotto in about 1310. The Bardis were bankers established in the thirteenth century. By the fourteenth century, with thirteen international branches—in London, Barcelona, Bruges, Paris, and other places—they were powerful enough to fund the English monarch, Edward III, during his war with France.

Bardi Chapel, Santa Croce, Florence. Stigmatization of Saint Francis and window by Giotto around 1310. Photo: Michel M. Raguin
Bardi Chapel, Santa Croce, Florence. Stigmatization of Saint Francis and window by Giotto around 1310. Photo: Michel M. Raguin

On the exterior wall above the chapel opening, the Stigmatization of Saint Francis draws attention to the stories of the saint’s life on the interior walls. Indeed, the iconic image acts as a summation of the life of the saint. Framed by a stark mountainous landscape, Francis kneels outside a chapel. A seraph bearing the form of the crucified Christ hovers in the sky above.

Giotto not only designed the frescos but the stained glass in the narrow lancet above. On the lowest level, we see Saint Louis of Toulouse wearing a blue cloak with fleur-de-lis, a symbol of France, and Pope Gregory IX in a red chasuble. The pope was a supporter of the mendicant orders and had canonized both Saint Francis and Saint Anthony of Padua. On the next level is Gregory’s predecessor Pope Innocent III who approved the Franciscan Order. Next to him stands Saint Anthony of Padua, an immensely beloved Franciscan saint, barefoot, tonsured, and in simple, brown robes.

Santa Maria del Fiore

Florence’s cathedral, Santa Maria del Fiore, often called the Duomo, was equally embellished with stained glass set within frescoed walls and chapels. Begun in 1296, the building was designed by Arnolfo di Cambio, also architect of Santa Croce. Its construction continued intermittently over the next century, the nave being completed by 1380. In 1418, the competition for the design of the great dome, the largest since Roman antiquity, was won by Filippo Brunelleschi.

Its completion in 1436 was a major event. Pope Eugenius IV presided at the consecration and the famous French composer Guillaume du Dufay created an innovative motet Nuper rosarum flores (“The rose blossoms recently”) whose patterns were inspired by the structure of the dome. Such a prestigious commission brought leading painters and sculptors for the design of the forty-four windows.

Although sadly difficult to see from the floor, the round windows (oculi) in the drum of the dome show the Life of Christ. Created by some of the greatest Florentine artists of the time, the windows include the Coronation of the Virgin (Donatello), Nativity and Resurrection (Paolo Uccello), Descent from the Cross (Andrea del Castagno), and the Presentation in the Temple and Agony in the Garden (Lorenzo Ghiberti). Similar windows decorate the entrance wall.

Santa Maria del Fiore. Two female saints in the north nave by Lorenzo Ghiberti, fabricated 1435-1443 by Francesco di Giovanni. Photo: Author
Santa Maria del Fiore. Two female saints in the north nave by Lorenzo Ghiberti, fabricated 1435-1443 by Francesco di Giovanni. Photo: Author

In other areas, such as the nave, we find a pattern of paired saints, generally in two to three superimposed rows. Ghiberti was responsible for many, including a series of female saints in the north nave. The long, narrow faces, dense patterns of clustered flowers or leaves in the border, and deep red or green of the drapery strewn with quatrefoil or cinquefoil stars show similarities with Ghiberti’s oculus of Saint Lawrence enthroned.

Florence is highly popular with visitors, but to the stained glass aficionado, careful planning is important. Come off-season and bring binoculars. Try to see the ensemble of windows, frescos, and altar pieces, which is how the great patrons of these buildings saw things.

Virginia Raguin is distinguished professor of humanities at the College of the Holy Cross. Among her many books are Stained Glass: From Its Origins to the Present and Stained Glass: Radiant Art.

| A Living and Fruitful Root: Consecration of an Altar at Santa Maria la Antigua

A Living and Fruitful Root: Consecration of an Altar at Santa Maria la Antigua

Pope Francis traveled to Panama in January 2019 for World Youth Day. During his visit, the Holy Father consecrated a new altar in the renovated Cathedral of Santa Maria la Antigua in Panama City. The following is an excerpt from the homily of the dedication mass.

Credit: Grzegorz Galazka via AGE Fotostock
Photo: Grzegorz Galazka via AGE Fotostock

For me it is no small thing that this cathedral now reopens its doors after a lengthy renovation. It has experienced the passage of the years as a faithful witness of the history of this people, and now with the help and work of many it wants once more to show us its beauty. More than a formal restoration, which always attempts to reproduce the original appearance, this restoration has sought to preserve the beauty of the past while making room for all the newness of the present. A Spanish, Indian and Afro-American cathedral thus becomes a Panamanian cathedral, belonging both to past generations and to those of today who made it possible. It no longer belongs only to the past, but it is a thing of beauty for the present.

Today it is once more a place of peace, that encourages us to renew and nurture our hope, to discover how yesterday’s beauty becomes a basis for creating the beauty of tomorrow.

That is how the Lord works.

Brothers and sisters, may we not allow ourselves to be robbed of the beauty we have inherited from our ancestors. May it be a living and fruitful root that will help us continue to make beautiful and prophetic the history of salvation in these lands.

His Holiness Pope Francis was born Jorge Mario Bergoglio in Argentina. Elected in 2013, this was his third World Youth Day as Pope.

| Nova Contrareformatio

Editorial: Nova Contrareformatio

We need a new Counter-Reformation in sacred art and architecture. What was the Reformation’s effect? First, it preached iconoclasm, the rejection of the human figure in religious art. Second, it reoriented worship, so that people gathered round the pulpit rather than the altar and the baptismal font became more important than the tabernacle. At the same time, it lessened the distinction between the clergy and the laity, creating more equality and decreasing hierarchy.

Third, the Reformation taught a functionalist view of worship, rejecting anything “unnecessary.” The altar should not have anything on it, for example, and churches should be designed according to seating capacity, with sight lines like a theater. Fourth, it elevated the quotidian over the sacred. Churches are thought of more as meeting houses than sacred places. They’re designed to be intimate rather than awesome.

These churches did not, to put it another way, express the Terribilità, the awesomeness of God. What have we been living through for the past sixty years? A second reformation, only this one came from within. All four of those points characterize mainstream Catholic church building since 1960.

And what do we need in response? A second counter-reformation. One that learns from the first Counter-Reformation of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries how to make a creative and serious response to the iconoclasm, functionalism, egalitarianism, and “quotidianism” of our time.

The New Counter-Reformation

And not just in our church-building and our ideas of church architecture. In the Counter-Reformation bishops were commanded to return to their dioceses and to take care of their flock, to become the chief teachers of the diocese. Priests were to celebrate mass daily, laity go to mass and receive Communion more often, and better preaching and more confession were promoted. Eucharistic adoration was emphasized through the joining of the tabernacle to the altar, as well as the forty-hours devotion. There was a new emphasis on catechesis and education, including the invention of the seminary for the training of priests.

These developments pushed the Church to renew her commitment to making her churches and her liturgies as beautiful as the Faith itself. She employed art, architecture, music, and liturgy to draw all to the church and then to uplift their minds to those things that are eternal. Elizabeth Lev brilliantly tells the story of Counter-Reformation Art in her new book, How Catholic Art Saved the Faith: The Triumph of Beauty and Truth in Counter-Reformation Art.

We need an architecture today that can do the same in response to the second reformation. It must symbolize the antiquity, universality, and beauty of the Church, as Vignola’s Gesu and Palladio’s Redentore did in the sixteenth century. This will mean an employment of art and architecture that is evangelistic and catechetical. Buildings that are icons on the outside, large and beautiful, with warm yet awe-inspiring interiors that are foci of the community. Churches must express for modern people the Terribilità.

We need a recovery of ancient principles and a restoration of what is timeless and classic. The basilica form and the baldacchino, for example, as well as altar rails, side altars and shrines, solemn confessionals, a place set aside for baptism, and saints buried beneath the altar or relics visible for veneration.

The sanctuary should be set apart, raised up to be the most beautiful part of the church. It should be the focus and the identity, liturgically and devotionally.

We need to revive the iconographic program, the creation of a narrative within the whole building. We can’t settle for the “America formula” of a crucifix above the altar, Mary on the left, and Saint Joseph on the right. Churches need to be like a good book that can be re-read, like a good symphony listened to over and over, with new things always seen or discovered.

That means the commissioning of custom art should be a priority: durable and high-quality materials shaped by highly skilled craftsman and top-quality artists and architects who can employ inventiveness in developing the tradition. No copies or regurgitation. No off the shelf statues. New paintings, sculptures, mosaics, and murals push the artists to develop new and authentic ways of expressing the timeless truths.

Not Antiquarian

This does not mean antiquarianism, employing a particular style, or trying to go back to a golden age, whether the 1950s or a Romantic notion of the Middle Ages, as wonderful as those times were. It means creating churches that are traditional yet contemporary, universal yet local, Roman yet catholic—both/and, not either/or. Churches that combine unity with diversity and learn from the local character, express modern saints, and inventively develop the tradition.

Like the great artists and architects of the Counter-Reformation, we must once again promote the faith of the Catholic Church through beauty.

Duncan G. Stroik is the editor of Sacred Architecture Journal.

| Except the Lord Build the House: Restoring a Sense of Beauty

Except the Lord Build the House: Restoring a Sense of Beauty

The men who built the cathedral of Our Lady of Chartres did not have diesel engines, or lightweight metals like soft aluminum or firm titanium, or steel girders. The men who built Europe’s greatest Gothic church did not have cranes that could tower a hundred feet in the air without toppling, while lifting pre-formed blocks of concrete. They did not have computer models. They did not have the calculus. Most of them assuredly could not read.

They had to fit stones atop one another precisely to be both balanced and beautiful, and that meant that the stones had to be cleanly and accurately dressed, shaved with saws, cut to fit. Their carpenters had to know how to build safe scaffolding from the hewn trunks of hardwood trees, to soar ten or twelve stories in the air, supporting the men who, with sledges and pulleys and main strength, set in place the stones of lovely arches, springing on each side at exactly the same oblique angle from the pillars beneath, to intersect one another at a point clinched by the keystone.

Art and Craft

It is not enough to say that Chartres Cathedral is a great work of art. A sketch by Rembrandt is a great work of art. A single rib of a single pillar at Chartres is a great work of craftsmanship. A single panel of one of the lesser stained glass windows along the nave gives us art at its finest. Chartres is a magnificent symphony of countless works of sculpture, glazing, tiling, carpentry, masonry—and poetry and theology too.

The South transept of Chartres Cathedral. Photo: Means
The South transept of Chartres Cathedral. Photo: Means

It is more than a museum or a collection. In a museum, one work is displayed next to another because it happens to have been created by the same person or in the same country or at around the same time. But every work in Chartres has to do with every other.

I would say that there is nothing like it in the world, except that in fact there are things like it—all the other great cathedrals of the Middle Ages are like it, all over Europe; and thousands of churches, too, some of them the special churches for orders of priests, like Santa Maria Novella, the Dominican church in Florence, and some of them just the principal church for a small town or a village. At the Great Exposition, every entry boasted an inventor, but if you visit many an old church in Europe, you will see frescoes or sculptures created by “the Master of Anytown,” whose name no one knows.

What it is that people believe to be most important in our common life on earth? If you went to the Great Exposition, you might suppose that the most important thing is to make machines that turn things, so as to work other machines, to do things we want them to do, or to make things we want them to make. If you went to Chartres, you would not need to suppose, you would simply and readily perceive that the most important thing was to sing with the Psalmist, “I rejoiced when I heard them say, Let us go up to the house of the Lord.”

Drab or Garish

In C.S. Lewis’s fantastical novel That Hideous Strength, when the planet-traveler Ransom prepares to greet old Merlin the mage from Arthurian times, he dons a long red and gold robe. That surprises his friends, but he reminds them that in all other times but our own, “drab was not a favorite color.”

Drab is a favorite color in our day; its companion is garish. I defy any of my contemporaries to name one style of public building that is not now either drab or garish.

Our churchmen have gone along with the movement, mostly drab, but sometimes garish, as witness the big childish banners blaring out a favorite comforting verse (never “It is a terrible thing to fall into the hands of the living God”), the glad-handing ceremonies of greeting and peace-wishing, and the priest more comfortable joshing with the attendees than praying with people who are, as he is, as we all are, on the inevitable journey to the grave and in dire need of the grace of God.

When my daughter and I were in Sweden, we stopped in many a rural church built during the Middle Ages and then subjected to artistic reforms afterward. Sometimes I saw shadows that looked like water stains emerging through the plaster of the ceilings. I began to suspect that they were not stains or tricks of the light. When I asked a minister about them, he confirmed my suspicion.

Many fresco paintings were whitewashed away in the so-called Enlightenment. It was that same Enlightenment, in its sanguinary French eruption, that smashed priceless stained glass windows in churches and cathedrals across the country. “Four fifths of [man’s] greatest art,” said Henry Adams, was created in those supposedly dark days, to the honor of Jesus and Mary. The Enlightenment destroyed more great art than it produced, and what the harbingers of the novus ordo saeclorum did not get around to destroying they slandered.

There was, however, a generally healthy revival of Gothic art and architecture in the nineteenth century, thanks to the efforts of men like A. W. N. Pugin and John Ruskin. When Catholics immigrated to the United States from Italy, France, Germany, Ireland, and Portugal, they did not aim to build trapezoidal meeting houses with clear windows and no representations of the history of salvation. They aimed to build churches, and they achieved that aim.

I have seen an inscription on the façade of a Portuguese church in New Bedford reading, in Latin, “The workmen of Saint Anthony’s built this to the glory of God.” I do not think that the inscription implied that they only paid for the construction. They did hire a master builder, but the men did the work—with their hands, their sweat, at risk of life and limb. And these were not rich industrialists but fishermen.

In my home town in central Pennsylvania, the church-builders were Irish coal miners, and they built their Saint Thomas Aquinas Church in Romanesque style, pooling their funds to hire an Italian painter who had done some work on the rotunda of the Capitol in Washington. He came to lowly Archbald, Pennsylvania, and filled the church with paintings, nave and sanctuary, walls and ceiling.

My boyhood church was beautiful. Then came the rage for the drab and the garish, and a good deal of that original beauty was obliterated, spoiled, or pulverized—at considerable expense.

Photo: Archbald Historical Society
Photo: Archbald Historical Society
Saint Thomas Aquinas Church in Archbald, Pennsylvania, immediately following a ceiling collapse in 2009, and after a renovation was completed in 2011. Photo:
Saint Thomas Aquinas Church in Archbald, Pennsylvania, immediately following a ceiling collapse in 2009, and after a renovation was completed in 2011. Photo:

Drab the Enemy

Drab, with garish its cousin, is our enemy. Does anyone go to visit the modern neighborhoods of Rome, built in drab? Does anyone take pictures of a new police station or a new post office? The most prominent features of the new county courthouse where we live are enormous glass “walls,” so that you can see into empty waiting rooms and hallways, and a sheltered area surmounted with a big metal fence and rolls of barbed wire.

Our young people are not only starved for nature. They are starved for beauty. Everywhere they turn, their eyes fall upon what is drab or garish: their schools, the fast-food joint, a baseball stadium, and, of course, their churches.

I have seen, in Catholic churches, minimalist Stations of the Cross that cannot even be recognized if you are more than a few feet away. The message they deliver is that the Stations are trivial. I have seen crosses that look as if a modernist Jesus were flying with wings outspread, like a theological pterodactyl. The message is that the Cross was a brief and unfortunate interlude. I have seen the Sacrament relegated to what looks like a broom closet. The message is that it is something to be embarrassed about and that we come to church not to serve God but to celebrate our own central goodness.

I have seen one sculpture of the supper at Emmaus that has Jesus at one end of the table with the two disciples and two other figures ten or twelve feet away; it looks as if they are arguing with one another, perhaps dickering over the check for the meal. If you were not told that it was the supper at Emmaus, there is no way you could guess it. There is no message but chaos.

I have seen a baptismal font with bubbles. The message is that flashy technology is to be preferred before silence. I have seen beautifully tiled floors, their intricate cruciform patterns bespeaking careful and devoted craftsmanship, covered over with a plush red carpet, wall to wall, such as might be used in a whorehouse down on its luck. The message is that we are the newly rich, with bad taste.

It is long past time to get rid of everything ugly and stupid from our churches, most of it visited upon them since the great iconoclasm of the sixties. We must return to genuine art, art that stirs the imagination and pleases the eye, that entices the soul with beauty—even a dread beauty—before a single word of a sermon is uttered.

Priceless Treasure

“Where your treasure is,” says Jesus, “there will your heart lie also.” We can tell where a people’s heart lies by where they place their treasure.

In material terms we are by far the wealthiest generation of people who have ever lived on earth. Yet our original accomplishments in all of the arts are meager at best. Renaissance painting and sculpture, music and poetry, are what you get when a vigorous popular and learned tradition that had already been immensely creative meets again the classics of Greece and Rome. Modern art is what you get when you repudiate the people, the tradition, and the classics. Individuals are left to trade upon the stock of their native creativity alone, which is not going to be great.

Why would we care to make our churches beautiful when what goes on in them is slipshod and is not felt to be of even temporal consequence, let alone eternal? We do nothing in the week that is more significant than to serve God by prayer. That is a fact. We have forgotten it. Our hearts skip a beat when someone gives us a surprise ticket to the baseball game. Those same hearts plod along at their usual sluggish tempo when we dress for church.

So we end up with stadiums that will not last twenty years before the owners of the ball club demand new ones. Chartres Cathedral has been standing for eight hundred years.

Anthony Esolen is professor of classical literature at Thomas More College. His latest books are Real Music: A Guide to the Timeless Hymns of the Church and Out of the Ashes: Rebuilding American Culture. This article is adapted from chapter two of the second.

| Beijing’s “New” Cathedral: Renewal of a Classical Monument

Beijing’s “New” Cathedral: Renewal of a Classical Monument

When we build,” John Ruskin famously remarked in The Lamp of Memory, “let it not be for present delights nor for present use alone. Let it be such work as our descendants will thank us for, and let us think ... that men will say, as they look upon the labor and the wrought substance of them, ‘See! This our fathers did for us!’”

The Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Beijing is undertaking a substantial restoration and renovation of its most famous church, the Xishiku North Cathedral, in a way that would have contented Ruskin’s sensibilities.

Most commonly called Beitang, or “North Church,” the inspiring neo-Gothic church had been the seat of the bishop until 1958. It was turned into a kitchen during the Maoist Era, returned to the Catholic Church in 1985 during the rule of Deng Xiaoping, and is now among the city’s most revered historical treasures.1 (The extravagant bishop’s residence next door had been transformed into a school and largely gutted and redesigned.)

China’s authorities have decided that the church is so important to the cultural and historical legacy of Beijing that they have provided more than twenty-five million RMB (approximately four million USD) to restore and update the façade and interior. The church boasts the largest Catholic congregation in Beijing.

Scholars of Church history in China have been consulted in order to restore elements of the interior to colors and aesthetic as it first appeared in 1887. Several elements of the renovation are intended to “update the architectural theology of the church to better respond to the life of the Church in the twenty-first century,” noted Father Matthew Zhen Xuebin when we met in mid-January. The pastor of the church and director of the restoration project, which includes the historic bishop’s residence, he studied liturgical history at Saint John’s University in Minnesota, and was assigned by the ordinary of Beijing, Bishop Joseph Li Shan, to oversee the project.

History of Xishiku Beitang Cathedral

Beijing’s major Roman Catholic churches are more-or-less located in the four cardinal directions. North Church is named after the Holy Savior; South Church (the present cathedral) after the Immaculate Conception; West Church after Our Lady of Mount Carmel; and East Church after Saint Joseph.

Bishop Alphonse Favier’s map of central Beijing identifying the locations of the Canchikou and Xishiku Beitang churches in relation to the Forbidden City, which is located in the center of the map. Ca. 1901. Image: Congrégation de la Mission Archives Historiques, Paris
Bishop Alphonse Favier’s map of central Beijing identifying the locations of the Canchikou and Xishiku Beitang churches in relation to the Forbidden City, which is located in the center of the map. Ca. 1901. Image: Congrégation de la Mission Archives Historiques, Paris

Only Beitang survived the Boxer Rebellion during the summer of 1900. All the other Christian churches in the capital were razed, and only some were rebuilt. Local faithful commemorate Beitang’s towering Gothic façade as a testament to Christian survival and endurance during times of political and religious conflict. The first Beitang was erected slightly to the south of the present church, in an area called Canchikou.

It was completed in 1701 on property only a short walk from the Forbidden City, given to two French Jesuit missionaries by the formidable and pro-Western emperor, Kangxi (1654-1722). Charles de Belleville, SJ, (1657-1730) designed this first church in the manner of the Baroque mother church of the Society of Jesus in Rome, the Gesù, which was consecrated in 1584.2 Unlike the Gesù, it had no volutes or raised section in the center of the façade.

De Belleville, like many of the Jesuit builders in China during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, was both an architect and painter. The interior included sixteen engaged columns with Corinthian capitals, arched windows, and stunning paintings of the saints composed in the Western style.

In 1827, the first Beitang was demolished after being seized by a court official to add to his private estate. It was not rebuilt until 1867, when the French ecclesial architect Bernard Gustave Bourrières (1807-1867) was commissioned to rebuild it in a grander style. Bourrières’ design was decidedly Gothic, as the bishop requested.

The second Beitang church at Canchikou, designed by the French ecclesial architect Bernard Gustave Bourrières in 1867. This church was erected in the Gothic style and included two grand towers and a rose window. Ca. 1870. Photo: Congrégation de la Mission Archives Historiques, Paris
The second Beitang church at Canchikou, designed by the French ecclesial architect Bernard Gustave Bourrières in 1867. This church was erected in the Gothic style and included two grand towers and a rose window. Ca. 1870. Photo: Congrégation de la Mission Archives Historiques, Paris

Its façade featured two flanking towers, each with two layers of lancet windows and three dramatic pinnacles that lengthened the visual height of the church. The central gable above the main entrance was surmounted by a cross, and included three niches. A statue of Our Lady of Lourdes occupied the center niche.

The New Cathedral

Eight years after the imposing Gothic façade was consecrated, the Empress Dowager Cixi (1835-1908) informed the missionaries that she had decided to expand her retirement villa into the area where the cathedral then stood. After several rounds of negotiations, the next location of a new and even more majestic Beitang cathedral was settled a short distance north.

The builder of the new cathedral was the Lazarist missionary-architect, Alphonse Marie Favier, CM, (1837-1905) who promoted a caractère Français, or essential “Frenchness,” in the spirit of the Beaux Arts. Like so many European architects of the nineteenth century, he was influenced by the Gothic Revival movement largely inspired by the ideas of Augustus Pugin. When he arrived in China in 1870, he brought a strong preference for Gothic architecture, both as an eminently appropriate Christian aesthetic and a visual representation of “Frenchness.”

Façade of the Xishiku Beitang cathedral, designed by Alphonse Favier and erected in 1887. Ca. 1890. Photo: Anthony E. Clark Private Collection
Façade of the Xishiku Beitang cathedral, designed by Alphonse Favier and erected in 1887. Ca. 1890. Photo: Anthony E. Clark Private Collection

Favier intentionally exaggerated the Gothic elements of the previous Beitang. The portals and windows of the new church were more noticeably Gothic, adding generous ornament to accentuate its French appearance. The new façade included two towers flanking a tall gable ornamented with crockets, a large number of finial-capped pinnacles, arcades of finial-topped trifoil windows, a heavy-framed, spoked rose window, undecorated archivolts above each of the façade’s three portals, several niches, and gargoyle drain spouts. Favier’s Gothic edifice was a stark contrast to the sloped roofs, bracketed beam construction, and Chinese-style latticed window structures that surrounded the towering cathedral.

Among the most controversial features of Western church design in China was the construction of tall towers. Catholic architects considered them necessary elements of a truly Christian edifice, but most native Chinese saw them as domineering symbols of Western conceit. When Alphonse Favier first designed his Beitang cathedral in 1886, China’s imperial authorities limited the height of the two Gothic zhonglou flanking the façade.

Even though the court authorities had signed an agreement on the height of Favier’s plans, once the church was finished the reality of their overshadowing presence was seen, and these same officials came from the palace to “register their protest for their height.”3 China’s sumptuary laws in 1886 proscribed architectural structures that contested the divine supremacy of the emperor, and Beitang’s new towers seemed to overshadow that prerogative.

In the end, the towers remained as they were, and after the Boxer Uprising (1898-1900) had ended, Bishop Favier was able to attain permission to extend the towers to an even taller height. The Beitang façade seen today is the one completed in 1901, when the towers were extended to produce a more proportionally attractive façade, adorned with Gothic flourishes that are still admired.

Sinicized Gothic

Despite the cathedral’s recognizable Gothic appearance, when one more painstakingly observes Favier’s majestic façade, she or he discovers that the finials, crockets, and gargoyles more closely conform to Chinese temple design than French Gothic. In fact, I would describe the cathedral’s final design as Sino-Gothic, an admixture of Gothic Revival elements and Chinese details, such as dragon-like gargoyle drains and Chinese white marble accents.

Chinese architectural elements underscore the cathedral’s style as more Sino-Gothic than merely Gothic Revival in a purely Western sense. Photo: Stinson
Chinese architectural elements underscore the cathedral’s style as more Sino-Gothic than merely Gothic Revival in a purely Western sense. Photo: Stinson

Chinese architectural critics commend Favier’s inclusion of a traditional Chinese terrace (yuetai) in front of the cathedral’s three portals and two yellow-roofed Chinese pavilions (tingzi) displaying memorial stelae flanking the enormous Gothic façade. The front terrace’s balustrade (langan) was constructed with a native Chinese stone called baiyushi, or “white marble.”

Qinghua University architectural scholar Zhang Fuhe describes these Chinese features as a “strong contrast to the church’s Gothic form.” Another Chinese scholar, Zhang Youping, suggests that, “since Chinese materials were used and Chinese workers built it . . . when you look at [Beiting] one perceives its Chineseness.”

This is all to say that when Western architectural scholars describe Beitang’s aesthetic components they do so in Western terms; they view the church simply as an example of Gothic Revival design. Chinese scholars see in the church design a dominant Chineseness, more representative of late-imperial temple design than Western church styles.

In the end, Beitang’s architectural legacy embodies Sino-Western cultural exchange rather than a merely Western edifice on Chinese soil. It is precisely this aspect of the church’s design that appeals to Chinese Christian sentiments, and has motivated Beijing’s Catholic archdiocese and the state authorities to restore the church and preserve it for future generations of Chinese Catholic faithful.

Present Restorations

During my recent visit to the site of the cathedral and bishop’s residence, I was provided with a private tour of the entire complex by the rector Father Zhen and Father Simon Zhu Jie, vicar for external church affairs. When the church and bishop’s residence are both finished, Bishop Joseph Li Shan will move into what was originally built for the church’s architect, Bishop Alphonse Favier.

Father Zhen’s vision for the restoration both restores much of the cathedral’s original splendor, while simultaneously updating some of the church’s elements to better facilitate current needs. Every element has taken into serious consideration the values of proportion, use, and sympathy with its original architectural legacy.

After considerable research, the interior has been renovated to represent the original color scheme Favier envisioned when he drew the original plans in 1886. Much of the church’s interior was changed when it was used as a cafeteria. The columns, for example, made from pine trees imported from the American Northwest, were painted dark red and green in 1985, while the original colors were much more light, probably light gold and blue. As one enters the restored interior today, one is welcomed by the original vibrant colors and light that have not been present since the cathedral was first opened for worship in 1887.

Age-related problems had become so severe that repair and restoration had become a pressing matter by the early twenty-first century. The foundation had settled in areas, persistent leaks plagued several areas of the roof, and outdated electrical wiring had all raised safety concerns as the church has continued to experience more, rather than less, Mass attendance in recent decades. As early as 2012, the Beijing Cultural Relics Bureau had already begun lobbying for major repairs and the restoration of the church, and in 2014 approval was granted to undertake the massive project.

The exterior of the cathedral during renovation of the roof. Photo: Thomas Coomans
The exterior of the cathedral during renovation of the roof. Photo: Thomas Coomans

As the work slowly revealed infrastructural elements, more problems than expected required attention. A number of rafters and purlins had rotted due to moisture. Father Zhen noted that as much as two-thirds of some of the rafters and purlins had decayed, and he told me how thankful he is that no-one was ever injured from a structural collapse.

As more and more structural problems were discovered, the costs accordingly increased, but were covered by state agencies. As it stands, all of the church’s structural problems have been resolved, and mostly cosmetic work and final touches remain before the church is restored to its status as the cathedral of the Archdiocese of Beijing. The discovery of painted murals badly in need of restoration proved so costly—estimated at more than twenty million RMB—they were carefully protected to await future attention.

The restored color scheme within the cathedral interior. The columns are now returned to their original gold and blue colors, and the walls are re-stenciled according to what research suggests they originally looked like in 1887. Photo: Anthony E. Clark Private Collection
The restored color scheme within the cathedral interior. The columns are now returned to their original gold and blue colors, and the walls are re-stenciled according to what research suggests they originally looked like in 1887. Photo: Anthony E. Clark Private Collection

Among Father Zhen’s innovations, which are all in good sympathy with the church’s original Gothic aesthetic, is an entirely new scheme of stained glass windows. Favier’s original windows did not contain images, so this is the first time the church windows display what Father Zhen calls “a catechism in glass.” The newly installed windows, designed and created in collaboration with experts in Hong Kong, trace the history of the birth of the Church, its growth in the West, its movement into China, and finally the history of China’s Catholic Church to the modern era.

The Glass and the Façade

If one is facing the altar, the new stained glass windows to the left illustrate the origin of Christianity, the crucifixion of Saint Peter, and the history of the Western Church. Also represented is the Church’s entrance into China, where there is a representation of the Yellow and Yangtze Rivers, which represent China’s northern and southern regions.

On the right side facing the altar, the windows focus on the growth of Christianity in China, featuring a splendid image of the Nestorian monument, which was erected in 781 during the Tang dynasty, and acknowledges the fact that the first Christian missionaries were not in fact Catholic, but rather members of the Orthodox Church of the East.4 Other images in the stained-glass windows feature the mission of the first bishop of Beijing, Giovanni da Montecorvino, OFM, (1247-1328) the Jesuit and Lazarist missions in China, and representations of significant persons in the history of Christianity in China, such as Vincent Lebbe, CM, (1877-1940) and the architect of the cathedral, Alphonse Favier.

Two panels representing the style and theme of the newly-installed stained-glass windows in the Xishiku Beitang cathedral. The left panel features the major historic Roman Catholic churches built in Beijing; Beitang is located fourth from the top. The right panel features four important persons in the history of Chinese Catholicism. The uppermost person is the architect of Beitang, Bishop Alphonse Favier, CM, seated and holding a Chinese book. Photo: Anthony E. Clark, private collection
Two panels representing the style and theme of the newly-installed stained-glass windows in the Xishiku Beitang cathedral. The left panel features the major historic Roman Catholic churches built in Beijing; Beitang is located fourth from the top. The right panel features four important persons in the history of Chinese Catholicism. The uppermost person is the architect of Beitang, Bishop Alphonse Favier, CM, seated and holding a Chinese book. Photo: Anthony E. Clark Private Collection

One window displays an image of the martyr saints of China who were canonized by Pope Saint John Paul II in 2000. Another window includes Korean Catholics who have a historical connection to the cathedral.

The side chapels, which are no longer in use, have been refashioned for new uses, such as a cry room and a shrine dedicated to Our Lady of China, though at least one of the original side altars will remain in place because of its historical value. The church appointments that were hastily produced in 1985, when Beitang was returned to the Church, have been removed so that furnishings of higher quality can now be installed.

The exterior façade of the cathedral features several niches with makeshift statues that were installed in 1985. These statues will be replaced with more refined and proportionally correct versions as soon as possible.

The Bishop’s Residence

The restoration of Favier’s lavish bishop’s residence—really an enclosed mansion with three dramatic courtyards directly to the west of the cathedral—is also a mixture of Chinese architectural sentiments and Western aesthetic preferences. The courtyards respond to the configuration of traditional Beijing siheyuan (enclosed four-sided court) residences, while the structures themselves resonate more with French ecclesial design.

After the residence was opened as the Beijing Number 39 Middle School in 1958, many of the buildings were changed to accommodate their new use as a school. The buildings and the former bishop’s chapel are being restored as closely as possible to their original appearance based on historical photographs. Perhaps the largest difference between the restored bishop’s residence and what it looked like when occupied by the portly French bishop, Alphonse Favier, is that until the 1940s the various rooms of the mansion were teeming with rare Chinese art, crafts, and furniture Favier collected during his life in China from 1870 until his death in 1905.

Within the sprawling bishop’s residence, the archdiocese has planned to establish a museum dedicated to Beitang and the history of the Catholic Church in northern China. Exhibited in this small museum will be such items as cultural artifacts related to the cathedral and Catholic culture in Beijing, as well as historical photographs that highlight the rich past of Catholicism in the city. The courtyards and structures of the residence will also feature elegant statues of Our Lady, Jesus, and important saints.

As we passed through one of the long corridors leading to the old bishop’s chapel, we passed by what Father Zhen believes to be the white marble base of one of the columns of the Canchikou Beitang; discoveries such as this are being carefully preserved in order to conserve the architectural history of the Beitang complex. The final result of the extensive restorations and renovations of the cathedral and bishop’s residence will return the Beitang cathedral and bishop’s residence, located in China’s bustling capital city, to its former dignity as the country’s center of Catholic culture.

Dr. Anthony E. Clark is the Edward B. Lindaman Endowed Chair and Associate Professor of Chinese History at Whitworth University. His most recent book is Heaven in Conflict: Franciscans and the Boxer Uprising in Shanxi (2017), and he is currently preparing a book on the history of Beitang and Alphonse Favier.


1. For an account of the transfer of the Beitang church, see W. Devine, The Four Churches of Peking (The Tientsin Press/Burns, Oats & Washburne, 1930).

2. For a description of the Canchikou church by a contemporary Jesuit, see Lettres Édifiantes et Curieuses, Écrites des Missions Étrangères, Vol. 17 (Toulouse, 1810).

3. Devine, The Four Churches of Peking.

4. See P. Yoshio Saeki, The Nestorian Monument in China (Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, 1916).

| Continuity in Purpose: Warsaw after World War II

Continuity in Purpose: Warsaw after World War II

Saint Alexander in Three Crosses Square, Warsaw, was one of many churches reconstructed after World War II. Photo: Monde1
Saint Alexander in Three Crosses Square, Warsaw, was one of many churches reconstructed after World War II. Photo: Monde1

Most of Warsaw’s historic places of worship are post-war renovations, and several are even reconstructions. The reconstruction of Warsaw, once described by the historian Robert Harbison as the “largest war memorial,” is the most comprehensive attempt to rebuild a past reality. The reconstruction of churches was an essential part of it.

But was it religiously successful? Are the reconstructed churches truthful recreations of the ecclesiastical and liturgical space?

Destruction and Reconstruction

In the last months of the second World War, the Nazis deliberately destroyed the city of Warsaw as a punishment for the uprising of 1944. They targeted its built heritage. They destroyed an estimated ninety percent of all historic buildings, including churches. Notable Catholic churches were detonated such as Saint John’s Archcathedral and the adjacent Jesuit church, most of the historic churches in the Old Town, as well as the Church of the Holy Cross, Saint Florian in Praga and Saint Alexander in Three Crosses Square.

During the years of Communism many churches, monasteries and convents behind the Iron Curtain were intentionally neglected or pulled down. Many socialist states after the second World War implemented the ideals of a socialist capital: to design a new city for a new society. This was a society which no longer had a need for places of worship, other than as monuments to an era gone by. These socialist states promoted secularization in the way they treated churches.

In East Berlin, capital of the former Communist German Democratic Republic, the state erased churches from visual memory as part of constructing the socialist city. Either they were obscured from view by placing modern structures in front of them, as was done with Karl Friedrich Schinkel’s Friedrichswerdersche Church, or they were pulled down, as was done with the eighteenth-century Trinity Church and a dozen others.

For decades the Lutheran cathedral stood as a damaged relic next to the Palace of the Republic, overlooked by the Fernsehturm, symbolic for the ruined state of religion in the socialist state. Restoration of this church began in 1975, and was only reopened as a place of worship after the re-unification of Germany in the 1990s.

In Poland, however, the socialist regime surprisingly chose to reconstruct Warsaw’s war-damaged historic center soon after the end of the second World War. Other Central and Eastern European countries started doing this at a more recent date. The German reconstruction of the Frauenkirche in Dresden, recreating the famous views by Canaletto of the royal capital of Saxony, is a striking example. In the 1990s, restoring this domed church became a symbol for German re-unification.

Frauenkirch in Dresden, Germany, after the war. A monument to Martin Luther stands in front of the church. Photo:
Frauenkirch in Dresden, Germany, after the war. A monument to Martin Luther stands in front of the church. Photo:

Rebuilding Warsaw

Rebuilding in Warsaw started in the early years after the second World War. The recently returned paintings by Bellotto depicting the royal capital in the late eighteenth century were legendarily used as a guide. Now, at various locations in the historic city, paintings by Bellotto are reproduced on site, to illustrate the resemblance between contemporary Warsaw and the royal city during the age of the Enlightenment.

Bernardo Bellotto (1721-1780), or Canaletto the Second, was asked to the royal court in Warsaw by Stanislas Poniatowski (1732-1798), who had recently been elected king of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. For decades the de facto cultural center and residence of the kings had been Dresden. After Poniatowski’s election in 1764, Warsaw regained its position as center of the Commonwealth. As court painter, Bellotto captured the vivacity of the royal capital in his encyclopaedic depictions.

During this period, the appearance of Warsaw changed as buildings were constructed or renovated in the advanced architectural theory of the period, a neoclassicism inspired by French architectural theorists and ultimately by the Italian Andrea Palladio.

In 1753 Abbot Marc-Antoine Laugier published the Essai sur l’Architecture. The abbot, sometimes called the first modern architectural philosopher, advocated moving architecture away from retained disorder by using the principles of order. Antoine Quatremère de Quincy, who contributed volumes on architecture to the Encyclopédie Méthodique, described Palladio as “the maker of rules by which architecture should be played” and elevated his classicism to model status. These French publications of architectural theory became eighteenth-century guides for constructing good architecture.

The remodeling of churches on the Royal Route, the roads connecting the Royal Castle in Old Town and the royal villas to the south at Wilanow, shows this understanding of Classicism had been introduced in Warsaw.

The Neoclassicists at Work

Bellotto’s painting of the Church of the Discalced Carmelites, 1780, is displayed near the church. Photo: Cingal
Bellotto’s painting of the Church of the Discalced Carmelites, 1780, is displayed near the church. Photo: Cingal

The new façade for the Church of the Discalced Carmelites, designed by Efraim Szreger and built between 1761 and 1762, illustrates their knowledge of the works by Ange-Jacques Gabriel, Louis XV’s main architect, and Jacques-François Blondel, a professor at the Académie Royale d’Architecture.

The façade of Saint Anne in Warsaw is often regarded as the finest example of ecclesiastical Palladianism in Poland. Photo: Marcus van der Meulen
The façade of Saint Anne in Warsaw is often regarded as the finest example of ecclesiastical Palladianism in Poland. Photo: Marcus van der Meulen

In 1786, a new entrance building was begun for the Bernardine church of Saint Anne, a medieval foundation that was largely rebuilt in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. The project shows understanding of the French guidebooks. It was begun under Ignacy Potocki (1750-1809), an author of the 1791 Constitution and of an influential treatise on architecture which argued that architecture conveys a culture’s values and could be used to better the nation, and was completed by Piotr Aigner (1756-1841), another prominent neoclassical theorist.

The façade is often regarded as the finest example of ecclesiastical Palladianism in Poland. It is a temple front with engaged columns and can be compared to the Church of Santa Maria Nova in Vicenza, Italy, which is attributed to Andrea Palladio in 1578. As in Palladio’s examples the façade has no windows. The new front of Saint Anne’s is partly the result of royal patronage, as the four evangelists adorning the façade were donated by King Stanislas.

The temple front identifies the building as a place of worship. However, the front, a composition of strong and recognizable motives, is not part of the building. It is part of the street. Behind the neoclassical curtain hides an interior in a central European tradition, a baroque space unrelated to the Palladian forms of the front. What happens behind the façade almost remains secondary. The buildings are part of the scenery, as in a Bellotto painting, placed in an urban scenography. Saint Anne’s temple front is part of the street, intended to bring classic order to a chaotic place as Abbot Laugier prescribed.

Spiritual Reconstruction

A second church by Aigner which was reconstructed after the war illustrates that the narrative should be understood as a spiritual rather than a material renovation alone.

Located on the Royal Route, Saint Alexander’s Church in Three Crosses Square was dynamited in 1944. A purist piece of architecture, this church is one of the finest attempts to represent the Pantheon as a Catholic church. Centrally planned parish churches expose the difficulty of uniting a centrally planned space with the Catholic liturgy. An example of this is the Cathedral of Saint Hedwig in Berlin, an eighteenth-century evocation of the Roman Pantheon, where the celebration of the sacred liturgy remains troublesome.

Aigner tried to solve the problem by designing the chancel as a second portico. Approached on the Royal Route from both the north or the south, the church appears as a representation of the Pantheon, with temple fronts on two sides. The church is placed in Three Crosses Square as Hawksmoor positioned his Mausoleum in the grounds of Castle Howard, England, carefully composing a scene.

The church was begun in 1818 and finished some years later. It was restyled and extended in 1886-1894, in a neo-Renaissance style typical of the period. The post-war reconstruction, however, returned to Aigner’s original design. This was a symbolic decision emphasizing what the neoclassical Saint Alexander’s Church represents—a built commemoration of the first Constitution.

An anonymous painting of the original sacred space shows a refined neoclassical interior, yet today that balanced interior has been completely transformed by the addition of a large apse in the style of the Pantheon in Rome. As a reconstruction, the rebuilt version of this interior is deficient.

Anonymous painting of the original interior of Saint Alexander in Three Crosses Square, Warsaw. Image:
Anonymous painting of the original interior of Saint Alexander in Three Crosses Square, Warsaw. Image:

The reconstructed interior of Saint Alexander in Three Crosses Square, Warsaw. Photo:
The reconstructed interior of Saint Alexander in Three Crosses Square, Warsaw. Photo:

Other reconstructed churches in Warsaw display a similar deficiency. The exteriors are copies of the original, yet the interiors are lacking the richness and details of altar pieces and the display of chandeliers and sacred images they had before the war. Examples in Old Warsaw of simplified ecclesiastical spaces include Saint Francis’, Saint Martin’s and Saint Casimir’s. The latter is depicted in Bellotto’s painting of New Town Market Square (1778), a fine baroque church by Tylman Gamerski (1632-1706). The basic white interior of today is shockingly unsatisfying.

Bellotto’s painting of New Town Market Square with the Church of Saint Casimir, 1778. Image:
Bellotto’s painting of New Town Market Square with the Church of Saint Casimir, 1778. Image:

The reconstructed church of Saint Casimir. Photo:
The reconstructed church of Saint Casimir. Photo:

The reconstructed interior of Saint Casimir. Photo: Piwowski
The reconstructed interior of Saint Casimir. Photo: Piwowski

Church of the Holiest Savior

The church of the Holiest Savior, dominating the lively eponymous square, is located in the southern center of Warsaw. Its two slender towers can be seen from Constitution Square, constructed during the socialist era. The Lady Chapel is an imitation of a Marian chapel at the Wawel Cathedral in Krakow and contains a sacred image which was honored by Pope John Paul II in 1999. As in other churches in Warsaw during the second World War, notably the church of All Saints, the people of Holiest Savior helped Jews survive.

In 1939, German bombing damaged the roof and towers. In 1944, following the Warsaw Uprising, the Germans dynamited the church, destroying much of the building, including the main altar, the pulpit, and the large chandeliers. Renovation started rapidly after the war, by removing the rubble and making the church ready for worship. Already in 1948 the building could be reopened as a place of worship. Wieslaw Konowicz was the restoration architect.

The Church of Holiest Savior was rebuilt immediately after the war, reopening in 1948. Photo: Marcus van der Meulen
The Church of Holiest Savior was rebuilt immediately after the war, reopening in 1948. Photo: Marcus van der Meulen

The government allowed rebuilding the towers some years later. In other socialist capitals, the state pulled down church towers and erased them from visual memory, such as the tall spires of East Berlin’s Saint Peter’s and Saint George’s churches.

Today Holiest Savior is a flourishing house of worship. Its chapels are used for private contemplation and the church is regularly used for celebrating Mass. It is a living place, of which the renewal of the floral compositions which adorn the altars are a living witness.

What makes the reconstruction of this church successful is its purpose. Gamini Wijesuriya argues religious heritage is different from other heritage by its sacredness. Religious buildings are designed to stage a sacred liturgy. Places of worship that continue to be used by a community as sacred places, used for the function they were originally built for, make up what some contemporary conservationists such as Wijesuriya call a “Living Religious Heritage.”

Without a regular celebration of Mass the ecclesiastical space becomes empty, a meaningless relic of the past. Whereas a continuity in purpose makes the church a sacred building.

Churches’ Multiple Meanings

Churches are the containers of many values. They can have multiple meanings, ranging from the historical to the symbolic, from the associational to the aesthetic. The most significant meaning, however, is the religious value that sacred architecture embodies. The ecclesiastical space of some churches in Warsaw may seem unsatisfying. Conventional preservationists may even argue these interiors are failed reconstructions of the original.

The reconstruction of some church interiors, while not exact replications of the originals, are, however, truthful renovations of the ecclesiastical and liturgical space. They are living places of worship, where Mass is celebrated and the altars are ornamented by floral compositions.

Renovating churches is continuity in purpose. Past generations have adapted churches, altered the appearance by adding new façades as was done with the Bernardine church of Saint Anne and the church of Discalced Carmelites. Future generations may decide to adorn their churches, adding sacred images or installing an improved organ, to retain the continuity of a religious building and to continue in the tradition of sacred architecture.

Marcus van der Meulen is director of the Ecclesiastical Heritage Centre in Brussels, Belgium. He is a member of Future for Religious Heritage, the European network for historical houses of worship.

| Backing Beauty

Backing Beauty

Truth is an absolute. And beauty the means by which it is revealed to us in its most comprehensible form. In John Keats’ words: “Beauty is truth, truth beauty—that is all / Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.” Through our connection with beauty, we enjoy a taste of the sublime and both an escape from and a compensation for the inevitable pains and trials of daily life.

Through beauty the common good is nurtured, for humans are spiritual creatures who need much more than their daily bread. Our sense of place is inseparable from our sense of worth and so the places in which we live and the environment around us feeds our individual and communal well-being.

King’s Cross Station, London. Photo:
King’s Cross Station, London. Photo:

The First Misconception

That beauty is beyond politics or perhaps that politics is beneath aesthetics is the first misconception I want to confront. As their confidence has been eroded, politicians have retreated to where a less challenging, less ambitious, less thoughtful discourse prevails. Nervous about broaching matters about which they feel they can’t do much or don’t want to do much, they have failed to inspire those whose everyday lives have been blighted by the ugliness of the built environment they endure.

In 2005, my colleague Oliver Letwin observed that: “I believe that the disappearance of beauty from the vocabulary of politics is one of the reasons why British politics today so frequently strikes people as desiccated. I believe it is one of the reasons why so many people are ‘turned off’ politics.”

The loss Oliver described is one I have regularly encountered, both in my role as Transport Minister and in the other offices of state I have held. Even the most obvious truth—the advocacy of the pursuit of beauty—is regarded with either disregard or distain.

In part, this is explained by egalitarian hostility to those who judge the taste of others—for we are encouraged to believe that all is of equal worth regardless of how brutal, ugly or crass it is.

But more than this, we have lost our faith in beauty, because we have lost our faith in ideals. As Pope Benedict lamented: “We are moving toward a dictatorship of relativism which does not recognize anything as definitive and has as its highest value one’s own ego and one’s own desires.”

Yet this does not have to be so. Through beauty, our ideals and what is real can be harmonized. Those who dare to make a case for beauty, elegance, grace or refinement are far from a public discourse brutalised by modern media and the consequent zeitgeist. We are forced to live in too many spheres which have been colonised, in Umberto Eco’s terms, by the Empire of Imbeciles. The crass preoccupation with utility becomes imbecilic as it descends to the defense of ugliness.

No one has done more nor suffered more for his advocacy of beauty than His Royal Highness The Prince of Wales. As long ago as 1989, he set out in “A Vision of Britain” the defining principles of good architectural design. In 2011, he explained: “We can’t have a future without the past. There has to be a sense of timelessness, a living tradition that helps to maintain [that] sense of identity and belonging.”

More recently, in December 2014, he made the case for the re-connection of design with the natural order. He argued: “Universal principles are expressed in the order of Nature, which can never be ‘old-fashioned.’… Basing designs on the timeless universal principles expressed by Nature’s order enables the full scope of our humanity to be fulfilled, on the physical, communal, cultural and spiritual levels.”

Perhaps the most easily grasped and so persuasive counter to the zealous preachers of modernism is the relationship—understood for centuries but now neglected—between the simple, God-given beauty of nature and what man can do. The essence of Prince Charles’ case is that there are timeless principles of good design. Such an argument would for centuries have been regarded as a priori.

Now the wish for art to please—to inspire—has been replaced by a thirst to shock, to alarm. As Roger Scruton has said: “Without the background of a remembered faith modernism loses its conviction: it becomes routinized. For a long time now it has been assumed that … art must give offence, stepping out of the future fully armed against the bourgeois taste for kitsch and cliché. But the result of this is that offence becomes a cliché.”

Despite popular revulsion with much they have imposed upon us, those responsible—who rarely live where they have wrought havoc—viciously attack anyone who dares to articulate what most people know: that most of what’s been built in my lifetime could be demolished without aesthetic cost, and so bring the seductive benefit of leaving what was there before to stand proud.

Through our appreciation of beauty, we come to terms with ourselves and others, as our senses are elevated by sensory joy. So, understanding the relationship between the built environment and well-being, I embarked on the mission, first highlighted in “The Journey to Beauty,” my speech last year to the Independent Transport Commission, to challenge the character of what passes for acceptable design in much road and rail construction of recent times.

The best is bland. The worst is hideous.

It is true, of course, that different interpretations of beauty have prevailed in different eras, but the abiding idea was once routinely accepted: that what is built should be dignified by style. Yet for at least fifty years, too often and in too many places, utility has been regarded as sufficient by callous architects, crass planners, and careless politicians. It’s not just that form has been shaped by function, but that style has been neglected altogether.

Greed and convenience have subsumed aesthetics. Nowhere is this more true than in the case of industrial wind turbines, collections of which—in true Orwellian fashion—are dubbed “farms.”

As Energy Minister I acted to ensure that wind turbines were constructed in appropriate locations after proper consultation with local communities. Because little could jar more with the natural world or the man-made countryside than these huge concrete monstrosities. Consideration about the impact on landscape became a vital part of the approval process. And, mercifully, we cut the subsidies paid by taxpayers.

While some made a case against the negative impact of turbines on the environment, and a few attempted to make an aesthetic case for such identikit industrial structures, many others simply dismissed my argument as irrelevant. They did so on the basis of the easily grasped, though utterly crass notion, that “beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”

Let’s now, once and for all, be clear. It is not beauty that changes but the ability of the beholder to appreciate it.

This notion that beauty is relative has been used to justify much of the ugliness imposed on our towns and cities by architects, planners, and developers since the second World War. “Streets in the sky” were never a substitute for real streets, for homes on a human scale, in proportion and in harmony with their environment. A home is not “a machine for living in.” Ironically, these are the words, written in 1923, of the father of modern architecture, Le Corbusier.

Homes are a reflection of our humanity. As William Morris said, “Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful.” Morris understood that beauty and well-being are inextricably linked. And that a politics that is serious about people’s welfare and happiness must be serious about beauty.

For the ancient Greeks, aesthetic and moral judgments were inseparable. In the nineteenth century, many artists considered beauty to be the vital link between freedom and truth. There can be once again a growing understanding of how aesthetics are a vital part of our judgment of value and worth, for people instinctively understand the connection between beauty and a wider conception of value.

You see it in the love of natural, unspoilt places and the sense of shared ownership we feel for historic buildings. You see it in the protests against the ugly buildings that developers still attempt to foist on communities against their will. You see it in the despair at the way so many contemporary buildings are identikit, lacking any sense of craft or character, built with no consideration of the past and no regard to the future.

The Second Misconception

Indeed, at the heart of modern architecture, like all modern art, is the Nietzschean idea that the past is irrelevant and that we can create our own value system. This is the second misconception I want to bury this evening, and not before time.

It is not for nothing that the “hero” of Ayn Rand’s despicable book The Fountainhead is an architect. Much modern architecture fails precisely because it rejects those principles of design that time has taught us delight the senses.

Where modern design does succeed it is largely by accident. Or because, where form has at least followed function, a building has a high degree of utility.

But, as Edmund Burke noted long ago in an early work on aesthetics, this is not the same as beauty. He understood that there is a great deal in common in what people find beautiful. But this is not related to utility; our appreciation of beauty is an effect “previous to any knowledge of use.”

In other words, we know something to be beautiful before we understand its function. When we perceive beauty, he wrote, our “senses and the imagination captivate the soul before understanding is ready either to join with them or to oppose them.” Our perception of beauty is not rational, it stems from the unconscious; from our deepest feelings and emotions as human beings.

Sir Roger Scruton puts it perfectly. He says: “Beauty is an ultimate value—something that we pursue for its own sake, and for the pursuit of which no further reason need be given. Beauty should therefore be compared to truth and goodness, one member of a trio of ultimate values which justify our rational inclinations.”

While the solipsism of the architect may be the driving force behind the drive to render much of our public space unsightly, it is our own denial of what our senses tell us that has enabled this desecration to take place. We have become so doubtful about the ability to make valid judgments about aesthetics, and even embarrassed by those who do, that we allowed ourselves to be ridden roughshod over by those who put profit and ego above all else. Too many remain hesitant about making aesthetic judgments.

Respublica’s research has shown that people tend to focus on the details—“less litter and rubbish,” “vandalism and graffiti,” and less “vacant and run-down buildings” as important factors in making an area more beautiful. All these things matter, and we could do much more to address them.

But which buildings will invariably be the shabbiest, the most neglected, and the most disfigured with graffiti? It will be the relatively modern buildings—those built within the past sixty years. Daubing graffiti is a crime, but the greater criminals are those that designed the modern structures which are the daubers’ canvas.

And which buildings are invariably the most-obviously treasured? It is older buildings, shaped by vernacular style, where architects have taken care to be in harmony with the surroundings. Where craftsmen have laboured over detail. A study by the Commission for Architecture and the Built Environment (CABE) found that when respondents were asked to name the most beautiful buildings in Sheffield, most cited the two cathedrals.

Respondents in a recent study named the Anglican cathedral in Sheffield one of the most beautiful buildings in the city. Photo:
Respondents in a recent study named the Anglican cathedral in Sheffield one of the most beautiful buildings in the city. Photo:

The Third Misconception

This brings me to the third and final misconception that I want to challenge: that beauty belongs somehow to the past. For it is often considered, sometimes unthinkingly, that it is no longer possible to build beautiful buildings. This is perhaps why increasing regard is given to the beautiful places and buildings that have survived intact.

We have somehow, rather depressingly, come to believe that the supply of beauty is both finite and exhausted. This is perhaps because people assume that it must be somehow dated or even kitsch to build according to the principles of classical architecture. Or because they assume that beauty comes at too high a price, and must be sacrificed for the sake of utility.

Both of these conceptions are false. When the city fathers of Birmingham, Nottingham, and Manchester built great town halls in either the neoclassical or Gothic revival style, they did so because they understood that these styles had endured. They wanted to build something that would last. And they succeeded.

The modernist library in Birmingham’s Chamberlain Square has recently been demolished, just forty years after it was built—what a pity that its replacement couldn’t have been in keeping with its surroundings! No one would seriously consider doing the same to the neoclassical town hall, or to other great public buildings of the Victorian era.

The modernist library in Birmingham’s Chamberlain Square was demolished in 2016. Photo:
The modernist library in Birmingham’s Chamberlain Square was demolished in 2016. Photo:

Yet, despite their appearance, these are in other respects modern buildings, built using modern construction techniques. In historical terms, they were built yesterday. There are no good reasons why we cannot continue to build beautiful buildings and public infrastructure.

We spend so much of our time travelling—to work, to see friends and family. We must not resign ourselves to being miserable as we get from place to place. How we treat what is first well designed can make unsightly what was once beautiful. The railway network is rich with buildings and structures of aesthetic value drawn from the dawn of the railway age through to the sympathetic treatment of King’s Cross. In recent years, however, too often function has subsumed form leaving many of our cities and towns and much of our countryside scarred.

As the great railway stations, bridges, and tunnels of the Victorian era demonstrate, while beauty and utility are not the same, they can be made to work in harmony. One does not have to be sacrificed for the sake of the other.

Indeed, the willful excesses of modern and post-modern architecture are often far more expensive than buildings built and designed according to classical principles.

It is our misconceptions we must now consign to the past. And, in their place, embrace a vision of beauty. To fill our hearts with joy.

We shall doubtless encounter carpers and critics—too difficult, too expensive, too contentious—they will say. We will be tested in our resolve. There can be no surrender. We must triumph.

The future deserves nothing less.

The Rt Hon John Hayes was the United Kingdom’s Transport Minister from July 2016 to January 2018. His full address can be found at “The Journey to Beauty” can be found at

| Globalist Architecture in Kenya

Globalist Architecture in Kenya

Sacred Heart Cathedral in Kericho, Kenya, was completed in 2015. Photo: McAslan + Partners/Edmund Sumner
Sacred Heart Cathedral in Kericho, Kenya, was completed in 2015. Photo: McAslan + Partners/Edmund Sumner

My experience of Kenyan sacred architecture left me hoping to encounter more of the rich, vibrant colors of the culture: the patterns and textures of its textiles, the delicacy of its bead work, and the character of its sculptures revealed, celebrated, and translated into the sacred architecture. What I found instead was that many of the churches are of an austere, minimalist aesthetic which hardly evokes the sacred nature of the space and the vibrancy of Kenyan culture.

The new Sacred Heart Cathedral in Kericho, Kenya, is one of these.1 The design raises two key questions. First, is the design sacred in that it communicates the Divine to the mortal realm? Second, is it distinctly Kenyan in that it is relatable to the local culture and its customs? Or is it built from the outside of a culture, reflecting the history of colonialism?

Kericho (Kehr-ee-choh) is located on the western side of Kenya, approximately 150 miles southwest of Nairobi. Situated in the highlands, between the Rift Valley and Lake Victoria, the landscape is bucolic with lush tea crops lining its rolling hills. The town itself is largely constructed of low masonry buildings with corrugated metal or tiled roofs. It is home to a thriving Catholic population.

Building the Cathedral

Led by the Bishop Emmanuel Okombo, the new diocese hired John McAslan + Partners of London to design the new cathedral to seat 1500 faithful for a budget of $3 million,2 funded by an anonymous foreign donor.3 The old cathedral had been decaying for years.

Bishop Okombo requested that the nave widen as it approaches the altar to maximize the engagement of the faithful in the celebration of Mass. This request led to the unusual trapezoidal or keystone-shaped plan of the building. The roof gets higher and the nave wider as it approaches the altar. Although not a traditional cruciform shape in plan, it does introduce exterior seating areas to either side of the sanctuary which extend along the front of the nave and harken back to the transepts of the traditional Latin cross plan. This reference is identifiable only in plan, as it is not expressed in the massing on the church exterior.

From the exterior, the Cathedral is raised up on a stylobate or base hewn from local gray granite that is gradually enveloped by the topography of the site. The walls are clad in light-colored terrazzo. The roof is the most prominent exterior feature, finished in red clay tile from Nairobi arranged in a subtle pattern. According to the architect, the pattern was intended to be an abstract representation of wheat, representative of the Eucharist and God’s bounty. The sweeping volume of the roof is visible from the surrounding areas and the massing of the building was intended to be an abstract representation of a bird symbolizing the Holy Spirit.4

The large roof is supported by a series of triangular concrete A-frames that are arched at the top and get taller as they approach the sanctuary. These frames are supported by large rectangular piers which separate the nave from the side aisles. From the piers, the frames gradually arch over the side aisles and then cantilever horizontally overhead through the exterior wall to provide deep, shaded porches on either side of the cathedral.

A shaded porch covers the double doors along the length of the cathedral. Photo: McAslan + Partners/Edmund Sumner
A shaded porch covers the double doors along the length of the cathedral. Photo: McAslan + Partners/Edmund Sumner

Double doors line the side aisles to allow the free flow of air and the movement of the laity to the side porches. In the mild climate of Kenya, many churches open along the exterior to increase ventilation. Functionally, the frames wrap the narthex around the church to accommodate overflow seating, a cry room, and gathering functions. The concrete frame is fully exposed on the interior and is infilled with stained cypress slats with small spaces between them. Light cascades through the slats from the skylights above which are built into a large gap at the ridge of the roof, at times creating radiating beams of light on the wall behind the sanctuary.

All the materials were acquired and fabricated locally. The architects described their goal as creating “a structure that integrated seamlessly with its landscape setting, in both aesthetic and functional terms.” They state that the cathedral is “distinctive and universally welcoming.”

With the overview of the design in mind, let us return to the two questions.

Is It a Sacred Building?

First, the question of whether Sacred Heart Cathedral fulfills its sacred purpose. Although technically the building provides an adequate space for the liturgy and attempts to incorporate abstract references to wheat and to the Holy Spirit, it falls short of representing the heavenly realm come down to earth in several ways. First, its theological references are so abstract that they are hardly perceptible to those not familiar with the architects’ intent and thus there is little distinction of the exterior that speaks to the elevated nature of the sacred building within the larger public realm.

In other words, the building could just as easily have been a school. Even the stark light-colored tower with its flat roof directly above a rectangular void fails to communicate the sacredness of the cathedral. Aside from the simple, thin white cross that adorns the top, the tower could as well have been a clock tower for a shopping center.

Second, the building offers no celebration of the threshold or entrance into the church that would indicate a transition from the profane to the sacred. The heavy concrete rectangular frame around the main entrance doors and the rectangular window above make the building seem more agricultural than sacred. There are no stairs to ascend nor is there any carving, sculpture, or other sacred representation. The only indication of its being a church from this vantage point is the stained glass in the window, which can rarely be seen from the outside due to the strong equatorial sunlight.

The interior of Sacred Heart Cathedral. Photo: McAslan + Partners/Edmund Sumner
The interior of Sacred Heart Cathedral. Photo: McAslan + Partners/Edmund Sumner

Third, inside, there is minimal aesthetic differentiation between the sanctuary and the nave of the church. The sanctuary is modest and austere, emphasized only by its three risers and wainscoting, all hewn from a beige natural stone. Although the beige stone attempts to raise the importance of the sanctuary materially, the color is so similar to the rest of the nave that it is hardly perceptible. The height of the wainscoting is low and unmodulated and therefore seems to reduce the wall of the sanctuary to a residential scale.

Within the nave, very little iconography or visual hierarchy inspires the ascent of the laity’s experience toward heaven. The crucifix applied to the blank wall above the altar is largely reduced to silhouette due to the light flooding in through the rectangular window directly above. One might question the theological hierarchy of placing the window with its views to the exterior above the crucifix. This window also interrupts the pattern of light and shadow from the slats on the ceiling and therefore reduces its effect of the radiating light from above.

The tabernacle is uncelebrated and fully recessed in the wainscoting, and curiously located off center to the right of the main altar. Aside from the crucifix, the sanctuary remains completely void of statuary, icons, or adornment to contribute to its sense of sacredness.

The architect’s claim that the Cathedral “honors the faith and frugality of this rural African context” gives one example to their flawed approach. The architect assumes that imitating the culture’s frugality in its new sacred space will inspire the ascent to Heaven. But the laity are in great need of glimpses of Heaven on earth, not just spiritually, but physically as well. As embodied spirits living in a fallen world, we need to engage all of our senses in the contemplation of heaven and its beauty.

For these reasons, the Sacred Heart Cathedral does not fully communicate sacredness to the laity.

Is It Distinctly Kenyan?

Next we must address the question of whether the cathedral is distinctly Kenyan. Kenyan churches can be classified in four categories: Globalist, Traditional European, Adapted Kenyan, and Kenyan Vernacular.

The Globalist examples feature a Modern aesthetic that is hardly recognizable as being Kenyan. The church could just as easily be located in California or Finland. A good example of this is Saint Benedict’s Church in Nairobi, with its modern layering of materials, frames, and floating walls.

Traditional European examples feature Traditional Gothic or Italianate forms that seem at once foreign and at home amongst a smattering of Colonial era architecture. From the buttressed side aisles to the arched trusses supporting the roof, the architecture is very recognizable as Western.

Adapted Kenyan examples take European or Western forms and adapt them to look more Kenyan. All Saints Cathedral in Nairobi is a good example.

Examples of Adapted Kenyan feature Western patterns with Kenyan details. Nyeri Cathedral in Nyeri is a good example. Its massing follows a traditional cruciform shape with a bell tower, but the details from the elliptical shape of the arch to the shallow pitch of the roof render it more recognizably Kenyan.

Kenyan Vernacular examples feature distinctly Kenyan and non-western patterns. Examples such as Don Bosco Catholic Church in Nairobi and Saint Joseph’s Church in Kahawa Sukari are of the tholos type: a round shape with the emphasis on the center. Traditionally, many of the pastoral and nomadic tribes of Kenya settled into small villages of circular huts arranged around a central outdoor gathering area, the focus of which was often a fire pit. It is no surprise that Kenyan Christians adapted this type of gathering space for their sacred spaces, with the fire pit at the center replaced by the altar to take advantage of existing cultural customs.

The Sacred Heart Cathedral falls somewhere between the Globalist and Adapted Kenyan categories. While the materials are local, its Modern, minimalist aesthetic reflects a Western identity that very well could have been at home in Texas. The steeply sloped roof is quite uncommon in Kenya and the skylights at the ridge of the roof are extremely vulnerable to the torrents of rainwater common in the short and long rainy seasons.

In other words, the design of Sacred Heart Cathedral, despite attempts at incorporating the culture through the use of local materials and climate considerations, is largely foreign.

The West’s Imposition

While I would argue that Catholic ideals and beauty are universal, what is beautiful in a Western European context can’t be imposed on a non-Western culture. That seems to continue the colonial assumption of superiority and the West’s paternalistic duty to improve a culture it considered lesser.

Sacred buildings ought to be designed from within the culture they are built. The builders should tap into the font of faithful talent to create an architecture and sacred space that connects more directly and personally to the specific community for whom the church is being built, while at the same time maintaining the universality of the faith.

As Kenya continues to emerge, free of its colonial past, perhaps too its sacred architecture can emerge more vibrantly representative of its rich culture, to inspire greater devotion and movement toward heaven.

Kalinda Gathinji, RA, AIA, is a project architect currently working on mixed-use multifamily residential buildings in Bethesda, Maryland. She graduated from Notre Dame with a degree in architecture and a Masters of Architectural Design and Urbanism.


1 “Sacred Heart Cathedral of Kericho,” Arch Daily, November 29, 2016.

2 “The Sacred Heart Cathedral,” Architectural Record Videos, April 2016.

3 “Kericho Gifted Church worth Sh260 Million,” Daily Nation, March 22, 2014.

4 “Kericho Cathedral,” Urban Realm, April 24, 2012.

| Drawn to the Holy House of God: The Tenth Anniversary of the Dedication of the Shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe

Drawn to the Holy House of God: The Tenth Anniversary of the Dedication of the Shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe

His Eminence Raymond Cardinal Burke preaches the homily during the Mass for the tenth anniversary of the dedication of the church.
His Eminence Raymond Cardinal Burke preaches the homily during the Mass for the tenth anniversary of the dedication of the church. Photo: Shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe

Praised be Jesus Christ, now and forever. Amen. Your Eminences, Your Excellencies, my brother priests, brothers and sisters in the consecrated life, and brothers and sisters in Christ, with deepest joy and gratitude, we recall the ancient and solemn rite by which this church, ten years ago today, truly became the House of God. For ten years now, pilgrims drawn here by their loving Mother, the Mother of God, under her title of Our Lady of Guadalupe, have received countless graces through their prayer and devotion and, above all, through the Sacraments of the Holy Eucharist and of Penance.

Here, God has fulfilled perfectly his promise, made during the Prophet Ezekiel’s vision of the New Israel and the New Temple:

Son of man, this is where my throne shall be, this is where I will set the soles of my feet; here I will dwell among the children of Israel forever.1

Rightly, we have prayed today with all our heart: “How lovely is your dwelling place, Lord, mighty God!”2 Here truly, above all on the altar of sacrifice and in the tabernacle, heaven meets earth: Christ seated in glory at the right hand of the Father pours forth, without measure and without cease, the sevenfold gift of the Holy Spirit into our hearts.

Each time we enter here, we approach, in the words of the Letter to the Hebrews, “the heavenly Jerusalem.”3 Here, we truly keep company with “countless angels in festal gathering, and the assembly of the firstborn enrolled in heaven, and God the judge of all, and the spirits of the just made perfect.”4 We encounter “Jesus, the mediator of a new covenant,” the eternal covenant sealed in his blood, which he sacramentally renews for us in the holy Mass. Christ makes his home with us here, as he made it in the house of Zacchaeus, fulfilling his divine mission “to seek and to save what was lost.”5 He ever makes sacramentally new his sacrifice on calvary and its incomparable fruit, the heavenly bread of his true body, blood, soul and divinity, and he remains with us in the tabernacle.

When the Mother of God appeared to Saint Juan Diego on our continent in 1531, she announced to him immediately the purpose of her heavenly visit. She wanted a church to be built, in which, through her special intercession, her children could encounter her divine son. Among her first words to Saint Juan Diego, she declared:

I want very much to have a little holy house built here for me, in which I will show him, I will exalt him and make him manifest. I will give him to the people in all my personal love, in my compassion, in my help, in my protection: because I am truly your merciful mother, yours and all the people who live united in this land and of all the other people of different ancestries, my lovers, who love me, those who seek me, those who trust in me. Here I will hear their weeping, their complaints and heal all their sorrows, hardships and sufferings.6

From the time of her apparitions, Our Lady of Guadalupe has never failed to draw pilgrims to her “little holy house,” truly the House of God, built for her by the first bishop of Mexico City, Fra’ Juan de Zumárraga, and made larger with time by his successors.

In her “little holy house,” in the church of her shrine in Mexico City, the Mother of God has met and continues to meet pilgrims with all her “personal love.” Taking them into her arms, she brings them to her divine son who alone is their salvation. She faithfully gives them the counsel which she first gave to the wine stewards at the Wedding Feast of Cana, the counsel inscribed upon the cornerstone of this church: “Do whatever he tells you.”7 By means of Saint Juan Diego’s tilma, upon which God miraculously wrote her image, she lovingly gazes upon pilgrims and they lovingly gaze upon her, their Mother and their Queen.

Pilgrims attend the anniversary Mass at the Shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe in La Crosse, Wisconsin. Photo: Shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe
Pilgrims attend the anniversary Mass at the Shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe in La Crosse, Wisconsin. Photo: Shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe

The church here was built to further the mission of Our Lady of Guadalupe, so that many more might know her maternal love and, through her love, know their Savior. It is a special gift from God today that a successor of Bishop Juan de Zumárraga, His Eminence Cardinal Norberto Rivera Carrera, Archbishop Emeritus of Mexico City, has come to be with us and, above all, to concelebrate the holy Mass. From the first announcement of the Shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe here, he has been a constant source of inspiration and encouragement.

On the occasion of the solemn dedication, at his direction, a piece of the stone of Tepeyac Hill was given to the Shrine and rests under the statue of Saint Juan Diego in the transept. On that occasion, he also presented to the Shrine the statue of Saint Juan Diego, which greets pilgrims as they approach the Pilgrim Center. Your Eminence, we ask your continued prayers for the Shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe here, that it may be a worthy daughter of the Insigne y Nacional Basílica de Santa María de Guadalupe at Mexico City. This church exists for only one reason, namely, the mission of Our Lady of Guadalupe. The pilgrim who enters the narthex of the church reads below the fresco depicting the wondrous apparitions of Our Lady her words to Saint Juan Diego which I have just recounted.

Giving thanks today that Our Lady of Guadalupe continues her mission through her Shrine at La Crosse, we thank God, too, for so many graces granted to the pilgrims who have come to this church with faith. Pilgrims have come here to encounter Our Lord at moments of great joy for them: the proposal of marriage, the gift of marriage and the gift of its crown, a child, the beginning of a new endeavor, and other times of joy. Pilgrims have also come in moments of great trial and grief: grave moral struggle, serious illness, marital and family strife, the abandonment of the practice of the faith by a relative or friend, the loss of work, the death of a relative or friend, and other times of sorrow. Our Lady has brought them here to meet Christ, and he has given them his peace and joy, even in moments of seemingly impossible suffering. When pilgrims leave this House of God, they read the words of Our Lady of Guadalupe to Saint Juan Diego, when he was suffering greatly in carrying out his mission:

Am I not here, I, who am your Mother? Are you not under my shadow and protection? Am I not the source of your joy? Are you not in the hollow of my mantle, in the crossing of my arms? Do you need anything more? Let nothing else worry you, disturb you.8

The Mother of God assures them that the House of God is also their house, the house of the Church, and that, therefore, they have nothing to fear.

Thanking God today for the consecration of this church, we are filled with gratitude to all, living and deceased, who have followed in the way of Saint Juan Diego as messengers of Our Lady: benefactors, volunteers, members and directors of the corporation responsible for the Shrine, the Friars of the Immaculate, the staff and, above all, the executive directors, and all who, in any way, have made possible the great spiritual work which is daily accomplished here. In a particular way, I recall the memory of two persons who joyously participated in the solemn dedication of this House of God and whom the Lord has called to himself. Let us thank God, in a special way, for Mrs. Robert Mary Lucille Swing, the donor of the exceptionally beautiful land for the shrine here, who died on March 13, 2012, and Father Peter Damian Mary Fehlner, first rector of the shrine church, who died on May 8th of this year. May they rest in peace. May God abundantly reward them and all who have sacrificed to be faithful messengers of Our Lady of Guadalupe.

... Drawn here today, the tenth anniversary of the solemn dedication of this House of God, let us lift up our hearts to the glorious Eucharistic Heart of Jesus. Let us, one with the Immaculate Heart of Mary, offer our hearts completely to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, so that we remain always in his company and, with Our Lady, lead others to him.

Heart of Jesus, House of God and gate of heaven, have mercy on us!

Our Lady of Guadalupe, Mother of America and Star of the New Evangelization, pray for us!

Saint Juan Diego, pray for us!

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

His Eminence Raymond Cardinal Burke is Patron of the Sovereign Military Order of Malta. He was bishop of the Diocese of La Crosse from 1995 to 2004.

A homily given at the Shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe in La Crosse, Wisconsin, on the occasion of the tenth anniversary of the dedication of the church. It was given on July 31, 2018.


1. Ez 43:7

2. Ps 84:2

3. Heb 12:22

4. Heb 12:22-23

5. Lk 19:10

6. “Mucho quiero, mucho deseo que aquí me levanten mi casita sagrada. En donde lo mostraré, lo ensalzaré al ponerlo de manifiesto: Lo daré a las gentes en todo mi amor personal, en mi mirada compasiva, en mi auxilio, en mi salvación: Porque yo en verdad soy vuestra madre compasiva, tuya y de todos los hombres que en esta tierra estáis en uno, y de las demás variadas estirpes de hombres, mis amadores, los que a mí clamen, los que me busquen, los que confíen en mí, porque ahí les escucharé su llanto, su tristeza, para remediar, para curar todas sus diferentes penas, sus miserias, sus dolores.” San Juan Diego, Nican Mopohua (Aquí se cuenta), tr. Mario Rojas Sánchez (México, D.F.: Design & Digital Print S.A. de C.V., 2001), 3-4, nos. 26-32. English translation: A Handbook on Guadalupe, ed. Franciscan Friars of the Immaculate (New Bedford, MA: Our Lady’s Chapel, 2001), 194, corrected by author.

7. Jn 2:5

8. “¿No estoy aquí, yo, que soy tu madre? ¿No estás bajo mi sombra y resguardo? ¿No soy la fuente de tu alegría? ¿No estás en el hueco de mi manto, en el cruce de mis brazos? ¿Tienes necesidad de alguna otra cosa? Que ninguna otra cosa te aflija, te perturbe; …” Nican Mopohua, 13, nos. 119-120. English translation: A Handbook on Guadalupe, 200.

| Preaching in Paint

Preaching in Paint

While any attempt to return the oft-shunned Renaissance painter Fra Bartolommeo to the public eye should be lauded, Albert Elen, Chris Fischer, Bram de Klerck, and Michael Kwakkelstein deserve special mention for Fra Bartolommeo: The Divine Renaissance. Written as the catalogue to accompany the eponymous exhibition held in the Rotterdam Museum Boijmans Van Beuningen from October 2016 to January 2017, the book not only highlights the technical skill and careful craftsmanship of the artist, it explores the religious nature and significance of his art, something all too often sidelined in major exhibitions.

Art history has not been kind to this painter, as the opening essay reminds us. Particularly during the nineteenth century, the authors suggest, “his rhetoric and mysticism seemed empty to an irreligious and materialistic public.” Dismissed by many critics, his first and only other monographic exhibition took place in 1996.

Fra Bartolommeo was born Baccio della Porta in Florence in 1473, two years before his more famous contemporary Michelangelo. Raised in the Florence of Botticelli and Ghirlandaio (Leonardo da Vinci was twenty-one and already a master, but not yet well-known), Baccio was apprenticed to Cosimo Rosselli, one of the original painters of the Sistine chapel in Rome, shortly after his return from completing that prestigious commission.

Baccio’s fledgling painting career began during one of the most turbulent times in Florence. The death of Lorenzo the Magnificent, the city’s de facto ruler, the French invasion under his unworthy successor, and the rise of the fiery Dominican preacher Girolamo Savonarola, were not ideal conditions for artistic patronage.

In 1500, two years after Savonarola’s trial and execution for heresy, Baccio joined the Dominican order, taking the name Bartolommeo. Perhaps remembering the success of another Dominican artist from the same convent of San Marco, Fra Angelico, the new friar was encouraged to hone his preaching skills…in paint.

The Rotterdam museum, in possession of 140 of the artist’s drawings, displayed the preparatory sketches next to eleven paintings by Fra Bartolommeo. The catalogue lovingly traces the artistic process from the hastily traced concept, to the thoughtful drawing, to the finished product for each work of art. Fra Bartolommeo emerges from these pages as a careful craftsman, a quality often overlooked in modern art. His drawings served as teaching documents for many later artists, eventually guiding the work of Sr. Plautilla Nelli, the first female painter of Florence (one of the many fascinating and useful pieces of information in the book).

The technical processes and the workshop practices described in the text are intriguing, especially Fra Bartolommeo’s collaboration with another forgotten yet gifted Florentine painter Mariano Albertelli, and their on-and-off collaboration offers interesting insight into partnerships and competitors.

His friendship with Raphael, ten years his junior, reveals a man unafraid of rivalry with the youthful genius. His artistic transformation after a voyage to Venice shows an openness to innovation.

Most engrossing, however, is the ubiquitous presence of Savonarola, much admired by Fra Bartolommeo, and Michelangelo as well for that matter. The catalogue dedicates an entire essay to this influential Dominican who preached repentance to a privileged populace in fifteenth-century Florence.

It is, all in all, a sympathetic portrayal, although the authors convey a tone of excessive reproach toward Savonarola’s Bonfire of the Vanities, during which people brought objects representing disordered passions to be destroyed as an exercise in detachment. In this chapter, however, author Bram de Klerck emphasizes the role images played, particularly in Dominican spirituality, and deftly illustrates how faith and politics were often interwoven in Renaissance art (The Incarnation and The Madonna della Misericordia).

Fra Bartolommeo died at age forty-four on October 31, 1517, the first day of the Protestant Reformation. He was never able to polish his artistic talents in the arena of violent theological controversy, but the Fra Bartolommeo who appears in this text illustrates the significance of the Sacraments (Salvator Mundi), mystic vision (Padre Eterno), and intercession (The Carondelet Madonna) as compellingly as any painter of the Catholic restoration.

The book takes viewers by the hand to lead them through the daunting world of preparatory drawings and allows the novice to succumb to the fascination of watching the artist’s creative faculties at work. The immediacy of some of the sketches—a smiling elderly woman or a friar rapt in prayer—appear almost as candid snapshots with the feathery pencil strokes. While neither a gripping narrative nor an easy handbook, Fra Bartolommeo: The Divine Renaissance engagingly introduces the world of art history and encourages Christians to be proud of one of their illustrious brothers.

Elizabeth Lev is an art historian who teaches, studies and writes in Rome with a special focus on Renaissance and Baroque art. Her most recent book is How Catholic Art Saved the Faith: The Triumph of Beauty and Truth in Counter-Reformation Art.

| Postwar Building Boom

Postwar Building Boom

In the two decades after World War II, American Christians built an unprecedented number of churches as a postwar baby boom and suburban expansion created tremendous demand for new houses of worship. The trend began in 1947, when Americans spent $126 million dollars on church construction, and peaked in 1965 at some $1.2 billion dollars.

This period of feverish church building has, until recently, been largely unexplored by architectural, religious, and urban historians. Among recent books aiming to change this are Jay M. Price’s Temples for a Modern God: Religious Architecture in Postwar America and Gretchen Buggeln’s The Suburban Church: Modernism and Community in Postwar America.

Buggeln holds a Chair in Christianity and the Arts at Valparaiso University. Her book focuses on three influential Protestant architects—Edward Dupaquier Dart, Charles Edward Stade, and Edward Anders Sövik—and seventy-five of the churches they designed in the Midwest. Making impressive use of congregational archives and interviews with founding-era parishioners, she explores the prevalence of the A-frame design from the 1950s to the mid-1960s; the way a vision of the Church as family shaped sanctuary design; the prioritization of fellowship and education in design of the church plant; and a case study of churches in the suburb of Park Forest, Illinois.

Price is professor of history and directs the Public History Program at Wichita State University. His book focuses on the network of architects, consultants, denominational and ecumenical bodies such as the National Council of Church’s Bureau of Church Building and Architecture, professional organizations such as the Church Architectural Guild of America, and journals such as Protestant Church Building, Church Management, and Church Property Administration that promoted a modern aesthetic in ecclesial design. He examines how design styles evolved through the postwar period, highlighting how Modernist styles predominated as architects from the World War II generation exerted increased influence in the 1960s.

Unsurprisingly, certain themes run through both books: the professionalization of church architects; the centrality of the building committee in planning and fundraising; the impact of construction costs on churches comprised of cash-strapped suburbanites; the prevalence of building in stages and the frequent flexibility and insufficiency of “first units”; the focus on creating seven-day-a-week campuses for educational and social programs; and the influence of suburban domestic architecture on church design.

Both Buggeln and Price conclude their books with similar tales about the state of postwar churches in the new millennium. In many instances, the congregations these churches house have aged, have moved on to newer suburbs, or have been reshaped by changes in the neighborhood’s ethnic and racial makeup. The buildings themselves have often aged poorly, requiring expensive maintenance and renovation projects, or being vacated and torn down.

Those that continue to be used, especially among Catholic parishes, have often been renovated to make greater use of “symbols, statuary, decoration, ornament, and woodwork.” That signifies a “modest revolution against the simple forms and opaque symbols of the original buildings.”

Buggeln and Price are both sympathetic to the architects and congregations they study and admirably retrieve for skeptical millennial readers the spiritual and social meaning postwar churches had to the congregations that built them. They depict postwar churches as an attempt by parishioners to respond to an atomic age that they felt demanded a new architecture to proclaim the Gospel amidst a consumerist and media savvy culture.

Yet one of the most salient themes in both texts is the tension between tradition and modernity: the divide between the updated but traditional structures postwar congregations desired and the modernist buildings preferred by newly ordained clergy and young architects. Both writers repeatedly admit that “the general public did not so much demand contemporary houses of worship as resign themselves to their inevitable construction.”

Detractors lamented the “grocery store” and “gas station” churches. “Seldom in history,” Price notes, “have supposedly sacred structures been the object of so many disparaging remarks.”

Buggeln and Price admit that modernist churches were controversial and never garnered the popular support the era’s other public structures received. That calls into question their contention that postwar churches provide crucial insight into what Americans wanted to say, in stone and glass, about themselves and their faith communities.

Rev. Stephen M. Koeth, CSC, is a doctoral student at Columbia University, working on a dissertation on the suburbanization of American Catholicism.

| Fresh Light and Revolutionary Vision

Fresh Light and Revolutionary Vision

The subject of half a millennium of historical scrutiny, what more about Leonardo da Vinci and his masterpiece the “Last Supper” remains to be said? In Young Leonardo, Jean-Pierre Isbouts and Christopher Heath Brown challenge the traditional account of Leonardo’s early career. They aim to uncover the real story of the development of this extraordinary artist, shedding fresh light on the context of Leonardo’s early work, and in the end, opening our eyes to the possibility of seeing Leonardo’s masterpiece afresh.

The authors, one an art historian and the other a surgeon who uses his knowledge of faces to analyze Renaissance portraits, published The Mona Lisa Myth in 2013.

Orthodox Narrative

The orthodox narrative of Leonardo’s formative artistic years runs something like this: As an apprentice in Florence, Leonardo distinguished himself as a prodigy, earning the recognition of Lorenzo de Medici, ruler of the Florentine Republic. Lorenzo dispatched him to Milan to serve as the court artist for the would-be duke of Milan, Ludovico Sforza. He became the most celebrated artist of the Milanese court, executing ducal portraits, designing sets and costumes for its festivities, and, along the way, painting his masterwork, the “Last Supper.”

Isbouts and Brown maintain the truth is less clear-cut. Young Leonardo approaches the artist not through the art itself—whose obvious genius belies his struggle for approval in both Florence and Milan—but through the lens of the political and art-historical backdrop of fifteenth-century Italy.

Through an explication of the aesthetic expectations of patrons (which Leonardo repeatedly failed to meet) and the decline of the Medici stronghold on Florence, the authors contest both the extent of Leonardo’s Florentine celebrity as well as the terms on which he left for Milan. They also cast doubts on his status in the Milanese court. He didn’t receive any major commissions for years, and when large projects did arise, he was regularly overlooked in favor of Lombard artists.

The greater part of the book is devoted to the form, process, meaning, and circumstances surrounding the revolutionary “Last Supper.” The authors reject the notion of the fresco as the product of his sole, untethered genius. There were fairly strict representational conventions laid out by the Dominicans to which he was expected to adhere. The Last Supper was also an understandably popular theme for a refectory, and there were notable Quattrocento antecedents of the subject.

Leonardo da Vinci,
Leonardo da Vinci, “Last Supper,” ca. 1494-1498. Image: Young Leonardo

Leonardo’s Inventions

Yet Leonardo’s version is much less dependent on contemporary precedents than on solutions to problems he had already worked out for himself. It is remarkable just how thoroughly his scheme breaks from the customary arrangement. The architectonic grouping of the figures and the stunning array of emotions captured therein, the cinematic manipulation of light, the perspectival sleight of hand, the painted architecture used as a means of directing the viewer’s focus, and the timing of the “shot” at the climactic moment of the narrative—all of these were inventions overlaid on a program that was more or less defined.

Tracing Leonardo’s development from his earliest work, the authors establish the “Last Supper” as the culmination of decades of artistic exploration. The theatrical lighting seen in the “Last Supper,” for instance, can be found in the dramatic chiaroscuro in some of his early Florentine paintings. His “Adoration of the Magi” displays the same daring transformation of the principal subject and astonishing range of emotional expression that make the “Last Supper” resonate with such force.

Unfortunately, Leonardo’s characteristic inventiveness extended to the medium. Due to a failed experimental tempera paint, very little remains of the original painting.

However, the authors offer compelling evidence that a copy of the “Last Supper” was completed for King Louis XII of France under Leonardo’s immediate supervision. Amazingly, they claim this painting may still be in existence today, in the form of a twenty-five-foot-wide canvas whose patron has never been determined. This revelation, if true, affords an opportunity to see Leonardo’s masterpiece anew, in all its original vitality.

Ultimately, what is the picture of Leonardo’s early life that emerges in Young Leonardo? He was a genius, to be sure, but also an outsider—one whose earliest attempts at revitalizing Italian art were met mostly with rejection. Yet his lack of critical success never deterred his revolutionary vision, nor would his early failures prevent him from becoming the star around which much art of the following century would orbit. Just as Leonardo brought fresh life to a stagnating artistic milieu, so too does this small, eminently readable book bring fresh life to our understanding of his work.

Julian Murphy is a graduate architecture student at the University of Notre Dame.

| Ab Urbe Condita

Editorial: Ab Urbe Condita

Cattedrale di Santa Maria Assunta, Piazza Paolo VI, Brescia, Italy. Photo credit: Roberto Ricca
Cattedrale di Santa Maria Assunta, Piazza Paolo VI, Brescia, Italy. Photo credit: Roberto Ricca

When you go to a great European city, you find beautiful spacious piazze, outdoor cafes, charming shops, fountains to sit near, and people to watch. For many today, that symbolizes the good city.

As bricks-and-mortar retail decreases, our cities become more about experiences we can’t get online. Most of us like active places with nightlife, theaters for movies and plays, concert halls, museums, parks for bike riding, and sidewalks for walking our dogs. Fresh food, old bookshops, coffee bars, and micro-breweries satisfy our passions. Those make a public realm worth visiting.

Adding a church to the mix doesn’t really help. Or does it? Is the European plaza so great merely because of commerce and culture? Does it need something else? Does it need the temple? Our temples serve people’s most fundamental needs: forgiveness, hope, and meaning. Their presence on the piazza says that commerce is not enough, that not even culture is enough.

But who visits churches? They need to be something out of the ordinary like Saint Patrick’s Cathedral in New York, preferably with masterpieces of art inside. We are a secular country with Protestant origins and our church buildings are not normally open, and in any case rarely worth visiting for their architecture or their art. (Interestingly, a recent study in the U.K. found that church architecture had a greater impact on conversions than even youth groups. If left open, people will visit beautiful churches and have the opportunity for conversion.)

There are certainly many great cities with churches where the urban realm is not so lively. There neither commerce nor culture nor the temple flourish. In Naples, I have witnessed many closed churches with desolate piazze. Of course, a closed church can still be a beautiful ornament on the square, not unlike a Roman ruin, but it will not be able to fulfill its ultimate purpose. This is because the role of church architecture, like retail, is to draw us inside, but for a different purpose: to bring us in contact with the divine.

A city is more than just commerce and culture. The good city needs a civic realm marked out by a proper architecture of the civic realm. City Halls are there to promote good government, schools to promote education, courts to promote justice, museums to promote art and concert halls to promote the performing arts. Some of these civic structures we visit once a year or on special occasions, others every week or daily. Others we prefer not to visit, like the courthouse. These are the foci of our cities, and we have invested our best efforts to erect them.

The answer to good cities is not to put retail everywhere to activate the public realm with commerce, nor to add cultural pleasures like parks and micro-breweries. It’s first to have a public realm that is worth visiting. That public realm must include our temples. And it must be architecturally expressed in a certain way. If churches and other civic buildings are invested with monumental architecture they will become the focus of our streets and city squares. Adding a church to the mix does help. It helps create and sustain a vital public realm by serving people’s most fundamental needs for forgiveness, hope, and meaning in a way no other civic institution can do. And ironically, perhaps, temples will draw parishioners and tourists alike, resulting in vibrant commerce as well.

Duncan G. Stroik is the editor of Sacred Architecture Journal.

| God the Father of Lights: C. S. Lewis on Christianity and Paganism

God the Father of Lights: C. S. Lewis on Christianity and Paganism

A Requiem Mass celebrated at Santa Maria ad Martyres in Rome. The Pantheon, built in the second century, was consecrated as a church on May 13, 609. Photo: New Liturgical Movement/Luca Schirano
A Requiem Mass celebrated at Santa Maria ad Martyres in Rome. The Pantheon, built in the second century, was consecrated as a church on May 13, 609. Photo: New Liturgical Movement/Luca Schirano

Most people would struggle to identify the church in Rome dedicated to Saint Mary and the Martyrs. But refer to it as “the Pantheon,” the home of all the gods, and everyone would immediately know what you are talking about.

Examples could be multiplied almost indefinitely of Christian buildings associated with a pagan past or even still showcasing pagan imagery. In Venice, for instance, the church of Saint Mary of Nazareth, better known as the Scalzi, features statues of sibyls (pagan oracles) in the sanctuary.

At Caprarola, in central Italy, the Villa Farnese, built for a cardinal, houses plentiful pagan iconography cheek-by-jowl with Catholic art, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for a high-ranking church official to celebrate paganism and Christianity under one roof. Saint Mary’s Church, Iffley, near Oxford, has an archway that shows the four evangelists jostling side by side with Aquarius, Pisces and other characters from the signs of the zodiac.

The interplay between paganism and Christianity intrigued C. S. Lewis. His reflections on this relationship are well worth bearing in mind when visiting churches that seem to have a surprisingly relaxed attitude to pagan imagery and the pagan past.

The Hellespontine Sibyl and the Sibyl of Samos are two of the six statues of pagan sibyls in the church of Saint Mary of Nazareth in Venice, also known as the Scalzi. Photo credit: Descouens
The Hellespontine Sibyl and the Sibyl of Samos are two of the six statues of pagan sibyls in the church of Saint Mary of Nazareth in Venice, also known as the Scalzi. Photo credit: Descouens

A Language More Adequate

It was largely through his love of pagan mythology that Lewis himself became a Christian. And in his best-known writings, the seven Chronicles of Narnia, he demonstrated very ingeniously how Christianity can incorporate and redeem pagan traditions.

The immediate human cause of Lewis’s Christian conversion in 1931 was a long night-time conversation with two good friends, J. R. R. Tolkien and Hugo Dyson, on the subject of Christianity, metaphor, and myth. (Tolkien was Catholic, Dyson an Anglican.) What had been holding him back from accepting Christianity was, he said in a letter, “a difficulty in knowing what the doctrine meant.”

Tolkien and Dyson showed him that Christian doctrines are not the main thing about Christianity. Doctrines are translations into concepts and ideas of that which God has already expressed in “a language more adequate: namely the actual incarnation, crucifixion and resurrection” of Christ. The primary language of Christianity is a lived language of an actual person being born, dying, and living again.

When Lewis realised this, he began to understand what Christianity really meant, because he had been fascinated from childhood by stories of dying and rising gods. He had always found these pagan stories to be “profound and suggestive of meanings beyond my grasp even tho’ I could not say in cold prose ‘what it meant.’”

The difference between his attitude to the pagan myths and to the Christianity he then rejected was that he did not try officiously to explain the pagan myths. These stories he saw to be fruitful in their own terms. They had to be accepted as saying something in their own way, not treated as a kind of allegory and translated into something less, something secondary, into mere “doctrines.”

Doctrines are the product of analytical dissection. They recast the original, equivocal, historical material into abstract, less fully realized categories of meaning. In short, doctrines are not as richly meaningful as that which they are doctrines about.

Lewis now understood that the essence of Christianity was the story recounted in the gospels, rather than the commentary upon and explication of that story in the epistles, and that the Christ-story could be approached in a way similar to the way he approached pagan myths. Christianity is the “true myth.” In paganism God expressed Himself in an unfocused way through the images human imaginations deployed in order to tell stories about the world. The story of Christ is “God’s myth” — the story in which God directly expressed Himself through a real, historical life of a particular man, in a particular time, in a particular place: Jesus of Nazareth, crucified under Pontius Pilate outside Jerusalem, circa AD 33.

God the Father of All Lights

That there were certain similarities between pagan myths and the true myth did not lead Lewis to conclude, “so much the worse for Christianity,” he explained in “Is Theology Poetry?” It led him to conclude, “so much the better for Paganism.” Paganism contained a good deal of meaning that was realized, consummated, and perfected in Christ.

The important thing to notice is the resemblance he observed between the Christian story and the stories of “pagan Christs,” as he called them. Since God is the Father of lights (James 1:17), He is the Father of “natural lights as well as spiritual lights,” Lewis told the Billy Graham Evangelistic Association. Even the flickering lights of paganism could be attributed ultimately to Him. He now believed with his poetic hero Edmund Spenser, as he put it in Spenser’s Images of Life, that “Divine Wisdom spoke not only on the Mount of Olives, but also on Parnassus.”

His inclusive attitude here reflects the approach of Christian poets in the sixteenth century. Of them he wrote (in a scholarly paper titled “Neoplatonism in the Poetry of Spenser”): “It was not felt desirable, much less necessary, when you mentioned, say, Jove, to exclude any of his meanings; the Christian God, the Pagan god, the planet as actually seen, the planet astrologically considered, were all welcome to enrich the figure, by turns or even simultaneously.”

He explained (in another scholarly work, “Hero and Leander”) that “gods and goddesses could always be used in a Christian sense” by a medieval or Elizabethan poet. Dante, Sidney, Spenser, and Milton all recognized that the redeemed gods could perform all sorts of good, true, and beautiful tasks. As he wrote in his magnum opus, English Literature in the Sixteenth Century, for them “the gods are God incognito and everyone is in the secret.” They understood paganism as “the religion of poetry through which the author can express, at any moment, just so much or so little of his real religion as his art requires.”

In a review of The Oxford Book of Christian Verse, he coined the term “transferred classicism” for those poets who imagined their Christianity under classical forms. There, “God is, in some degree, disguised as a mere god” and the reader enjoys seeing “how well Christianity could produce the councils, catalogues, Mercuries, and battlepieces of ancient epic.”

Chaucer, a Christian poet, could describe himself as Venus’s “disciple.” This practice of using mythological untruths to hint at theological truths lasted as late as the composition of Milton’s Comus in 1634. It was, for most poets and in most poems, by far the best method of writing poetry which was religious without being devotional.

The Similarities Ought to Be There

One need not draw hard and fast lines between Christianity and paganism because God, as the Father of lights, is the source of all truth. Perhaps Lewis’s favorite theologian was Richard Hooker (1554-1600), the so-called “father of Anglicanism.” Hooker thought that “all kinds of knowledge, all good arts, sciences, and disciplines come from the Father of lights,” Lewis explained in English Literature in the Sixteenth Century. As Hooker put it, they are “as so many sparkles resembling the bright fountain from which they arise.”

After the talk with Tolkien and Dyson, Lewis was no longer troubled by the similarities between, for instance, the pagan Jupiter and the Hebrew Yahweh. The similarities “ought to be there,” as he wrote in his essay, “Myth Became Fact.” It would be a problem if they were absent. And so he takes pleasure in pointing out, in his book Miracles, that “God is supposed to have had a ‘Son,’ just as if God were a mythological deity like Jupiter.”

This all-embracing Christian mentality was seen in the way that people in the Middle Ages interpreted the pagan poetry of the ancient Roman writer, Virgil. In his Fourth Eclogue, Virgil had written (Lewis’s translation):

The great procession of the ages begins anew.

Now the Virgin returns, the reign of Saturn returns,

and the new child is sent down from high heaven.

These lines were understood in the Middle Ages as a pagan prophecy of the birth of Christ. Dante viewed them as such in his masterpiece, The Divine Comedy. The adult Lewis made the Fourth Eclogue a regular part of his Christmas reading, finding in this Virgilian insight evidence that God could speak even through a Roman pagan in order to prepare the human imagination for the coming of the Christ-child.

Following Saint Paul

Here Lewis followed the example of Saint Paul. The apostle preached to the men of Athens, using the pagan gods to communicate his message. Paul tells them that God “is not far from each one of us, for ‘in him we live and move and have our being;’ as even some of your poets have said, ‘for we are indeed his offspring.’”

The first quotation comes from Epimenides, a Greek poet and philosopher of the sixth century before Christ, who wrote of Zeus as the one “in whom we live and move and have our being.” The second comes from Aratus, a poet from about 300 years before Christ, who says of Zeus that “we are indeed his offspring.”

Paul meets the men of Athens where they are, where they already have an inkling of meaning. He is not trying to obliterate their limited and incomplete religious knowledge. He takes what they already possess, imaginatively, and baptizes it. And apparently he had some success. When the Greeks heard Paul, “some mocked; but others said, ‘We will hear you again about this.’”

Lewis would have been among those Greeks who followed Paul’s logic, finding it evangelistically effective. He was ready, like the apostle, to work upwards from the copy to the original, from Zeus to the true God.

And this attitude was not just intellectual or imaginative on Lewis’s part. It also affected his personal devotional habits as a Christian. I mentioned his reading of the Fourth Eclogue at Christmas. On honeymoon in Greece with his dying wife, Lewis found it hard not to pray to Apollo the Healer to heal his wife Joy of her cancer. “Somehow one didn’t feel it would have been very wrong — would only have been addressing Christ sub specie Apollinis,” he wrote a friend, the Wheaton College professor Chad Walsh, in 1960.

The Gods Must Die to Live

Lewis’s high view of the pagan gods affected the way he wrote his own Christian works. He was not averse, in fact he was wholly committed, to using paganism for literary purposes. As a good medievalist, Lewis was not concerned to keep pagan deities separate from the deity of his believed religion. He was ever prepared to present God sub figuris vilium corporum (“under the figure of vile bodies”), as Saint Thomas Aquinas put it.

He recognised that the gods had declined from deities whom people worshipped devoutly to symbols that writers used poetically, but he did not consider this a history of sheer loss. Although the gods “died into allegory,” as he explained in his first scholarly work, The Allegory of Love, they rose again into a world of romantic imagining, a world of myth and fancy, for “gods, like other creatures, must die to live.”

In his Narnia Chronicles he causes the seven planetary deities to enjoy a most sophisticated resurrection. Here in his most famous works, as I show in my book Planet Narnia, Lewis takes the seven planetary gods of the pre-Copernican cosmos and uses their various qualities and attributes as his imaginative blueprint for each Chronicle. Jupiter, the magnanimous king, associated with “winter past and guilt forgiven,” provides the controlling symbolism for The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Mars, god of war and woods, shapes and orders Prince Caspian. The Sun, god of gold, spiritual illumination and the slaying of dragons, irradiates The Voyage of the ‘Dawn Treader.’

The Moon, sponsor of silver, lunacy, wetness and wanderings, infuses The Silver Chair. Mercury, lord of language, messages, speed, twins, and theft, runs throughout The Horse and His Boy. Venus, goddess of creativity, beauty, laughter, and magic apples from western gardens, fertilizes The Magician’s Nephew. And Saturn, father of death, darkness, and disaster makes his woeful presence felt in the final Chronicle, The Last Battle.

In this manner, Lewis gave a contemporary twist to the medieval practice of using cosmological material. One thing he particularly admired in Dante was his presentation of the best cosmological thought of his day, his acting as a medieval version of modern astronomers like Sir James Jeans and Sir Arthur Eddington.

The medieval cosmos, Lewis thought, was perhaps the greatest work of art the Middle Ages produced, and Dante’s presentation of it was only the most perfect of the various versions on offer. “They wrote it, they sang it, painted it and carved it. Sometimes a whole poem or a whole building seems almost nothing but verbalized or petrified cosmology,” he wrote in a scholarly paper on “Imagination and Thought in the Middle Ages.”

We do not have space here to examine the songs and paintings which Lewis was referring to, but when speaking of the poems which verbalized this cosmology, Lewis had in mind not just Dante’s Divine Comedy, but also Chaucer and Henryson, in whose Knight’s Tale and Testament of Cresseid, the “character and influence of the planets are worked into” the story-line. He also had in mind Spenser’s Faerie Queene, which is both “a representation of, and hymn to, the cosmos as our ancestors believed it to be. There has been no delight (of that sort) in ‘nature’ since the old cosmology was rejected. No one can respond in just that way to the Einsteinian, or even the Newtonian, universe.”

The Gods’ New Life

As for the buildings that verbalized or petrified this cosmology, Lewis is thinking of the Old Sacristy of San Lorenzo, Florence, in which the constellations depicted on the cupola above the altar are there not for mere decoration, but because they are in the right position for the day (July 9, 1422) the altar was consecrated.

The dome over the altar of Brunelleschi’s Old Sacristy at the Basilica of San Lorenzo in Florence depicts the constellations on July 9, 1422, the date the altar was consecrated. Photo credit:
The dome over the altar of Brunelleschi’s Old Sacristy at the Basilica of San Lorenzo in Florence depicts the constellations on July 9, 1422, the date the altar was consecrated. Photo credit:

He also mentions the Salone at Padua, which is designed so that at each sunrise the beams will fall on the Sign in which Sol would then ride. “Just as the planets are not merely present in the Testament of Cresseid but woven into the plot, so in the buildings the cosmological material is sometimes woven into what we may call the plot of a building.”

Images of the zodiac appear next to apostles and saints in the Salone of the Palazzo della Ragione in Padua. Originally completed by Giotto, the fresco cycle was repainted by Niccolò Miretto and Stefano da Ferrara following a fire in 1420. Photo credit:
Images of the zodiac appear next to apostles and saints in the Salone of the Palazzo della Ragione in Padua. Originally completed by Giotto, the fresco cycle was repainted by Niccolò Miretto and Stefano da Ferrara following a fire in 1420. Photo credit:

It is in connection with “the plot of a building” that Lewis came nearest to disclosing his secret imaginative plan for Narnia. One of his American correspondents, Professor William Kinter, had suggested that Lewis’s publications could be laid out to form a kind of literary cathedral. Lewis wrote back saying, “It’s fun laying out all my books as a cathedral. Personally I’d make Miracles and the other ‘treatises’ the cathedral school: my children’s stories are the real side-chapels, each with its own little altar.”

Each with its own little altar. Let the reader understand! The Narnia Chronicles are all “about Christ,” as Lewis admitted in a letter, but they are about Christ by means of what in “The Alliterative Metre” he called the seven “spiritual symbols” furnished by medieval cosmology and classical mythology. Christ, like Jupiter, is the king of kings. Christ, like Mars, is the lord of hosts, mighty in battle, before whom the trees of the field clap their hands. Christ, like Sol, is the light of the world and more to be desired than gold. Christ, like Luna, reflects the Father to mankind. Christ, like Mercury, is the Word of God. Christ, like Venus, is the bright morning star. Christ, like Saturn, makes of death itself a tool of divine purpose.

If Lewis had meant the whole Narnia series to be “about Christ” in a simple sense, the seven books would constitute one large, single altar dedicated to Him. Since the septet is actually “about Christ” as understood by means of the heptarchy — “the seven kingdoms of the seven planets,” as the poet John Donne called them — each Chronicle constitutes its own peculiar understanding and representation of the Divine nature.

And so the pagan gods rise to new life in the seven heavens of Narnia. Lewis’s professional expertise as a literary historian and his theological imagination as a Christian writer are ingeniously united. In his survey of the great medievalists of the twentieth century, called Inventing the Middle Ages, Norman Cantor is quite right to note that Lewis’s fictional works cannot be separated from his scholarly writing. Both show how he sought “to transmute [his] medieval learning into mythopoetic fiction, fantasy literature for a mass audience that communicated the sensibility of medieval epic and romance.”

Dante, Chaucer, Henryson, and others had Christened the planetary gods in works of considerable complexity and subtlety, for, as Lewis put it, “intricacy is a mark of the medieval mind.” By adopting and adapting their methods, he shows himself to be an heir of their line, ready and willing to baptize paganism and put it to Christian effect.

The pagans may have turned the planets into gods and goddesses, but that was only an imaginative extension of the Biblical picture of the celestial bodies as angelic powers who are “telling the glory of God.” Christians need not spurn such cultural accretions, as long as they were correctly understood and put in their proper context. When the true God arrives, then, and only then, “the half-gods can remain,” he wrote in The Four Loves. Half-gods, recognized as such, have their own proper excellence. We do not have “to throw away our silver to make room for the gold.” Rather, it is a case of “Seek ye first the kingdom of God and all these things shall be added unto you.” He writes in Christianity and Culture, “it is lawful to rest our eyes in moonlight — especially now that we know where it comes from, that it is only sunlight at second hand.”

Dr. Michael Ward is a fellow of Blackfriars Hall in Oxford and a professor of apologetics at Houston Baptist University. He is the author of Planet Narnia: The Seven Heavens in the Imagination of C. S. Lewis and co-editor of The Cambridge Companion to C. S. Lewis.

| Early Lutheran Church Architecture

Early Lutheran Church Architecture

Hartenfels Castle Chapel in Torgau was dedicated in 1544, the first newly constructed Lutheran space. Photo credit: Praefcke
Hartenfels Castle Chapel in Torgau was dedicated in 1544, the first newly constructed Lutheran space. Photo credit: Praefcke

The architectural implications of the Augsburg Confession were probably not top-of-mind for those who signed it in 1530. The Confession was a presentation of Lutheran teaching, most significantly on the doctrine of justification by grace through faith. It was the theological statement of the political leaders who had been convinced of the Lutheran position, a position whose initiation has been marked by Luther’s posting of the 95 Theses in October 1517.

While the Augsburg Confession makes no mention of church design or art, it does define the Church unequivocally as “the congregation of saints.” In so doing, the Lutherans located any notion of sacredness, not in a specific institution or place, but in the gathering of believers — wherever it may occur — who come together around God’s word and, consequently, in the presence of Jesus Christ. This definition, a ramification of the doctrine of justification, drove Lutheran church design.

Lutherans didn’t build many churches in the first century following the start of the Reformation. In the lands that came to be identified as Lutheran, existing churches were merely given over to Lutheran use, in most cases, with minimal change. These spaces were usually conservatively modified in order to ensure that all could hear the preacher, witness baptisms and receive the Lord’s Supper. Typically, the use of devotional candles before images of saints was discontinued. In some cases extra-biblical religious art was removed or covered. Frequently new, didactic Biblical art was introduced.1

Luther’s own conservatism regarding the liturgy, art, and environment of worship was itself a reaction to what he saw as the excess of the iconoclastic Andreas Karlstadt. During Luther’s self-imposed exile of 1521, Karlstadt instituted sweeping reforms to the liturgy and removed all images from the church in Wittenberg.

The new churches that were built took a variety of forms, yet all display a commitment to the gathering, the centrality of Sacramental life — Holy Baptism and the Lord’s Supper — and the authority of Scripture. Most make extensive use of images, though in didactic rather than devotional ways. None were perceived by their communities as sacred in any way that could be distinguished from the sacredness of all creation which had been consecrated by the Word of God in the act of creation.

What follows are descriptions of three early church buildings, offered as manifestations in design of these core Lutheran commitments. Hartenfels Castle Chapel in Torgau, built in 1544, was the first newly constructed Lutheran space. It might be called the Lutheran archetype. The town church of Freudenstadt, built in 1608, was one of the first newly created Lutheran churches. Holy Cross Church in Augsburg, built from 1651 to 1653, was the product of civic competition with the Catholics, and the creative use of an oddly-shaped space the city gave them.

The Lutheran Archetype

The Castle Chapel at Hartenfels Castle in Torgau was dedicated on October 4, 1544. This first newly constructed Lutheran space is an archetype for Lutheran church architecture, both embodying Luther’s ideas about the nature of worship and influencing, if not in design details, in core values, the design and construction of Lutheran churches in Germany and across Europe.

The chapel is a renovation of the east wing of the castle, commissioned by Johann Frederick I and designed and constructed by Nickel Grohmann. Torgau was the seat of German reformation political power. Luther consulted on the design and Lucas Cranach contributed both sketches for the bas-reliefs that mark the pulpit and the color scheme for the whole room.2

When Luther preached at the dedication, he made a statement about the nature of Christian worship that has been formative for Lutheran liturgical theology. “The purpose of this new house may be such that nothing else may ever happen in it except that our dear Lord himself may speak to us through his holy word, and we respond to him through prayer and praise.”3 For Luther, Christian worship is people gathering to receive the gifts of God’s grace, namely life and salvation through the proclamation of God’s word and the administration of the Sacraments to which God’s word had attached the promise of the gift of righteousness.

What is fundamental for Lutheran architecture is the gathering around the Word of God and the congregation’s collective response. The primacy of Scripture, even in the context of the Sacraments, and the fact that Scripture was shared for the sake of the gathered community, required both the visual and acoustical presence of the speaker and a specific place in the speaker’s presence for the gathered community. The baptismal font and altar must be close to each other because they too were places from which the Word of God was shared.

That said, everything for Luther is about function for the community. The place itself is but a concession to the need to have a communally identified place of gathering. How is this seen in Hartenfels Castle Chapel?

A sculpture of the removal of Christ’s body from the cross is located above the entrance to the chapel at Hartenfels Castle. Photo credit:
A sculpture of the removal of Christ’s body from the cross is located above the entrance to the chapel at Hartenfels Castle. Photo credit:

As a renovation and re-purposing of an existing castle wing, the chapel is not identifiable from outside the building, save for the sculpture by Simon Schröter over a door that opens to the ground floor of this three-story space — a depiction of the removal of Christ’s body from the cross. The doorway pierces the exterior wall under the second of four barrel vaults that line the long walls, supporting two levels of galleries above.

A depiction on the pulpit of Jesus driving the money changers from the temple illustrates the principle of Sola Fide. Photo credit: Praefcke
A depiction on the pulpit of Jesus driving the money changers from the temple illustrates the principle of Sola Fide. Photo credit: Praefcke

The prominent pulpit is the obvious center of the room’s attention, visible from every place in the chapel, both from the ground floor and from the Duke’s place in the gallery, which opened off his personal quarters. It is mounted at the level of the first gallery and centered on the wall opposite. This conforms to Luther’s own comments at the dedication that the room was intended for the proclamation of God’s word.

The barrel of the pulpit is adorned with three scenes from the Gospels, each illustrating one of the Reformation’s five signature “solas.” From left to right, these images are: Jesus forgiving the sin of the woman caught in adultery (Sola Gratia); the twelve-year-old Jesus in the temple teaching by pointing to the Scriptures (Sola Scriptura); and Jesus driving the money changers from the temple (illustrating Sola Fide through the Lutheran rejection of the sale of indulgences and the practice of pilgrimages).

This use of art to illustrate Biblical stories that teach theological concepts is emblematic of the ways in which Lutherans used art in their churches. Luther, responding to the iconoclasm of both Lutheran and Reformed pastors, observed that he couldn’t conceive of the crucifixion of Jesus without creating an image in his imagination. For Luther, visual art merely supplied the imagination with an illustration.

At the end of the room, to the preacher’s right, on the main floor but elevated on two steps, stands a stone table: the altar for the Sacrament of the Altar. The corners of the mensa (the top) rest on four angelic beings. There is room behind the table for the presiding pastor to face the congregation, as Luther recommended in his commentary of 1526 on the liturgy for his suggested, vernacular, German Mass.

There is no railing or barrier that would limit access from the common space. Luther did not recognize a hierarchy of holiness within the church space or outside of it. In his dedicatory sermon, he remarked that the community could be meeting just as well outside by the fountain, but that the room had been set aside as a mark of orderliness and neighborly service.

Installed above the communion table is the room’s organ, the pipes housed in simple but beautiful casework. As Luther saw it, the community’s appropriate response to the gift that is the Word of God is the repetition of that same Word in song and prayer. That the organ is aligned with the Sacramental table on the narrow wall is not only acoustically desirable, but a comment on the interrelationship between the means of God’s grace and the response of the Christian in worship.

The room itself is airy and brightly lit with large clear windows and white plaster work that sets off the sandstone rib vaults. It is a pleasant place in which the saints of God might gather.

A New Lutheran Church

As noted above, in most Lutheran communities, existing churches were taken over, making the construction of new buildings a rarity. The construction of an “ideal” town under the direction of Duke Frederick of Württemberg in 1599 created an opportunity for the construction of a new church.4

The L-shaped church in Freudenstadt occupies one corner of the town’s main square. Photo credit:
The L-shaped church in Freudenstadt occupies one corner of the town’s main square. Photo credit:

Freudenstadt (“Happytown”), built near Stuttgart in the Black Forest, was designed by architect Heinrich Schickhardt. Frederick and Schickhardt imaged a walled city, perfectly square with a large central plaza dominated by the Duke’s citadel and surrounded on all four corners by the important municipal buildings. The church, town hall, market, and hospital, all L-shaped in plan, turned each of four corners. The citadel was never realized, but the church was built between 1601 and 1608.

Pews, galleries, and the organ are located in the arms of the L-shape, while the liturgical furnishings are placed at the vertex. Photo credit:
Pews, galleries, and the organ are located in the arms of the L-shape, while the liturgical furnishings are placed at the vertex. Photo credit:

Impressive copper-roofed towers mark the entrances at its north and east ends. The liturgical furnishings — altar, Romanesque font and ambo taken from a preexisting church, with high pulpit in the corner behind the altar — are grouped in the vertex of the right angle created by the unusual L-shaped floor plan. Pews, galleries, and the organ are located in the arms of the L-shape, facing the vertex. The building, done in a Gothic/Renaissance style, seats 1,000. Everyone can see the preacher.The organ dominates the north gallery. Today, a smaller instrument is also housed on the main floor just east of the altar.

The unusual floor plan illustrates a key idea in Lutheran church architecture of the period: the church building is a place of meeting. As such there must be a place for all those who will gather there. These places are to be sufficient for the need: that is, there must be enough room close to the preacher and the Sacramental furnishings. People need to be able to see and hear the preacher. They need to be able to see or gather around the font. They need to be able to approach the communion table.

But it also means that the whole congregation must have their places. Luther rejected the idea that only the religious had vocations. His doctrine of vocation elevated all acts of human service, and thus all stations, as a means by which God blesses human society.

But he was not an anarchist, nor was he an egalitarian. While all were equally needy of God’s grace, all also had their places within civil society. Pews in Lutheran churches not only made listening to the didactic sermon possible, they fixed individuals into particular places in the room. In the case of the church at Freudenstadt, pews made possible segregating the sexes, while giving the whole congregation access to the preacher, font, and table, but not to one another.

The use of art at Freudenstadt is consistent with broader Lutheran practices. The ambo, font, altar, and life-size crucifix are older than the building, taken over from some other location. All the pieces are heavily decorated with images. The font dates from 1100 and is raised on the backs of four figures, and the bowl is surrounded by what appear to be deer and dragons. The base of the ambo is surrounded by figures of the four evangelists who hold the desk of the ambo on their shoulders, a symbol of their foundational place.

The altar features the images of the twelve apostles. At the dedicatory sermon, Andreas Veringer, the pastor during the time of construction, identifies the crucifix as an aid in recalling the real presence of Christ in the Sacrament. He also takes the opportunity to point out that by retaining the altar and font, the community is distinguishing themselves from Zwinglians and Calvinists who destroy altars and fonts.

Adopting a Catholic Design

In 1555, the treaty of the Peace of Augsburg between Holy Roman Emperor Charles V and the Lutheran princes of the Schmalkaldic League determined that both Lutheran and Catholic confessions would be allowed within the Empire. Princes and city councils would have the right and authority to choose which confession would be practiced in their domain.

Ironically, Augsburg was unable to take advantage of this decision. While Lutheranism was the choice of most of the citizens, the merchant and patrician classes favored the Catholic faith. Augsburg descended into a tenuous situation of attempting to balance the interests of two official religions. The effect on Lutheran architecture is noteworthy for the way this bi-confessional situation drove Lutherans to adapt Roman Catholic spaces and adopt what might seem to be Roman Catholic design in their effort to assert their place in the community.5

The expectation was that Augsburg would eventually decide the issue as had other cities. During this time the contending parties asserted control over parts of churches and whole structures, but the lack of resolution over property claims prevented any serious efforts to build. Finally, in 1648, the Peace of Westphalia formalized the bi-confessional nature of Augsburg, requiring parity across the city. Lutheran and Catholic churches were guaranteed the right to exclusive claim on land granted to them, opening up the possibility of a cohesive Lutheran approach to church design in Augsburg.

Holy Cross Lutheran Church in Augsburg as it appeared in 1703. Photo credit: & Schauer
Holy Cross Lutheran Church in Augsburg as it appeared in 1703. Photo credit: & Schauer

Plan of Holy Cross Church. Photo credit:
Plan of Holy Cross Church. Photo credit:

When the Lutherans meeting at Holy Cross Church received their land grant, the plot deeded to them was an odd, nearly triangular shape. Rather than placing a cost effective rectangular hall church on the site, similar to the Franciscan preaching halls that the Augsburg Lutherans had favored during the earlier time of uncertainty, they constructed a building with a complicated floor plan and structure (a right trapezoid) that maximized the breadth of the façade and the seating capacity of the interior.

Unlike the narrow late Gothic design of the neighboring Roman Catholic church of the same name, the broad Baroque design of Holy Cross was covered with all manner of curves and spirals that serve to keep the eye low, further emphasizing the size. The ocher stucco walls stand in contrast to those of its white-colored neighbor. An onion domed bell tower rises over it all. The building looks larger than it is, larger than was allowed, and maybe even larger than the building next door.

The façade of Holy Cross Church. Photo credit: Wust
The façade of Holy Cross Church. Photo credit: Wust

The interior of Holy Cross Church was redecorated in 1730. Photo credit: Schemmel
The interior of Holy Cross Church was redecorated in 1730. Photo credit: Schemmel

Stepping through the main door, the nave turns off to the right at a 55-degree angle, with a gallery running down the long left wall and over the main doorway. The paneled ceiling is ornately painted with the grid of the ceiling aligned with the parallel side walls. A heavily ornamented pulpit and canopy is mounted on the wall to the right about half-way down its length, under a life-sized sculpture of the Crucifixion. Two large paintings depicting Christ’s suffering flank the pulpit.

The altar and choir are housed in an apse on the west wall. The choir was redone in 1730 in the latest Rococo style, indicative of the community’s desire to present themselves as up-to-date. It features frescoes in the ceiling of faith, hope and love over soaring organ pipes. Images around the altar feature key elements of the life of Christ. The altar and the pulpit command the room, as is typical of Lutheran churches. All of this is roofed over by an enormously expensive copper roof that still stands out among the red tile roofs in the neighborhood today.

Holy Cross was built from 1651 to 1653. The economic and demographic devastation wrought by the Thirty Years War had hit Augsburg especially hard. Yet, with funds raised from across Lutheran Europe, the Lutherans in Augsburg built a church that would be a point of pride. Holy Cross was not just the ordered room in service of the congregation that gathered to hear God’s word, as Luther had described the church in Torgau. The art and architecture of Holy Cross was a bid for a legitimate place in the civic and religious life of Augsburg. It was a way for the community to assert itself in the theological market.

The Lutheran Impulse

Regardless of context — palace chapel, ideal new town, or civic competition — the Lutheran impulse is the same: to gather the community of the faithful in proximity to word and Sacrament and provide an environment for their song of response to God’s gifts of grace. In every case, art — some new, some old — provides visual reminders of Biblical truths. The shape of the rooms, style of the appointments, and size of the spaces vary depending on the local need, but these three examples are emblematic of a Lutheran approach to church design that still holds sway today.

The Reverend James Wetzstein serves as University Pastor at Valparaiso University, an independent Lutheran university in Valparaiso, Indiana. Through his active liturgical consulting practice, Wetzstein guides congregations to reflect on their theology of worship and its design implications in preparation for renovation or new construction. Among his recent consultations is the Chapel at the Old Latin School in Wittenberg, Germany.

1. This and other insights are taken from Bridget Heal’s “Sacred Image and Sacred Space in Lutheran Germany,” in Sacred Space in Early Modern Europe, edited by Will Coster and Andrew Spicer (Cambridge University Press, 2005).

2. Andrew Spicer, “Architecture,” in The Reformation World, edited by Andrew Pettegree (Routledge, 2002).

3. “Sermon at the Dedication of Castle Church, Torgau 1544” in Luther’s Works: Sermons I v.55, edited by John Doberstein and Helmut Lehmann (Fortress Press, 1959).

4. Per Hamberg, Temples for Protestants: Studies in the Architectural Milieu of the Early Reformed Church and of the Lutheran Church (Acta Universitatis Gothoburgensis, 2002).

5. Emily Fisher Gray “Lutheran Churches and Confessional Competition in Augsburg,” in Lutheran Churches in Early Modern Europe, ed. Andrew Spicer (Ashgate, 2012).

| An Education in Beauty: Saint Turibius Chapel Renovation at the Pontifical College Josephinum

An Education in Beauty: Saint Turibius Chapel Renovation at the Pontifical College Josephinum

The Pontifical College Josephinum, designed by Saint Louis architect Francis A. Ludewig and completed in 1931. Photo credit:
The Pontifical College Josephinum, designed by Saint Louis architect Francis A. Ludewig and completed in 1931. Photo credit:

On a lovely October afternoon I rode with William Burleigh to the Pontifical College Josephinum, he for the meeting of the board of trustees, and I to see the newly renovated and rededicated chapel of Saint Turibius. I had taught there for a year in the mid-seventies and I remember the chapel as a dark and unattractive sacred space that was rarely used, since there were other chapels at the seminary.

Named after the sainted bishop of Lima, as the first saint of the New World, the chapel was dominated by the 1936 mural behind the altar. It had become discolored by many leaks and in a post-Vatican II renovation, was completely covered over in an antiseptic scheme that ignored the early Gothic charm of the chapel.

Saint Turibius Chapel after the mural by Gerhard Lamers was covered over. Photo credit: William Heyer Architect
Saint Turibius Chapel after the mural by Gerhard Lamers was covered over. Photo credit: William Heyer Architect

The Pontifical College began as an orphanage for those of German extraction in 1875, founded by Father Joseph Jessy. A few of the boys expressed a desire to be priests and when Father Jessy put a notice in a German-American newspaper, twenty-three young men applied. Trusting in Providence, he began a college seminary in 1888. And in 1892 he asked Pope Leo XIII to put it directly under papal oversight and the pope granted the request. Seven years later now-Monsignor Jessy died, having founded the only pontifical seminary in the United States.

In 1931, the college moved to its present site in the countryside north of Columbus, Ohio. I remember it in this country setting from when I taught there. Now, it sits in a mostly urban mix of highways and malls, but it still has spacious grounds with trees and vistas that showcase the noble brick Gothic structure designed by the Saint Louis architect Francis A. Ludewig. The chapel was the heart of the building and its apse covered with a floor to ceiling mural of Christ in glory attended by saints and angels, painted by Gerhard Lamers.

Enveloped by Light

When one enters the chapel, one feels enveloped by light. The Emil Frei windows are mostly white glass with liturgical symbols, letting in light that plays off the mural and the chaste early Gothic stonework.

View of the renovated interior of the chapel. Photo credit: William Heyer Architect
View of the renovated interior of the chapel. Photo credit: William Heyer Architect

EverGreene Studios created a new mural based on the 1936 Lamers original, but there are some changes. The centerpiece of the frieze halfway up the mural used to be Saint Turibius ordaining a priest. Now it is Our Lady, Seat of Wisdom. She is flanked by Saints Joseph, Turibius, Rose of Lima, Catherine of Siena, John Neumann, Gregory the Great, Vincent de Paul, and Blessed Miguel Pro. Above them is Christ, the high priest robed in gold, offering communion, while the Father’s hand pours the Holy Spirit upon him. The whole heavenly vision is surrounded by myriads of angels, whose wings add a celestial splendor.

William Heyer, the present architect, pointed out all this to me as we walked through the chapel examining its many details: the altar of sacrifice and the place of reservation behind it; the choir stalls modelled after the originals; the more traditional choir plan for the sanctuary; the beautiful marble and porcelain floor tile and the increased seating in the nave.

The altar arrangement particularly caught my attention. Beautifully fashioned from different marbles, the altar is freestanding, as the General Instruction of the Roman Missal (#299) requires. Relics are in an exquisite cask under the altar and can be seen from the back. The six candlesticks are mildly baroque. The GIRM (#303) favors one altar in new churches. Often in an old church, a new altar facing the people is set up in front of the old high altar. While this solution may be desirable when the old altar is a work of art, the symbolism of the one Eucharist celebrated at the one altar is lost, when one sees two altars side by side.

William Heyer sees the place of reservation as a gradine, a kind of extension of the altar and not another altar. Pope Pius XII warned against separating the tabernacle from the altar and here the two are in harmony, symbolizing the sacrifice of the altar and the abiding presence thereafter.

One thing that would have rejoiced the hearts of J. B. O’Connell and Maurice Lavanoux, of Liturgical Art fame, was the tester over the tabernacle sprung from the dorsal in a rich red brocade, the pattern of which is repeated on the dorsal of Our Lady’s throne in the mural. The crucifix from the old chapel complements the risen Christ in the mural above in depicting the Paschal Mystery. The tabernacle is from the old chapel as well.

Our Lady, Seat of Wisdom, and Christ the High Priest are surrounded by saints and angels in the new mural covering the back wall of the apse. Photo credit: William Heyer Architect
Our Lady, Seat of Wisdom, and Christ the High Priest are surrounded by saints and angels in the new mural covering the back wall of the apse. Photo credit: William Heyer Architect

The Heavenly Liturgy

Anyone assisting at Mass in Saint Turibius Chapel would, it seems to me, experience something of the heavenly dimension of the liturgy. When the Lord is made present in His timeless eternal sacrifice, has Heaven come to earth or are we somewhat transposed to Heaven?

Vatican II’s Constitution on the Liturgy, Sacrosanctum Concilium, states that in the earthly liturgy we take part in the “foretaste of that Heavenly Liturgy which is celebrated in the Holy City of Jerusalem towards which we journey as pilgrims, where Christ is sitting at the right hand of God, minister of holies and of the true tabernacle. With all the warriors of the Heavenly army we sing a hymn of glory to the Lord, venerating the memory of the saints, we hope for some part and fellowship with them, we eagerly await the Savior, our Lord Jesus Christ, until he, our Life, shall appear and we too will appear with him in glory” (#8). I quoted that passage at length because I think that is what the light playing on the great mural of the Heavenly Liturgy gives us.

This same Constitution makes provision for the artistic training of seminarians. They should be taught sacred art history so as to be able to appreciate and preserve the ancient monuments of the Church and guide artists working for the Church (#129). While the first point is important, I think the last is particularly important. It is true that terrible acts of vandalism and iconoclasm have been committed: marble altars destroyed, good statues pulled down, fine murals painted over. Still it is necessary that artists and architects be guided by knowledgeable priests for the future churches that are to be built and decorated.

Pope Benedict XVI’s Sacramentum Caritatis, after treating the beauty of the Mass as an echo of the Transfiguration (#35), goes on to expound how seminarians can learn from the Via Pulchritudinis, the Way of Beauty. He says that a solid knowledge of the history of sacred art can help those who are responsible for commissioning artists and architects to create works of art for the liturgy. It is essential that the education of clerics include the study of art history with a special reference to sacred buildings. All aspects of liturgy should be beautiful so as to foster awe for the majesty of God and manifest the unity of faith and strengthen devotion (#41).

Considering the many courses that are required for seminary training, both texts, I suspect, are more honored in the breach than in practice. While they clearly should be implemented, I submit that praying each day in the chapel of Saint Turibius that Francis Ludewig created and William Heyer creatively restored will have its own quiet educational effect.

The Ancient Beauty

Our spirits rise with good sacred architecture and are brought down by the church “of the lowered ceiling.” Our spirits rejoice in Heavenly vistas with colorful saints and angels who pray with us; we can lay our cares on the altar in union with Christ’s sacrifice, that altar surrounded by the glow of candles symbolizing the Light of Christ. As we experience Christ’s presence in the golden tabernacle, we are lifted up by the “Ancient Beauty ever New.”

Beauty heals and strengthens us, and as one participates in the timeless eternal sacrifice in such a wonderful chapel, one is refreshed. The Josephinum is to be congratulated in restoring such a marvelous sacred space and William Heyer for having carried out the restoration so well and sensitively.

Reverend Giles Dimock, O.P., S.T.D., studied liturgy at Notre Dame and at Sant’ Anselmo, and theology at the Angelicum in Rome. He has taught at Providence College, Franciscan University in Steubenville, the Angelicum and the Dominican House of Studies in Washington, D.C.

| Bigness of Touch: Liverpool Anglican Cathedral

Bigness of Touch: Liverpool Anglican Cathedral

Anglican Cathedral Church of Christ in Liverpool, England. Photo credit:

Anglican Cathedral Church of Christ in Liverpool, England. Photo credit:

Sir Giles Gilbert Scott’s magnificent Liverpool Cathedral commenced construction in 1904, shortly after his initial design, prepared at the age of twenty-two, had won a now-famous competition, and was finally completed seventy-four years later in 1978. Toward the end of its construction, Sir Nicholas Pevsner described the cathedral, in his series The Buildings of England, as “desperately of a past that can never be recovered.”1 Another equally distinguished architectural writer, H. S. Goodhart-Rendel, called it in 1953 “a scenic prodigy, aloof from architectural reality.”2 He predicted that its tremendous tower might become the venerated last resting place of romantic architecture.

These appraisals are quite understandable so soon after two devastating World Wars destroyed so many traditional buildings and cities in Europe, and when modern methods of construction, promoted by Modernist architects, seemed to offer an answer to the urgent need for reconstruction. Now, almost forty years after the last stone was laid on the cathedral’s west front, perhaps it is time to re-evaluate these predictions of a final irrecoverable high point of achievement.

Scott’s cathedral is perceived to be the most traditional of the new English cathedrals built in the twentieth century. Some even labelled it anachronistic in the mid-twentieth century. This is a simplistic view of a building Scott continued to develop and refine up until his death in 1960. It is a building of subtle invention and “modern” in its fresh contribution to the Gothic language.

The Beginnings

Liverpool is not the only entirely new cathedral to have been built in England in the twentieth century. There is Coventry by Sir Basil Spence; Guildford by Sir Edwin Maufe; Clifton Roman Catholic Cathedral in Bristol by the Percy Thomas Partnership; Bentley’s Westminster Cathedral in London; and Frederick Gibberd’s Liverpool Roman Catholic Cathedral, built over the crypt of Sir Edwin Lutyens’ cathedral which, had it been built, would have matched in Classical terms what Scott achieved in his Gothic cathedral on Saint James’ Mount, a short distance away. What a double glory that would have been.

These cathedrals were all, apart from Liverpool, built in relatively little time. By comparison, Scott’s cathedral commenced construction at the end of the Gothic revival in the first years of the twentieth century and continued to be built in the Gothic manner throughout most of that century, during which time the prevailing architectural style shifted from Gothic to Monumental Classicism and then to International Modernism.

This tenacity of design intention says a great deal about the architect, his patrons in the church, and all those who contributed to its cost over so many years. This is even more remarkable given that the period of construction included two World Wars and at least one severe economic depression. To maintain a steadfast faith in a design, in this way, is a notable achievement.

Sir Giles Gilbert Scott’s winning competition design. Photo credit:
Sir Giles Gilbert Scott’s winning competition design. Photo credit:

The distinguished Cathedral Competition Committee, comprised of Norman Shaw and G. F. Bodley, discovered that the anonymous design they had selected was by a young architect who, albeit from a very distinguished dynasty of ecclesiastical architects, had built nothing to his own designs, and was a Roman Catholic. Concerned about his lack of experience, the committee appointed Bodley (who himself was then engaged in the design of several cathedrals, including the National Cathedral in Washington, D.C.) to work alongside Scott. This was an uneasy relationship during which Scott challenged Bodley’s design approach until the latter’s death in 1907.

After being appointed, Scott almost immediately began fundamentally rethinking his design for the cathedral, so that by the time Bodley died his conception of the building had changed entirely. The somewhat academic competition design began to be replaced by a new approach, infused with what Scott called a “bigness of touch.”

In his debate with Bodley at the outset of the project he argued for boldness of individual motifs: “I really believe scale may mean two things. One kind of scale is got by making a part small … so as to make the building look larger than it really is. … Another kind is got by keeping the parts on a large scale, thereby giving the design a big touch imparting a feeling of grandeur and impressiveness, which is not produced by the other method.” This “masculine grandeur” he described as “my ideal and [it] is what I want, above anything in Liverpool Cathedral. Harmonious beauty without this quality is nothing for me.”3

The Reworking

By 1910, Scott had completely reworked his design and the cathedral began to take on the characteristic form that was eventually to be built. The two transept towers of the competition entry were replaced by a vast, open, central space under a massive monumental tower, flanked on the north and south sides by symmetrical, equally monumental transept entrances to the great central space. It is remarkable that the Cathedral Committee agreed to these changes given that the foundations for the earlier twin towers were already in place.

In the new design, the cathedral had been transformed into a composition of large blocks or masses which provide an overpowering sense of the sublime and which elevate the design to something akin to the Parthenon on the Athenian Acropolis. Scott’s Romantic vision for the cathedral was perhaps shaped by the drawings of the enigmatic architect Beresford Pite and might also have been influenced by the visionary engravings of imaginary Gothic towers by F. L. Griggs.

Even though it could be argued that this Romantic vision of the Gothic world was in the air, Scott’s changes still challenged the architectural establishment. This is perhaps best illustrated in the reaction to this new approach by Scott’s contemporary genius in America, Bertram Grosvenor Goodhue, who had already been responsible for a series of very fine Gothic churches and who was supremely versed in the Gothic language. Goodhue was initially profoundly shocked by the change. However, he subsequently met Scott in England in 1913 and immediately changed his mind and, thereafter, was hugely influenced by Scott’s new approach.

The boldly scaled massing of Scott’s cathedral was eloquently described by Professor C. H. Reilly as “so broad and monumental in its lines that, unlike the old Gothic cathedrals; it has much of the balanced beauty of a Classical building, while not abating a jot of the dynamic force of Gothic architecture in its most energetic form.”4 Reilly, the influential professor at the remarkable Liverpool School of Architecture, dedicated to monumental Classicism, refers to the other aspect of Scott’s new approach that was so attractive to Goodhue: the fusion of Classical monumentality with Gothic sensibility.

Goodhue had long dreamed of an architecture that would go beyond one particular style, seeking a form of architecture that would be “malleable enough to be moulded at the designer’s will, as readily toward the calm perfection of the Parthenon as towards the majesty and restless mystery of Chartres.”5 Liverpool Cathedral was undoubtedly the catalyst for the flowering of Goodhue’s final feats of genius in the fresh traditionalism of his late works such as his Nebraska State Capital building.

The Architectural Result

At this point, it is worth examining more closely the architectural result that Scott achieved in his synthesis of Classical and Gothic architecture, as well as addressing some of the further criticisms leveled at his design in the past.

The 1924 guide to the then-unfinished cathedral describes the way in which the design is Classical rather than Gothic in composition, with a symmetrical plan that has similarities with the plan of St. George’s Hall in Liverpool. It goes on to say: “But if the bones are Classic, the flesh in which they are clothed is pure Gothic, pure because it is living and not a mere aggregation of dead styles.”6

The guide presents these attributes in a favorable light, while Sir Nicholas Pevsner regards this as a fundamental weakness in the design, describing the central tower space as “useless, functionally speaking” and puts it down to Scott’s obsession with symmetry.7 Pevsner, however, misses the essential point that Scott is perhaps making in his design: the importance of so-called redundant space in the service of sublime expression in a sacred building. Scott understood the importance of redundant beauty in a sacred building better than almost any other architect. In that vast central space and in the monumental massing of the exterior of the cathedral, he seamlessly combined the stillness and gravity of the Classical with the soaring lines of the Gothic.

This combination in the design and the symmetry that Pevsner dismisses is a stroke of genius, particularly in relationship to the site on which the cathedral is placed. The composition of two pairs of transepts flanking the tower and main portal are described by Pevsner as “highly original and bold,”8 but he goes on to describe the matching of the Welsford porch on the north side with the Rankin porch on the south side as “utterly useless, because leading straight into the abyss of the cemetery, but it had to be there, because north must match south.”9

It seems to me that Pevsner entirely overlooked the point of those two portals. The ceremonial entrance to the cathedral from the Rankin porch, on the urban side of the cathedral, is contrasted on the densely wooded cemetery side of the cathedral with the Welsford porch, with dramatic and symbolic purpose. The journey from the bustle of the city to the stillness of the cemetery, separated by that vast, great, central space within the cathedral, with its view of the high altar and its astonishing reredos, is a mighty symbolic statement and an example of Scott applying his genius to the particularities of the site. The Rankin porch extends a yawning invitation to the city while the Welsford porch is the dark cave of the sepulchre above the wooded graveyard.

The cathedral from the cemetery with the Welsford porch as the “dark cave of the sepulchre.” Photo credit: Barry Hale
The cathedral from the cemetery with the Welsford porch as the “dark cave of the sepulchre.” Photo credit: Barry Hale

A procession through the central space. Photo credit: Barry Hale
A procession through the central space. Photo credit: Barry Hale

The Appropriation of Styles

There is another important point to note about the plan of the cathedral, which only gained its final form in 1927. Scott’s most significant change to the 1910 plan was the way in which he narrowed the dimensions of the central tower, which in turn caused the supporting walls at ground floor level to close off the continuous views through the cathedral along the length of the north and south aisles. This not only achieved a more elegant tower but also added considerable mystery to the experience of the interior. Later Scott reinforced this idea of screening and framing views in the interior by introducing the Dulverton Bridge between the nave and the central space.

Scott’s final floor plan, 1927. Photo credit: Cotton, V.E. The Book of Liverpool Cathedral
Scott’s final floor plan, 1927. Photo credit: Cotton, V.E. The Book of Liverpool Cathedral

In this way the development of the plan from 1904 to its final form represents a shift away from a conventional, transparent interior, with continuous open views through the length of the building, to a plan form that is much more layered and Romantic in its conception. Thus the final form of the interior achieves something of the feeling of an ancient cathedral that has developed over centuries with certain idiosyncrasies that add considerably to the spiritual mystery of the building. This development might not have been achieved without the benefit of Scott’s fifty-nine years of involvement in the design of the cathedral. It is a testament to his view that “Art is evolutionary, and the solution is not in revolution.”10

Scott’s appropriation of other styles and references is not confined to the broad massing and planning of the cathedral, but also manifests itself in his detailing. The latter shows that he was a master of many architectural styles. One thinks of his monumental Classical buildings at Clare College in Cambridge, his Byzantine chapel at Lady Margaret Hall in Oxford, and his Romanesque church of Our Lady and Saint Alphege in Bath. John Goodall argues that the Lady Chapel owes more to medieval architecture than Gothic and that the detailing in the central volume of the cathedral has parallels in Spanish buildings.11

War Memorial Chapel. Photo credit: & Other Stuff
War Memorial Chapel. Photo credit: & Other Stuff

Certainly much of the Gothic detailing owes more to Spanish flamboyant Gothic architecture than to English Gothic, but Scott’s integration of Renaissance and Classical references is also evident and is probably best displayed in the War Memorial Chapel. This space is dominated by a small cenotaph placed under the transept arch. The idea of a cenotaph is a Classical one and this was the first cenotaph to be suggested in England as a memorial of the Great War (and as such it precedes the magnificent cenotaph designed by Sir Edwin Lutyens in London).

Detail of the high altar reredos. Photo credit: Hobbit
Detail of the high altar reredos. Photo credit: Hobbit

The reredos and holy table here are in marked contrast to the monumental, highly ornate, Gothic reredos in the main sanctuary. The reredos in the War Memorial Chapel gains its beauty not from its degree of ornamentation, but from its restraint. A red sandstone canopy inspired by perpendicular Gothic surrounds a Classical sarcophagus in polished Hoptonwood, resting on carved brackets. The sarcophagus and the field of the reredos are ornamented with Renaissance inspired bronze detailing and the flanking figures by the sculptors Walter Gilbert and Louis Weingartner are distinctly moderne in style.

Scott achieves a perfectly harmonious integration of these diverse elements and this is just one example of something repeated throughout the cathedral. His free interpretation of styles and references is one of the great joys offered by the building.

Scott’s Contrasts

Another strong characteristic of Scott’s design is his use of a contrast of scale and contrast of plain wall surfaces with tightly conceived and controlled smaller areas of ornamentation. These contrasts all serve the expression of sublime beauty. The high altar is dwarfed by the mighty reredos; the delicate altar rails are swallowed up by the vast volume of the sanctuary; the cathedra is a giant presence dominating the choir and priest stalls.

There are many examples of these contrasts. His oversized hanging lanterns somehow expand the volume of the Lady Chapel, as does the organ in the main choir of the cathedral. The soaring canopy of the baptismal font has a similar effect. Perhaps most dramatic of all is the way in which the Dulverton Bridge leaps across the nave at its junction with the central space and, in so doing, frames the high altar and reredos in such a way that the sanctuary appears to be infinitely distant. The effect, for the visitor, is of a vast architectural landscape of awe-inspiring proportions.

Scott also makes use of large, unornamented wall surfaces (which could perhaps be called “fields of rest”) contrasted with beautifully designed and wrought concentrated areas of decoration. This contrast is evident everywhere in the cathedral on the exterior and interior and is also characteristic of so much of his other architectural work, sacred and secular.

As with the contrast in scale, the effect is to intensify the sublimity of expression. The 1924 guidebook describes this approach admirably: “It will be found that while the decoration has been made subsidiary to broad general effect, there is an exuberance of detail which is characteristic of the best periods of medieval craftsmanship. Decoration is the ritual of architecture — it should emphasise and not obscure the principles it seeks to glorify; and this has been kept constantly in view.”12

It also describes a very good example of Scott’s use of decoration on the south elevation of the cathedral: “Running along the exterior of the choir, above the windows, is an arcaded gallery in the thickness of the wall. The figures of Saints and Angels on the window mullions, and the huge Angels surmounting the buttresses are the only ornament the architect has allowed himself, unless the frequent string courses and the pierced parapet along the roof of the vestries be included.”13 The same contrast between plain surfaces and concentrated detail is evident in all the fittings within the interior of the cathedral.

Scott’s “Bigness of Touch”

Unfortunately, Scott died in 1960 before the nave and west end were completed. In 1942, at the height of the Second World War, he had settled on his final design for the west end. It is a remarkable design that would have perhaps given ultimate expression to his ideal of “bigness of touch.” In this design, the vast height of the west front is largely blank, save for a rose window and the two flanking towers, with the decoration concentrated more than eighty-six feet above ground.

The entrance itself was a low, prow-like portico dwarfed by the west wall and projecting westwards over the very edge of the site. This was another flash of genius, but as with all uncompromising ideas as dramatic and visionary as this, it was vulnerable. After Scott’s death his office partner Frederick Thomas, assisted by Roger Pinkney, revised the design by introducing a broad arch with a tripartite window lighting the nave. The design is by no means inadequate, but it is a great loss that Scott’s uncompromising design was not implemented.

Scott and his wife are buried in a plot just west of the west frontal, making the abandonment of his design, at the eleventh hour of construction, even more poignant. It is a salutary reminder to retain faith in the integrity of the design until the very last stone is fixed.

The Integration of Sculpture

It is also worth reflecting on Scott’s integration of architecture and sculpture in the cathedral, because this is now rare in contemporary sacred architecture and indeed in architecture generally. By this I mean a carefully conceived program of sculpture which sets up a narrative which is fully integrated into the meaning of the cathedral from the outset, rather than the arbitrary placing of statues as an afterthought, which is regrettably commonplace today.

Throughout his involvement with the cathedral, Scott commissioned and worked alongside a large number of fine sculptors and artists. In the Lady Chapel, he worked with Lillie Reed who sculpted the figures on the Children’s Porch. For the great reredos he employed Louis Weingartner and Walter Gilbert and in the Chapel of the Holy Spirit he used William Gough.

These were all fine sculptors, but as Scott’s architectural approach developed, he began looking for sculptors that could throw off the Victorian influence of Bodley and provide a more austere aesthetic better suited to his architecture. Initially, he worked with David Evans, a genius, who, soon after completing the Nurses Memorial in the Lady Chapel and Bishop Chavasse’s Memorial in the south choir aisle, left for New York. After that, Scott collaborated for the rest of his life with Edward Carter Preston, a sculptor perhaps less talented than Evans, but someone who was able to produce sculpture wholly subservient to Scott’s architecture.

Sculptures by Edward Carter Preston.
Sculptures by Edward Carter Preston.

This was Scott’s ideal, which he wrote about to Sir Frederick Radcliffe: “The figures being regarded as part of the architecture, rather than isolated examples of sculpture, is … a point of view which Carter Preston has kept constantly before him.”14 This approach is perhaps best evident in the two porches where Carter Preston’s columnar figures provide the linear emphasis and faceted appearance that Scott felt best suited his architecture.

After Scott’s death, there was less concern with the integration of architecture and sculpture in the cathedral, ending with the installation on the west front of Dame Elizabeth Frink’s bronze of the Resurrected Christ that was quickly dubbed as “Frinkenstein.”

Another important lesson that can be learned from this cathedral is that it is constructed to last for posterity. It is a cathedral built of many millions of load-bearing bricks and vast quantities of hand-worked red sandstone laid in lime mortar, using the same old-fashioned load-bearing masonry techniques that have been employed for thousands of years and which have stood the test of time. This cathedral was built for eternity and, because it was built in the age of photography, its construction has been recorded in beautiful black and white and sepia photographs, which offer so many practical lessons to all those who hope to build sacred buildings in the future.

Scott was criticized even by his son, the gifted architect Richard Gilbert Scott, for not wholly embracing the modern technology of the twentieth century. But Scott’s circumspection for these untried materials deserves considerable respect, especially considering the inevitable pressure to economize. Ultimately, he did use concrete extensively in the foundations as well as in the bell tower and in the roofs covering the vaults. But the shell of the tower was surrounded by a massive load-bearing masonry structure and the concrete roofs were covered over in verdigris copper.

A Sublime Expression

Giles Gilbert Scott’s masterpiece in Liverpool Cathedral embodies everything that is now rarely found in sacred or other forms of architecture. It is a building given sublime expression in massing and detail, a building of subtle invention, borne out by a deep understanding of traditional architecture in all its variety and that successfully and meaningfully integrates architecture and sculpture. It is a building whose builders and patrons had the courage and faith to stay true to their intentions in the face of war, economic depression and in an age of philistinism and iconoclasm, and it is a building that is built for eternity as an acknowledgement of its divine purpose.

Hopefully, the time has come again for architects and patrons to take courage from the Romantic vision realized at Liverpool, within living memory, and to prove that its glorious tower is not the last resting place of Romantic architecture, but instead a beacon for the resurrection of this sublime manner of making sacred buildings.

Craig Hamilton is a Classical architect, practicing in the United Kingdom, who specializes in sacred and monumental architecture and has completed three new chapels and is working on a fourth. He is the recipient of the 2018 ICAA Arthur Ross Award for Architecture.

1. Priscilla Metcalf and Nikolaus Pevsner, The Cathedrals of England: The North and East Anglia (The Folio Society, 2005).

2. Ibid.

3. Michael Hall, George Frederick Bodley and the Later Gothic Revival in Britain and America (Yale University Press, 2014).

4. Ibid.

5. Ibid.

6. Vere Egerton Cotton, compiler, The Liverpool Cathedral Official Handback (Littlebury Bros., 1924).

7. Metcalf & Pevsner.

8. Ibid.

9. Ibid.

10. Cotton.

11. Martin Barnes, John Goodall, and Peter Marlow, The English Cathedral (Merrell Publishers Ltd., 2012).

12. Cotton.

13. Ibid.

14. Alex Compton, editor, Edward Carter Preston 1885–1965. (Liverpool University Press, 1999).

| Oppression and Indifference

Oppression and Indifference

The Cathedral of Christ the Savior in Moscow was rebuilt from 1995 - 2000, after the original cathedral was destroyed in 1931. Photo credit:
The Cathedral of Christ the Savior in Moscow was rebuilt from 1995 - 2000, after the original cathedral was destroyed in 1931. Photo credit:

In the late 1990s, I watched the rebuilding of the Cathedral of Christ the Savior in Moscow, replicating the nineteenth-century cathedral that had been dynamited by Stalin in 1931. It can hold an estimated 10,000 worshipers (they stand throughout the long services, for pews are abhorrent to venerable tradition) and is the tallest Orthodox church in the world, with a dome reaching 338 feet.

Stalin’s plan to build on its site a Palace of the Soviets with a huge statue of Lenin atop its dome was never realized because of World War II. That recalls the statue of Zeus, “the Abomination of Desolation,” which the Greek ruler of Syria, Antiochus IV, erected in the Jerusalem Temple after he despoiled its sacred vessels. Antiochus basked in the title Epiphanes, which means “radiance of God,” but the Jews punned that as Epimanes, or “the mad man.”

Two hundred churches are planned for Moscow, along with an estimated 1,000 across the nation, replacing and adding to those destroyed in the Communist period, during which priests were crucified on the church doors. These are in the classical Byzantine style, not the modern biscuit boxes and flying saucers that were the bane of the West over the last few decades. In some towns, the local people are taught iconography and mosaic art, so the churches really are the work of their own hands.

These days in China, where Christianity is oppressed — not especially for theological reasons, but because it is a threat to the political hegemony of the state — churches are being destroyed. Within the past few months, for example, in Henan Province an Evangelical church was dynamited in Shangqiu, with a blithe ferocity paralleling that of Stalin.

In the West, churches are getting demolished for reasons other than political: redundancy, the lack of need for “ethnic” parishes, and the sheer cost of maintenance. Often, people who are much wealthier than their ancestors, who built the churches sacrificially out of their penury, do not contribute enough for maintenance. Between 1995 and the present, the Catholic population in the United States increased from fifty-seven million to over seventy million. New churches are being built in the South and West where populations are growing faster than the decline in other parts of the country.

There is another factor, however, in the loss of churches in much of our nation, and it is simply indifference. The vice of sloth is a spiritual malignancy, and many of our great metropolises have become hospices for lapsed believers. When I was sent to our parish here in “Hell’s Kitchen,” which is experiencing a phenomenal population growth, I was asked, “How many Catholics live there?” The proper question is, “How many Catholics will live there?”

The Ascending Lord did not send His disciples into Catholic neighborhoods, because there were none.

Reverend George Rutler is pastor of the Church of Saint Michael the Archangel in Manhattan. His latest books are He Spoke to Us and The Stories of Hymns.

| A Magnificent Work of Beauty: Dedication of the Trinity Dome

A Magnificent Work of Beauty: Dedication of the Trinity Dome

A homily given at the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception for the Solemnity of the Immaculate Conception and the dedication of the basilica’s Trinity Dome. It was given on Thursday, December 8, 2017.

Inscriptions above the main entrance of the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception in Washington, D.C. Photo credit:
Inscriptions above the main entrance of the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception in Washington, D.C. Photo credit:

ENGRAVED IN THE stone façade of this great basilica are the words that speak of the devotion and pride that bring us to this Mass and celebration today: “Thou art the glory of Jerusalem, the joy of Israel and the honor of your people.” That exclamation, taken from the Book of Judith (15:9), has long been applied to the Blessed Virgin Mary. In a rich patristic and devotional tradition, it is Mary who is recognized as the glory, joy and honor of God’s holy people.

Directly under that proclamation is the image of the Angel Gabriel announcing to Mary the reason why she was to become our honor, joy and glory. Here also is the greeting carved in stone and proclaimed in the Gospel for today, “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.” In those words that are so familiar in the heart and on the lips of every Catholic, we also announce that Mary is blessed among all women because of the fruit of her womb, Jesus.

This magnificent tribute in stone, glass, marble, and mosaic to Mary, Mother of Jesus, Mother of God and our Mother, invites all of us to recognize not only the special role of Mary in our life but the unique glory that is hers in her Immaculate Conception. Over the main entrance way to this basilica on the balcony above the center doors is Ivan Mestrovic’s limestone sculpture depicting “Mary Immaculate with Angels.”

What we today celebrate, dedicate and consign to the ages to come is the completion of the basilica represented in the adornment of the entire interior of the great dome with millions of pieces of colored tile culminating in the presentation of Mary with the title of her Immaculate Conception under the radiant image of the Triune God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

TODAY’S BLESSING of the Trinity Dome completes a work that was began nearly 100 years ago. On September 20, 1918, on the very spot where this basilica now stands, Cardinal James Gibbons of Baltimore announced, “Let us, too, offer to the world an example of Catholic gratitude, faith and love by erecting at Washington the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception at whose altars your children and your children’s children will be proud to pray and worship.” Two years later, on September 20, 1920, Cardinal Gibbons laid the cornerstone.

As plans developed for the building of the National Shrine, people were invited to contribute in whatever manner they found appropriate. Among the gifts were donated pieces of gold jewelry and even some precious stones. These were fashioned into what came to be known as the “First Chalice of the National Shrine.” My brothers and sisters, I am happy to say that the chalice at this Mass is the “First Chalice of the National Shrine” that was used for the first time 100 years ago today.

In 1953, the bishops conducted a nationwide appeal for funds with which to erect the great superstructure of the National Shrine. Work began in the summer of 1955 and was completed for the dedication of the Great Upper Church, November 20, 1959.

At that time, the interior of this magnificent basilica, measuring over 450 feet in length and 239 feet to the top of the cross of the dome, was adorned with only one mosaic, the depiction by John de Rosen of “Christ in Majesty” which fills the wall of the north apse.

Two years ago, Pope Francis celebrated Mass on the basilica’s east portico. Prior to the canonization of Saint Junípero Serra, our Holy Father dedicated the very first portion of mosaic for the dome. He asked God’s blessing on the words that begin and end the Creed: “I believe” and “Amen.”

Some months ago, Monsignor Walter Rossi, the Rector of the Shrine who has overseen the work that now stands before us completed, and I, were honored to put in place the mosaic rendering of those words blessed by Pope Francis. In them, we can all also say, “Amen” to the vision of a century ago.

As you gaze up at this modern-day masterpiece, around the base of the dome you can see the words of the Creed that we all profess on our lips and in our hearts. Now it is also proclaimed in glorious mosaic.

Look carefully, and you will also see the likeness of saints who have had either a special tie to our country or a link to this Shrine. Among them are Saint Pope John Paul II who named it a basilica, Blessed Pope Paul VI who presented the Shrine with his papal coronation tiara and, of course, Saint Pope John XXIII. It was this pope who sent a special message for the blessing in 1959 of the Great Upper Church.

Today, his successor Pope Francis has honored us with a papal message for this sacred occasion and a special messenger to bring it. His Eminence Cardinal Kevin Farrell, head of the Vatican Dicastery for Laity, Family, and Life, is here as the Pope’s Envoy. Cardinal Farrell has a personal tie to the National Shrine since it was here in 2002 that he was ordained a bishop. We look forward to his message from our Holy Father, Pope Francis.

The Trinity Dome. Photo credit: Bechard
The Trinity Dome. Photo credit: Bechard

INSPIRATION FOR the shrine and therefore this dome may be said to go back to 1846 when a score of bishops assembled in the 6th Council of Baltimore chose the Blessed Virgin Mary to be the patroness of the United States under the title of her Immaculate Conception.

This very basilica is a splendid example of Catholic devotion to Mary. What prompted the bishops, clergy, religious, and laity of the Church in the United States to make the sacrifices that resulted in this temple dedicated to the glory of God and honor of God’s holy Mother? What motivated so many of the Catholic faithful encouraged by the request of their bishops to complete the work of this great central dome culminating in the artistic representation of the Most Holy Trinity and Mary the Immaculate Conception?

The Catechism of the Catholic Church offers one clear answer. “Only faith can embrace the mysterious ways of God’s almighty power. This faith glories in its weaknesses in order to draw to itself Christ’s power. The Virgin Mary is the supreme model of this faith, for she believed that ‘nothing will be impossible with God.’”

Mary is the model of what our faith should be. Like us, Mary was a human being who had to be open to hear and accept God’s word and to grasp the mysterious ways in which God works. She did so with such consummate fidelity that she is forever the example of what we mean by faith — true, profound faith.

On this day, as the Church recognizes the Solemnity of the Immaculate Conception of the Blessed Virgin Mary, patronal feast day of the United States of America, we pause, once again, to hear God’s Word, to have our hearts and minds elevated by the beauty of what we are about to bless and to thank God for the invitation to walk in His way revealed to us in the Gospel of Jesus Christ, God and Man.

THE ULTIMATE goal of every follower of Christ is to become, as closely as we can, one with Christ in a way that we participate in the new life He offers us through an outpouring of the Holy Spirit.

It was God’s Providential design that His own Eternal Word would come among us, take on flesh and be born as a human being. The human nature through Mary and the divine nature through the power of the Holy Spirit by which Mary conceived are united in the fruit of her womb, the person Jesus who is God and man. Anything else we say about Mary will always refer back to the fact that she is the Immaculately Conceived Mother of God.

In anticipation of the fact that she was to bear the Son of God, Mary was preserved from her conception from any stain of original sin. No taint of sin would touch her so that she would be a fitting and worthy vessel of the Incarnation. In 1854 Pope Pius IX proclaimed in Ineffabilis Deus that: “The Most Blessed Virgin Mary was, from the first moment of her conception, by a singular grace and privilege of Almighty God and by virtue of the merits of Jesus Christ, Savior of the Human Race, preserved immune from all stain of original sin.”

Here we hear echoes from the first reading for today from the Book of Genesis. The Church has long reflected on Mary as the New Eve. This was to be the beginning of a new covenant bringing together all people into one new Body — the Body of Christ — the Church.

My brothers and sisters, when we look at this great Trinity Dome and see the myriad tiles in so much color coming together to realize this extraordinary work of art, we are reminded that here in the pews of this National Shrine, our nation’s Marian House, we see a similar phenomenon this time in living stone — the living members who make up the Body of Christ.

On any given Sunday or Solemnity, such as today, all we have to do is look out across the thousands of people gathered for Mass and we see the face of the world. Just as there are chapels throughout this Basilica reflecting national heritages, ethnic backgrounds, all proclaiming in unison “Hail Mary” so, too, do we look across this great Church of God and see out of so many one great faith family. We have come to be one in proclamation of faith, experience of redemption in the Eucharist and communion as one Church in God’s Holy Spirit.

In a moment we will solemnly bless this magnificent work of beauty. May we always look to this great majestic dome mindful of our prayer to Mary the Immaculately Conceived Mother of God that she will always intercede for us so that strong in faith, renewed in hope and committed in love, we might always sing in the silence of our hearts or with the joy of our voices (from Sing Praise to our Creator): “Oh, most Holy Trinity, Undivided Unity; Holy God, Mighty God. God Immortal, be adored.”

His Eminence Donald Cardinal Wuerl is Archbishop of Washington. His serves on numerous national and international bodies and is chairman of the Board of Trustees of the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception.

| Making the Divine Manifest

Making the Divine Manifest

Combining equal parts rigorous architectural analysis and theoretical model for understanding the design principles behind the construction and performativity of early Christian and Byzantine liturgical space, Jelena Bogdanović’s monograph on the use of canopies in Byzantine churches is a welcome addition to the study of medieval art and architecture, as well as the framing devices, both physical and rhetorical, that were used to make the divine manifest in ecclesiastical space.

The core discussion of The Framing of Sacred Space is a precise, careful, and nuanced assessment of the extant archaeological and literary evidence for the development and geographical distribution of canopies in the Byzantine world. The monograph is divided into five chapters, bookended by an introduction and conclusion. The author has included seven tables in the appendix, an extensive bibliography, five maps, and nearly 175 beautifully illustrated figures (including canopies never before published). Many appear in color and in high resolution, which is becoming increasingly rare in academic print publications.

Chapter 1, “Ciborium or Canopy? Textual Evidence on Canopies in the Byzantine Church,” catalogues the myriad terms, phrases, and literary allusions to the architectural form of the canopy in medieval literature.

Chapter 2, “Canopies in the Byzantine Church: Archeological and Architectural Evidence,” provides a wide-ranging survey that covers not only the eastern Mediterranean and Levant, but also key examples of canopies in Italy and the North African Maghreb. Bogdanović extends her scope beyond the immediate confines of the Byzantine church—and most notably canopies—to include an analysis of ciboria erected over saints’ tombs, shrines, icons on display, baptismal fonts, and other architectural and liturgical furnishings within, adjacent to, or even outside of more strictly defined forms of Byzantine ecclesiastical space.

Chapter 3, “Place-Making: The Place of the Canopy in the Church,” examines the specific locations and uses of canopies in Byzantine constructions of sacred space. It is here that the author begins to craft her theoretical and theological approach to Byzantine architecture as both cosmological and, most importantly for her two final chapters, anthropological model.

Chapter 4, “The Micro-Architectural Framing of Sacred Space,” continues developing this model and further explains the relationship between architectural framing devices and the Byzantine conception of the human body itself, arguing for an inextricable relationship between the divine and the human, with the canopy functioning as a threshold between the two.

It is also in the chapter that the author recontextualizes the canopy as a critical link between the early Christian development of the centrally-planned church and the more modular and fluid architectural solutions of the Middle Byzantine era. She thereby effectively challenges more conventional narratives of the rise and fall of Byzantium before and after Iconoclasm that tend to overstate the influence of Hagia Sophia in Constantinople as the only legitimate archetype for understanding cross-in-square church construction.

Finally, chapter 5, “Nested in Its Own Shape: The Canopy and the Byzantine Church,” concludes the study with an analysis of theological typologies in early Christian and Byzantine, as well as some western medieval, literature, most notably the Jerusalem Temple, the Holy Sepulchre, the Tabernacle and Ark of the Covenant, and the eschatological Heavenly Jerusalem, among others. The author consistently frames the discussion of these typologies with a broader analysis of the architectural forms of specific canopies, where they were placed, and the materiality of the canopy as earthly substance and locus of an otherwise heavenly encounter.

Bogdanović has written considerably more than a catalogue or compendium of Byzantine canopies from the earliest Christian example at third-century Dura-Europos in Syria to fifteenth-century Turkey and Greece. The Framing of Sacred Space incorporates a much-needed discussion of the intricate relationship between Byzantine architecture, interior decoration, and the very conception of enlivened, animate space, with divine presence activated and facilitated by the use of the canopy. This monograph should be a standard reference and starting-point for future discussions of spatial archetypes in Byzantium and the medieval world.

Nathan S. Dennis is Assistant Professor of Art History and Museum Studies at the University of San Francisco. He specializes in late-antique and early-medieval art, architecture, and theology in the Mediterranean and Levantine world.

| A Glorious Masterwork

A Glorious Masterwork

Photo credit:
Photo credit:

The Glorious Masterworks of Grace and Holy Trinity Cathedral, Kansas City, Missouri is an almost once-in-a-lifetime read on a single sacred space and its myriad of interlocking factors bound into a hefty, fascinating, profusely illustrated monograph. Grace and Holy Trinity is the cathedral church of the Episcopal Diocese of West Missouri.

Most monographs devoted to a single sacred space in the U.S. discuss the architect and maybe a source or two of inspiration, then mention a major donor or two for the windows, and that all in fifteen or so pages. Loy’s book gives a comprehensive architectural and art history of the church and exhaustive biographies of its several major and minor donors. Loy, a life-long resident of Kansas City who spent ten years researching and writing the book, leaves no stone, pew, vestment, or chalice of the church unexamined.

The gathering of glorious windows, each reproduced in full color on its own page with an exhaustive description, makes the nave a very special place in the United States. Loy’s finds, for example, include the discovery that one window was created by Gottfried Heinersdorff (1883-1941) of Munich, Germany. This is the only known window fabricated by this important Munich studio in North America. He also discovered that Mary Fraser Wesselhoeft, an American artist, designed this window. Their lengthy biographies could be a stand-alone publication.

Further, Loy writes that the Chorister window (installed in 1901) is the only known window to be in a church west of the Mississippi by the studio of Heinigke & Bowen of Brooklyn, New York. He also identifies the Saint Cecilia window from 1902 as produced locally by the Campbell Glass and Paint Company.

The parish purchased property in 1887 for its first stone structure and invited among others, the firms of Burling & Whitehouse, McKim, Mead & White, and James & James to draft plans. Only the James design has survived in the Cathedral Archives. The brothers John King and Arthur Henry James proposed a large structure in the style of Henry Hobson Richardson, whom Arthur had worked for in New York. It was rejected.

A design submitted by another pair of brothers, Adriance and John Van Brunt of Kansas City, was chosen. Though they did not have the formidable James brothers’ pedigree, their design was selected. Their building is now the Guild Hall. It too had Romanesque roots but is mostly free of ornament, columns or arched window openings.

Foundations for the nave had already been laid in 1888 when the Reverend Cameron Mann requested a three-month leave of absence to visit great English cathedrals. He returned convinced that Richardson’s American Romanesque style was not the answer. He asked Frederick Elmer Hill to design a cathedral in the English style.

Hill was born in Wisconsin to immigrants from Hamburg, Germany. He studied architecture at MIT and then worked in the firm of McKim, Mead & White in New York until about 1890, when he moved to Kansas City. After some discussion, the nave was built in a style identified as Transitional Norman Gothic. Construction on the 138-foot- long, 60-foot-wide, 75-foot-tall peaked roof building began in June 1893 and was completed at the end of 1895. Its interior decoration was left for later. Plain opaque glass filled the round-arched windows. Over the next several decades the congregation donated the windows and other fine liturgical furnishings we see today.

Meanwhile, Francis Meredyth Whitehouse, of the Chicago architectural firm of Burling & Whitehouse, designed Trinity Church, also downtown. Built in the Richardsonian Romanesque style — a stylistic cousin to Trinity Church, Boston — it was completed in 1888.

Trinity Church, Boston, had spawned a style craze that swept America. The style was a mélange of cream and rust colored rusticated courses of ashlar with historical round-arched references and inspirations that sprint from Early Christian Syria to Carolingian, while clutching to Byzantine and Visigothic memories.

Grace Church and Trinity Church flourished as the congregations grew, then declined after years of national economic instability and the movement of population away from the downtown. Crushing financial woes followed. Grace Church owned its buildings free and clear and in 1917, Trinity Church merged with Grace Church. Membership totaled about 850 souls for both churches.

Grace Church flourished while Trinity Church declined and was sold in 1935, with most of its interior furnishings and windows removed. The last congregation vacated that building in 1957. It was demolished in 1966. In 2006, the location became a parking lot.

Loy’s book also features a fascinating section on Kansas City from its early years, with an especially telling photograph from 1875 of what may be a 25 to 30-foot-tall mound of bison skulls.

The Glorious Masterworks of Grace and Holy Trinity Cathedral, Kansas City, Missouri is about so much more than a building. It tells the story of a culture now gone, but not forgotten.

Rolf Achilles ( is an independent art historian and consultant with a special interest in the decorative arts.

| Instaurare Omnia

Editorial: Instaurare Omnia

There is an unprecedented crisis in our cities, yet most are not aware of it. It does not affect residents nor shoppers in our tony neighborhoods. In working-class neighborhoods some see it as a concern, but they are a minority. What is this crisis? In dioceses across the country, including Boston, Cleveland, Chicago, and New York, we have faced a historic number of church closings. The reasons are due to a lack: of funds, of parishioners, or of priests. Small dioceses are also suffering from this crisis, and they are trying to be good stewards of their finances.

But why is closing church buildings a big issue? Because they are holy places, dedicated to God and His saints, set apart for worship and the reception of the sacraments, paid for by the faithful, and honored as repositories of sacred and devotional art. What the Modernists said about the ethnic churches in many of our cities and towns is often true: they were often not well built and not that beautiful. They were put up quickly on low budgets by poor, uneducated immigrants. Yet for many people these buildings seem like masterpieces in comparison to the worship spaces that we—wealthy, educated, and professional—have built over the past fifty years.

One solution is to sell the church. Not to a Protestant congregation, which usually has limited funds, but to a developer who could retrofit it into some secular use, whether as condominiums, office space, or a community hall. Well-known examples of this are the renovations of the former Los Angeles cathedral, Saint Vibiana, into a wedding and corporate event center, and of Saint John the Baptist Church in Pittsburgh into a brew pub. Often when a sale is proposed, the overly pious are assured that all of the major artistic pieces will be removed, meaning altars, stained glass, and statuary. This is because we have come to believe that the architecture itself is not sacred, the place has not been sanctified by its use, and if we move the furniture out, it is okay for a temple to become a den of thieves.

Another option is to tear down the historic church and sell the land. If the building is no longer slated for sacred purposes then it is better that it no longer exist. In many upper-income neighborhoods the church building itself is worthless and the property is more beneficial being “converted” to high-end condominiums. An added benefit is that the property can go back on the tax rolls and help the city. If the building is pleasant this may be seen as a loss, but if it is ugly or built since the 1960s this solution will sadden few people. The building should be offered up to God, not unlike an Old Testament sacrifice. For those who would mourn it, it is well to remember that this is what the Romans did to the Temple in Jerusalem when the Israelites rebelled.

But what if the building is still beloved by people in the neighborhood, especially the faithful? What are some creative ways to assist them to have a house of prayer that is a light to the city and a locus for the sacraments? What if the people can come up with a financial plan to maintain the church? Some churches, though seldom used, can become satellites of nearby parishes. At the minimum, these churches could be open for special occasions: baptisms, weddings, funerals, and important feast days. In Europe, religious confraternities and guilds own oratories and are responsible for their maintenance and sacred use. They can be opened for as little or as much as they are able. They are responsible for the property, maintaining the building, and finding clergy to celebrate the sacraments.

The option most likely to succeed is to invite a religious order in to run the parish. Opus Dei, the Priestly Fraternity of Saint Peter, and the Institute of Christ the King have a track record in reviving dying parishes and restoring beautiful buildings and artwork. In Chicago, Cardinal George asked the Franciscan Friars of the Renewal to reopen a closed parish in a tough neighborhood (see “A Magnificent Witness: Our Lady of the Angels Mission in Chicago” in the Spring 2017 issue of Sacred Architecture). In Fort Wayne, Indiana, Bishop Kevin Rhoades brought in a new order, the Franciscan Friars Minor, to reopen a shuttered parish church and serve the poor in the neighborhood.

In America, where everything is portable, why not move historic churches from the old ethnic neighborhood out to the suburbs where there is a growing population? Unless it is a small wooden chapel, this is a serious undertaking and is much more difficult than it sounds. The idea of recycling sounds very attractive today, especially if the historic church has a lot of detail work and precious art. While a worthy goal, it should be pointed out that you will need experts in sacred architecture, preservation, and historic construction if you are to carefully dismantle and rebuild an old church. The cost to move it will likely be greater, and the benefits to the environment may not be better than designing a new church from scratch. That being said, it is one way to conserve works of sacred architecture that otherwise might fall into disrepair.

The best option, of course, is to find a creative way to keep these historic churches open. They are important to their neighborhoods and to the life of the city. They are a significant part of our cities’ history and beacons of faith to modern society. If that cannot be done, why not follow the example of medieval Rome, where the populace fled and many of the churches were unused for long periods of time? Fortunately, most were mothballed or allowed to survive so that in later times they could be reopened, restored, and beautified. Churches that have worthy sacred art and architecture should be treated that way. We should give them a chance to serve the Church and the world in a better future.

Duncan G. Stroik is the editor of Sacred Architecture Journal.

| What Good Can Come Out of Nazareth?

What Good Can Come Out of Nazareth?

Holy Name Cathedral in Raleigh, North Carolina, was dedicated on July 26th, 2017, and cost $45.7 million. Photo credit: O'Brien and Keane

Holy Name Cathedral in Raleigh, North Carolina, was dedicated on July 26th, 2017, and cost $45.7 million. Photo credit: O’Brien and Keane

“Every chapel, every church in every parish of the diocese is a monument of the Christian faith and the Christian love of those who built it. Necessarily, however, the resources at the disposal of any one parish are limited: at best the monument it builds is only a partial token of the good will of its Catholic people. Therefore, they said, we will, in a united outflow of generosity, build . . . one great temple that, in expressive manner, will symbolize, as no isolated effort can do, our Christian faith and Christian love, and will preach to the world of men around us the grandeur of that faith, the sublime holiness of that love. This is the history of . . . the common monument of the whole people of God to Christ, to the Catholic faith.”

- From the text of Archbishop John Ireland’s first homily at the new Cathedral of Saint Paul in Saint Paul, Minnesota, on Palm Sunday, March 28, 1915.

A History of Stewardship

Can anything good come out of Nazareth?

While the historical and spiritual answer to this question is so well known as to make the asking tongue-in-cheek, the question has remained one of continual renewal and response for a certain property on the outskirts of the city of Raleigh, North Carolina. In the late 1890s, Father Tom Price purchased this large parcel of land to serve as the epicenter for his pastoral ministry, work that could only be described as missionary in character. Together with his sister, Sister Mary Agnes of the Sisters of Mercy, Father Price responded with great trust and foresight to the acute poverty he witnessed in the area by founding the Nazareth Orphanage on the site in 1899.

Over the years, the Nazareth property would undergo changes to its size, occupancy, and function, but never to its role as a vital hub within the diocese. What began as an orphanage for boys from deceased or destitute families soon became coeducational, responsible for feeding, clothing, sheltering, teaching and otherwise forming as many as 250 primary and secondary school children at a time. More than sixty years after its opening, the orphanage would finally close due to social, cultural, and demographic changes, and its buildings were demolished. Thereafter, the site served as the campus of a newly constructed Cardinal Edward Gibbons High School from the late 1960s through the late 1990s. It was subsequently used to house the Diocese of Raleigh Catholic Center, acting as the administrative home of the diocese for a time. After a portion of the property was sold to North Carolina State University for its Centennial Campus, just 39 of the original 400+ acres remained, upon which its story might be continued.

At the same time, elsewhere in Raleigh, a lack of space was proving to be a cause for concern for the diocese, but as with most such constraints it was also to prove the source of opportunity.

To Build a Cathedral

Sacred Heart Cathedral in downtown Raleigh, a parish church that was elevated to cathedral status when the Diocese of Raleigh was established in 1924 (the same year the church was completed), had a seating capacity of only three hundred and was offering up to twelve Sunday Masses, with each filled to capacity. It was an unsustainable situation for a diocese that had become home to over 215,000 Catholics. In 2009, the idea of a new cathedral for Raleigh began to emerge in discussions. The Nazareth property presented a possible solution in the form of a new cathedral campus. Schematic designs were solicited and budgets explored, while ambitions were weighed against resources. In the end, the same spirit of prudential stewardship evidenced by Father Price long ago could be said to animate the discernment of the then Bishop of Raleigh, the Most Reverend Michael Burbidge. Trusting in the ministrations of Providence, Bishop Burbidge vowed to build a fitting edifice but avoid incurring any debts by defining the budget according to the sacrificial generosity of donors. The results of a capital campaign demonstrated that willingness to total nearly $46 million in pledged contributions by 26,000 families, with several million more raised and redistributed in the form of rebates to parishes according to their own needs. A new chapter was about to commence for the Nazareth property.

In 2011, McCrery Architects of Washington, D.C., provided initial designs, and in 2013, the architectural firm of O’Brien and Keane from Arlington, Virginia, was hired to complete the project. Over the next two years, incorporating the feedback from parishes around the diocese and from other consultants, designs for the cathedral took shape. On January 3, 2015, a groundbreaking ceremony was held on the site to commence what would amount to two and a half years of construction led by the contractor, Clancy and Theys. On July 21, 2017, the cornerstone of the cathedral, inscribed with a golden Christogram and blessed by Pope Francis, was finally installed, signaling the impending cessation of work and a dedication that was fast approaching.

Just five days later, on July 26, 2017, the din and clamor of construction finally acquiesced to the intonation of prayers and the sounds of heavenly harmonies in liturgical devotion. A veritable cloud of witnesses gathered on the grounds of the former home for orphans to celebrate the adoption of their new spiritual home: Holy Name of Jesus Cathedral. Fittingly, the cathedral shares its namesake with the chapel of the former Nazareth orphanage, a symbolic gesture intending both historical and spiritual continuity that was not lost on those gathered for the rite of dedication—particularly those who had themselves once been residents of the orphanage. A further point which did not go unnoticed was how the immense size of the new cathedral, in comparison to the former, tangibly reflected just how real and significant the growth experienced by the diocese had been over the past few decades, let alone the ninety-three years since the Vicariate of North Carolina had been elevated to the Diocese of Raleigh. Beginning the day with the smallest Catholic cathedral in the continental United States, it had ended the day with one of the largest, covering a gross floor area of 43,000 square feet with seating room for two thousand distributed between its nave (one thousand seats) and transepts (five hundred seats each). Beyond its sheer scale, its traditional character also spoke palpably to the values of the community, for there is something significant in the fact that Holy Name of Jesus Cathedral is the first Catholic cathedral in the United States since the 1950s to be built in what may be called a traditional style.

An Architectural Assessment


Outlined against the Carolina-blue sky, Holy Name of Jesus Cathedral cuts both an immense and distinguished figure. Despite its linearity, its dome, tower, and façades provide a vertical anchorage that draws the eyes heavenward, and there is sufficient visual tactility and detail to allow one’s gaze to dwell and even revel over its rising volumes and articulated surfaces. The judicious appointment of cast stone and traditional details at prominent locations provides a sense of hierarchy, nobility, durability, refinement—and no small amount of delight. The wood-molded brickwork invokes a material hermeneutic of continuity with the brick buildings of the former orphanage, and its subtle variations, modulations, and textures enliven otherwise inert wall surfaces.

In short, the cathedral is recognizably traditional in appearance, drawing freely from the forms and details found in historical precedents, but without emulating any particular precedent. If pressed, it could be said to exhibit a mixture of Romanesque and Renaissance influences in the elevations affixed to its cruciform armature. Nowhere is this more evident than its front façade, whose southern visage commands the view from within the circular piazza that will serve as the urban center of the completed cathedral complex. Here, two classically articulated registers of cast-stone pilasters, pedestals, and entablatures frame arched windows and openings, and the stacked ensemble is set within a Romanesque frame and punctuated by a large round window in a field of wood-molded brick. It is handsome in itself, and yet it also feels somewhat applied to the body of the cathedral rather than integral, due to the way it is overlaid against the backgrounded form—something that is less noticeable in direct elevation rather than in the oblique.

Corinthian columns ring a projecting side chapel. Photo: O'Brien and Keane

Corinthian columns ring a projecting side chapel. Photo credit: O’Brien and Keane

Cast-stone detailing at the front façade of the new cathedral. Photo credit: O'Brien and Keane

Cast-stone detailing at the front façade of the new cathedral. Photo credit: O’Brien and Keane

To the right of the main façade, an attractive side chapel projects from the body of the narthex, appointed in cast stone with a ring of Corinthian columns framing arched and circular windows salvaged from the shuttered Church of the Ascension in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania—originally designed by J.M. Kase & Company Art Stained Glass. Just beyond rises a large brick bell tower with brick quoining reaching 154 feet above the ground, topped by cast-stone balconies and a copper-domed baldachin of Corinthian columns housing a carillon of fifty bells, one of which was salvaged from the previous orphanage chapel. Overall, the tower is well scaled and makes a pleasing shape, though it does feel slightly dislocated from the façade. A closer proximity may have been better compositionally related, if not for its overriding function as a stair to the choir loft and serving as a middle ground in the elongated nave between the façade and the dome.

The exterior of the nave, side aisles, transepts, and apse of the cathedral are treated predominantly in wood-molded brick, modulated in low relief to frame and accentuate the window bays, with cast-stone accents applied to the transept elevations. At the intersection or crossing of these forms rises a large dome mounted on a brick base, with its apex measuring 173 feet above the ground and weighing 162 tons. As the most significant architectural component in the cathedral composition, it features a drum of paired Corinthian columns flanking sixteen arched windows, crowned by an entablature and parapet and surmounted by an enormous ribbed copper dome and cross visible for miles. The shape of the copper dome itself successfully prevails against a contemporary problem with “squatness” when such architectural features are only studied in elevation and their perspective from the ground is not accounted for. It could be further augmented by introducing a tall stone plinth or pedestal between the brick platform and the colonnade, and by increasing the size of the cross atop the dome.

Plan of the cathedral. Photo credit: O'Brien and Keane

Plan of the cathedral. Photo credit: O’Brien and Keane


The cathedral’s interior stands equal with and complementary to its exterior. Its impressive volume is given scale and proportion by its classical lineaments in both plan and elevation, and it is rendered in a pleasing palette of pale hues both warm and cool in tone. In its plan the cathedral delineates a cruciform shape with a relatively traditional distribution and sequence of its main spaces, from the narthex and choir loft to the nave and side aisles, transepts, sanctuary, apse, and sacristies.

All Saints Chapel is located off of the narthex. Photo credit: O'Brien and Keane

All Saints Chapel is located off of the narthex. Photo credit: O’Brien and Keane

The narthex with Tuscan columns and Ionic pilasters above. Photo credit: O'Brien and Keane

The narthex with Tuscan columns and Ionic pilasters above. Photo credit: O’Brien and Keane

The tripartite narthex centers on a large multistory atrium where a perimeter colonnade of Tuscan columns is surmounted by a register of corresponding Ionic pilasters, attic clerestory, and finally a barrel-vaulted ceiling with rose window, all serving to carry the architectural narrative of the façade into the interior. To the side, All Saints Chapel (previously noted) is accessed through the main narthex, as are the public service spaces and choir loft stairs. The endonarthex, located below the organ and choir loft, transitions between the narthex and the nave and houses the confessionals. Set on a radial stone pattern, the beginning of the nave is effectively signaled by the baptismal font, whose functional role is commensurate with its sacramental role, effecting and signifying entrance into the body of the church.

Taken all together, the outsized narthex introduces an unresolved tension between the plan and elevation by overextending the length of the nave, highlighted by the aforementioned placement of the campanile between the façade and the dome. A more compact narthex could have facilitated a better resolution to this tension in the overall composition.

Nave with baptismal font. Photo: O'Brien and Keane

Nave with baptismal font. Photo credit: O’Brien and Keane

The nave and its transepts reveal an impressive barrel-vaulted space nearly eighty feet high and outlined by two main horizontal registers that are divided into a sequence of twenty-two vertical bays, each featuring a bipartite subdivision of major and minor elements. The arcades of the lower register define the nave from the side aisles where the interstitial wall spaces between the perimeter windows are lined with devotional elements such as statuary and Stations of the Cross. The arcade is composed of paired Tuscan columns and pilasters that are interrupted and framed by larger Tuscan pilasters, whose projection carries stacked Ionic pilasters above and defines the bays of the nave and its vaulting. The tall bays of the upper register are each composed of a thin, arcuated triforium of Ionic columns (contrasting significantly with the depth of the arcade below), above which hovers a single, arched stained-glass window.

Where installed, these windows, designed by Paula Balano, pair with a matching set of stained-glass windows in the bay of the side aisle below, thus retaining a relationship with their original triptych arrangement in the Church of the Ascension, Philadelphia. The most saturated color values of the cathedral’s interior are reserved to these striking, figural stained-glass windows, which glow in a mixture of bold primary and secondary colors within a field of predominantly blues and reds. In themselves, the stained-glass windows are exquisite works of sacred art, though they stand in contrast to the subdued chromaticism of most of the interior. As a result, they highlight the perception that the interiors would be well served by a stenciling program in a second phase, if and when funds permit.

The proportional relationship between the shorter lower register and the taller upper register in the nave and transepts contributes a somewhat Romanesque quality despite its classical details. This relationship is accentuated by the lack of a continuous horizontal datum spanning between the Ionic pilasters in the clerestory area. To its credit this emphasizes the height and verticality of the nave to great effect. As a result, however, the Ionic pilasters also seem to float a little, particularly with their bases occluded by the lower entablature. A vertical emphasis would have been helpful at the crossing, where the entablature of the lower register bisects the crossing piers. Eliminating this would cause the piers to read at a giant scale in relation to the nave and transepts, from which the dome erupts above the sanctuary space. This would also echo the way the major pilasters of the lower register read monumentally against the columns and pilasters spanning between them. Nevertheless, the patterned sequence of horizontal and vertical elements draws the eye ineluctably forward and upward, visually culminating in the sanctuary, as it should.

Sanctuary with marble altar, ambo, and cathedra. Photo credit: O'Brien and Keane

Sanctuary with marble altar, ambo, and cathedra. Photo credit: O’Brien and Keane

The raised sanctuary and altar of sacrifice occupy the axis mundi of the cathedral, centering on the nave and crossing beneath the luminous dome. Its liturgical furnishings are predominantly rendered in Bianco Carrara marble with Giallo Siena accents. The ambo is positioned to the side and slightly back of the altar to account for lines of sight from the transept, while the bishop’s cathedra is located against the crossing pier. Terminating the primary vista and framing the tabernacle stands the ciborium on its stepped dais. While slightly undersized in relation to its architectural surround, it punches above its weight because of its beauty and the accentuation of its verticality against the horizontal bands and smaller arches of the apsidal background. Its form also recapitulates the general shape of the main façade and thus stands in dialogue with it. While the façade signifies the transition between the profane and sacred realms, the ciborium visually mediates the space of the sanctuary and the apse with its iconographic elements drawing from the Book of Revelation—which is to say that it symbolizes the Eucharistic mediation between the kingdom of God on earth and the kingdom still to come. The apse, perhaps the weakest component in the sanctuary composition, features equally sized and stacked arches framed by paired Corinthian columns floating detachedly from the wall, half of whose bases are concealed by a platform fronted by bronze relief panels. Its weakness, however, is compensated for in virtue of being largely backgrounded by the visual gravitas of the ciborium, which arrests and focuses one’s attention on both the crucifix and the tabernacle, performing an act of silent architectural benediction upon the reposed Blessed Sacrament.


A traditional cathedral of this scale, quality, and character represents an ambitious undertaking and a commendable achievement that testifies to the successful collaboration of many parties—from the cathedral staff and diocesan parishioners to the architect, contractor, tradesmen, and craftsmen. Perhaps the greatest indication of its overall success comes in the near unanimous praise from the cathedral parishioners. One can easily see why. In the end, the cathedral stands as a visible sign and efficacious witness to the grandeur of the Christian faith: a monument to the people of God and to the Holy Name of Jesus that memorializes the past and the continued service rendered towards building the kingdom of God within the Diocese of Raleigh and the world. And in this, it succeeds in so many ways. Let the good that can come from Nazareth be proclaimed anew.

Joel Pidel is a native of Augusta, Georgia, and practices traditional architecture in New Canaan, Connecticut, residing nearby with his wife and children. He attended the University of Notre Dame where he studied architecture and philosophy, graduating in 2005, and practicing architecture in New York City for the next 11 years. His architectural and illustrative work has been published in books and magazines.


| Cultural Landscapes of Religious Pluralism: Networks of Difference and the Common Good

Cultural Landscapes of Religious Pluralism: Networks of Difference and the Common Good

What does it mean to enact religious pluralism, a key component of the American project? One way architects have answered this question is to create one space for multiple religions to worship and coexist, an effort that reached a high-water mark in the 1950s in the United States. Will Herberg in his 1955 book Protestant, Catholic, Jew explored the friendly interfaith dialogue among the so-called “big three” religions at midcentury, a major expansion of the religious tent beyond America’s Protestant tradition.1 Architects went to work in constructing spaces that would accommodate this broadened cooperative understanding of religion among the “big three,” and the fruits of this work are well known: Eero Saarinen’s MIT Chapel of 1955, Harrison and Abramovitz’s chapels at Brandeis University of 1954, and Walter Netsch’s Air Force Academy Cadet Chapel, begun in 1959 and completed in 1962.2 Bruce Goff’s unrealized 1950 crystal chapel for the University of Oklahoma in Norman imagined a nondenominational space whose crystalline structure unabashedly gestured toward the utopian.3 In the immediate postwar period, we can understand these architectural solutions to interfaith space as part of a utopian vision of religious pluralism in America.

Interior of the Chapel at MIT by Eero Saarinen, 1955. Photo credit: Lee Kennedy Co. Inc

Interior of the Chapel at MIT by Eero Saarinen, 1955. Photo credit: Lee Kennedy Co. Inc

Today, spaces that are interfaith, nondenominational, pluralistic, or multifaith—descriptors variously given to spaces of religious pluralism—remain a challenge for those seeking to understand and shape sacred spaces, particularly as our understanding of pluralism expands to include Islam, Buddhism, atheism, and more. There are big-picture questions for those wanting to craft understanding across religions: How might architecture provide a means to create tolerance and to honor religious differences? More particularly, how do these questions play out in the context of American culture, where religious freedom is foundational to our national identity?

The River Building by SANAA at Grace Farms in New Canaan, Connecticut, 2015. Photo credit:

The River Building by SANAA at Grace Farms in New Canaan, Connecticut, 2015. Photo credit:

New work toward these questions has been carried out within the context of multifaith spaces, including airport multifaith chapels and SANAA’s Grace Farms in New Canaan, Connecticut, of 2015. The Manchester Architecture Research Centre’s project on multifaith spaces and a Radcliffe Institute project and website considering multifaith spaces are just two examples of the energies being given to studying such spaces.4 This attention to multifaith spaces has been true for both architects and scholars for a number of reasons. In focusing on designing one building, or a set of connected spaces, de novo, architects can control the elements and authorship that go into these commissions. They appreciate elemental aspects like light and water, include common-denominator symbols or words like “In the Beginning” in a 2010 Bryant University Interfaith Center by Gwathmey, Siegel, and Associates, and use phenomenological approaches to invoke the numinous in ways that may appeal to people of many different faiths. For scholars, multifaith spaces lend themselves to analysis through conventional means: understanding the architect, the client, the setting, the social and temporal context of a single building. The attempt to craft interfaith accommodation and understanding within one building has occupied the lion’s share in religious pluralism efforts, both in architectural practice and scholarly research.

Bryant University Interfaith Center, 2010. The inscription around the top of the wall reads

Bryant University Interfaith Center, 2010. The inscription around the top of the wall reads “In the Beginning” in five languages: Hebrew, Latin, English, Sanskrit, and Arabic. Photo credit: Shawmut

We seek to turn our attention away from the singular multifaith space toward a larger, messier understanding of what we call cultural landscapes of religious pluralism. Multifaith spaces run the risk of flattening true theological difference. The conundrum of how to preserve difference while promoting a shared understanding persists. How might Americans, who may never specifically seek out a multifaith space, encounter and see religious pluralism while going about their daily lives? How might we retrain our gaze to see anew how interfaith understanding actually operates in the lived experience? We argue here that taking a wider view of cultural landscapes of religious pluralism—as opposed to discrete multifaith spaces—is a more fruitful, realistic way to think about how we can construct interfaith understanding.

Conceptual Problems and Promising Approaches

As cultural landscapes of religious pluralism entail such a broad view, the project we are advocating raises important interdisciplinary and interpretive challenges. A few conceptual remarks may be helpful here. First, we need not settle upon a common definition of religion. What we seek is a better hold upon the diffuse and diverse material-cultural expression of religion. Furthermore, an embrace of religious pluralism that honors real theological difference raises the problem of intractable conflict among worldviews, which calls for a constructive theology of interreligious dialogue. And all of this takes place in a decidedly public arena with political implications, especially so in the American context that enshrines a separation between church and state in the Constitution.

A focus upon material religion entails a focus upon sacrality. There is much to treasure in the long tradition of appropriating phenomenology for interpretations of architecture. As a philosophical method rooted in the conviction that our understanding of reality is marked by its being partially constituted by human intention, it is valuable in its insistence that objects and environments be considered in light of embodied, lived experience in all its intersubjectivity. It resists reduction to form or style or any single factor. But its appropriation for the study of religion, and by extension religious or “sacred” sites, has tended to presume some extrahuman domain of divine reality—“the sacred”—which too readily flattens real religious difference. Phenomenological glosses on religion have been critiqued in many ways, such as historian of religion Jonathan Z. Smith’s demonstration that human agency at least partially constructs sacrality through ritual and rite.5 But a presumption of “the sacred” is often too handy when confronted with religious difference, and especially interfaith spaces that elide such difference. “The sacred” offers a way out: the differences are human constructs; the reality to which they point is the real deal. Hence, interfaith spaces are about “transcendence” or “the ineffable.” Lost is Buddhist sacred space, Catholic sacred space, Muslim sacred space, and so on. Furthermore, only particular subsets of Buddhists, Catholics, or Muslims are likely to be moved by such generic “sacred” space. So how “interfaith” is it really?

The recent work of University of California, Santa Barbara, scholar of religion Ann Taves is promising here, as she argues that sacrality occurs through human attribution of sacred status and need not presume a transcendent reality about which we can agree.6 Markers of religious identity across the spectrum from devotional object to billboard to building to district offer many opportunities to consider religious pluralism as enacted in public in and through material culture. As attributions of sacrality are a subspecies of marking things as special, this approach can include those who are “spiritual but not religious,” and even atheists. It offers ways to compare experiences deemed sacred among “people who orient around religion differently,” to use InterFaith Youth Core founder Eboo Patel’s phrase. Yet it also retains proper focus on distinct religious identities, and phenomenological analysis of their expression remains worthwhile. Indeed, Taves aims to reconcile the phenomenological tradition (which sees something beyond human construction at work in religious experience) with what neuroscientists can learn about how humans react to (and thereby value) different objects, settings, and events.

The neuroscience is beyond the scope of this commentary and is at any rate only burgeoning, but the promise of this view of sacrality is this: it is better suited to addressing diverse and conflicting interpretations since it focuses upon how and why particular peoples attribute sacrality to particular places, buildings, sites, practices, and objects. Answers to these questions involve broader socio-cultural contexts and are akin to other ways things are set apart. Regarding conflict, however, if those who orient around religion differently deem spaces (and practices, etc.) sacred on differing terms, and sacred landscapes are contested landscapes, how is productive discourse possible? While we may not need (or ever hope to have) a common definition of religion, we do need a theory of religions that can handle conflicting traditions while retaining difference. Conceptions of theological pluralism that minimize difference are markedly unproductive, as in philosopher of religion John Hick’s reduction of theological differences to vagaries of human culture.

One promising alternative is the work of Methodist University theologian J. R. Hustwit, who outlines an approach that stems from philosophical hermeneutics but eschews its tendency toward relativism in favor of an “ontological turn.”7 All is interpretation since ultimate truth is beyond human comprehension, but not all interpretations are equal. Rather, adherents in this contested field aim for ever-closer approximation of the truth in and through critical engagement with those of divergent and conflicting views. Drawing upon major strands of American Pragmatism (as does Taves via William James), Hustwit advocates a “fabilist hermeneutics” wherein “certainty and objectivity are unattainable, [yet] movement toward these ideals is possible.”8 The resulting theology of interreligious dialogue aims at more than getting along: it seeks real theological “mutual enrichment” through a “differential pluralism.”9 As Hustwit puts it, “a plurality of truth claims is practically useful because more competition drives inquiry closer to the truth.”10 Such an interreligious hermeneutics is a program of constructive postmodernism. It is incompatible with fundamentalism but otherwise fits well with a variety of theological traditions as it seeks to move beyond mere deconstruction or suspicion toward metanarratives. Honoring very real limits of human knowledge, it promises a means by which religious adherents can remain true to their own identities yet benefit from genuine interreligious dialogue.

All of this is solidly within the realm of theological discourse, yet the cultural landscapes to which we are drawing your attention are encountered in public, largely extratheological settings. In fact, we should follow here religion scholar Diana Eck’s lead in distinguishing between “theological discourse” and “civic discourse.”11 Far from a simple private/public distinction, Eck (founding director of Harvard’s Pluralism Project and a leader in studying the phenomenon) insists that both discourses can be quite public but are different in the terms and criteria they employ in debate. For our purposes, the theological discourse of interreligious hermeneutics is important for maintaining a hold on the differences at play, but it is not sufficient: How do we frame our interpretive view upon landscapes of religious pluralism such that substantive civil discourse can thrive in and through such difference and contestation?

The political-philosophical literature of deliberative democracy is helpful here, especially the notion of the public sphere. Metaphorically rooted in the ancient Greek agora as a place of public exchange of ideas, the public sphere is the discursive space in which the shared work of politics occurs. But since its first full statement by Jürgen Habermas,12 it is also an idea that has received substantive and ongoing critique. For instance, Canadian philosopher Charles Taylor argues against the ideal (and bourgeois) nature of a single public sphere, situating the phenomenon within what he calls “social imaginaries.”13 Therefore, there are multiple public spheres, though they are related in a kind of nested hierarchy since some are subsets of other, larger ones. Feminist, subaltern, and other critiques of the idea take this further by insisting that there are not only multiple publics but also counterpublics. These latter are driven by resistance to what the dominant publics deem the common good toward which deliberation is oriented.

Perhaps the most promising recent version of such discursive space is that proposed by Yale political philosopher Seyla Benhabib, who outlines an agonistic model of democratic engagement that celebrates not only differing publics and counterpublics but the contest itself among them. In her words, this is an “interlocking net of

. . . multiple forms of associations, networks, and organizations . . . a public sphere of mutually interlocking and overlapping networks and associations of deliberation, contestation, and argumentation.”14 It is within and across such networks that the full material manifestation of American religious pluralism is found, its diverse particularity honored, and peaceful, substantive, and productive dialogue nourished.

Practical Problems and Promising Approaches

So now that we have outlined how the embrace of religious difference rather than the flattening of that difference leads to richer understanding, and how material culture at different scales and displayed in public makes religious difference real and ripe for engagement, here is how a view of an interfaith landscape might work: Imagine driving down a major thoroughfare and seeing, in succession, a Protestant church, a mosque, and a Greek Orthodox church. As you move through the landscape, you observe multiple instances of situated religion embodied in the architecture that realizes the theological truth claims for each particular tradition. And yet in your own personal movement through real space and time, your gaze also encounters a landscape of religious pluralism knitted together as a whole. Sally Promey at Yale University published a photograph of this experience of successive different houses of worship in a compressed landscape in her co-edited volume The Visual Culture of American Religions, arguing that “the visible display of religion allows individuals and groups to approach and to imagine perspectives different from their own. Visible religion takes on an active cultural role: rehearsing diversity, practicing pluralism.”15

The seeing of religious difference in public forces people to make sense of “the other,” often involuntarily, and therefore practice or enact religious pluralism. The reception of the Temple of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (1974) outside of Washington, D.C., is an illustrative case in point of a cultural landscape of religious pluralism. This building emerges dramatically to drivers along D.C.’s Capital Beltway, its six gold spires and white marble gleaming in the daylight and theatrically lit at nighttime. One 1973 assessment of the Mormon Temple noted that the temple “only adds to the architectural, cultural and religious pluralism of our society and our environment.”16 The fact that the temple, which by its very visibility encourages people to notice it, is nevertheless closed to all but “temple-worthy” Mormons has prompted an interfaith give-and-take. This lived landscape forces confrontation with religious difference, and the public here has responded. For over forty years, graffiti over the Beltway in sight of the temple reads “Surrender Dorothy,” a reference to The Wizard of Oz movie and a humorous reframing of the building as something fantastical. But there is also a weightier satirical critique here of the Mormon religion as something fraudulent, akin to the Wizard of Oz, who is revealed as merely “the man behind the curtain.” As this example suggests, in the involuntary confrontation with religion in the everyday landscape, people have found ways to react to religious difference, contest divergent viewpoints, and ultimately begin to integrate themselves within a shared pluralist landscape.

This concept of an interfaith landscape can also encourage us to think of other aspects of the messiness of religious pluralism that are not concerns of de novo multifaith spaces. For example, what of the “afterlife” (to use architectural historian Gretchen Buggeln’s term) of particular denominational buildings as they confront new issues? The Catholic Church’s repurposing of Philip Johnson and John Burgee’s famed Crystal Cathedral (1977–1981) for Reverend Robert Schuller in Garden Grove, California, raises questions about how one theological tradition transforms a space from another theological tradition for its own use.17 The gutting of the Philip Johnson interior—to the chagrin of preservationists—suggests that a one-size-fits-all approach to denominational space does not work, stressing the real differences in theological perspectives that multifaith spaces obscure.

The chapel at Duke University. Photo credit:

The chapel at Duke University. Photo credit:

Theologies conflict in other instances, too. In 2015, Duke University, originally a Methodist institution that now sees itself as nonsectarian, proposed that the Muslim call to prayer be broadcast on Fridays from the Duke University Chapel, constructed as a Methodist space. Outrage over the proposal came from outside the campus community, particularly through the ire of Franklin Graham, son of evangelist Billy Graham, who saw the use of a Christian space for Muslim practice as an affront to Christianity. Ultimately, the Duke administration pulled the plan to broadcast the Muslim call to prayer, but thinking about the intersection of a visibly Christian (neo-Gothic) space with an auditory Muslim prayer forces a confrontation of religious pluralism in new ways.18 Similarly, the College of William and Mary, founded as an Anglican college but made a public institution in 1906, became embroiled in a controversy in 2007 when it removed a cross from its chapel. While conservative critics denounced the removal as bending to political correctness, the college had to confront what to do with a historically Christian space at an institution required to respect religious difference.19 The solutions here are not easy or perfect—William & Mary decided to put the cross in an acrylic display case in the chapel as a way to honor a Christian past and a multifaith present—but our point is that engaging in theologically specific spaces, and the ways they confront religious change and understanding, is a lived landscape of religious pluralism that deserves attention.

The eighteen-inch brass cross on the altarpiece of the chapel of the College of William and Mary was removed in 2007. Photo credit: Margaret Grubiak

The eighteen-inch brass cross on the altarpiece of the chapel of the College of William and Mary was removed in 2007. Photo credit: Margaret Grubiak

Toward Many Cultural Landscapes of Religious Pluralism

An attributional model of sacrality, an interreligious hermeneutic stance, and public networks of difference: these are promising conceptual devices for framing the subject of religious pluralism. And a commitment to consider the many ways religion is manifest in concrete, material form presents many possibilities for further study. The reader can surely call to mind examples to add to those just explored. But to what end? What is needed is a fuller, more comprehensive picture of how Promey’s “rehearsing diversity, practicing pluralism” takes place. We need a way to map the changing nature of these phenomena.

Consider the 1748 Nolli map of Rome: the way it brought to the mind and to the eye a new window upon the city, integrating into the figure-ground clarity of open and closed space the interiors of buildings considered part of the public sphere of the day.20 We aim to join contemporary mapping technology, such as ArcGIS, to the ever-growing world of data that have geo-spatial implications pertaining to how people orient around religion in material terms—to map the material-cultural embodiment of religious pluralism. The idea is to create new permutations upon the Nolli contribution to visual representation that speak to our current challenge (and opportunity) to engage and enact religious pluralism in the cultural landscapes we inhabit together.

We are just now laying the groundwork for this stage of the project. For now, a few potential topics must suffice as a conclusion. For a given region, city, etc., imagine: How would we visually and spatially compare religious-affiliation demographics with levels of expression in material culture (monumental, memorial, etc.) and thereby map the degrees of divergence between them? How would we map spatial and material patterns of religion-oriented hate speech, vandalism, harassment, and threats? How would we chart special cases of changes in material culture due to political and demographic shifts, such as the current removal of Civil War monuments in New Orleans? Perhaps they relate—in ways yet to be made clear, yet worth clarifying—to the cultural landscapes of religious pluralism rooted in the history of the place (from Muslim slaves to varieties of Christian apologists and opponents of slavery, and so on). What other case studies or ways to frame the subject may be promising? Whatever direction this mapping project takes, our aim remains to achieve a better purchase upon an admittedly complex and fluid phenomenon—cultural landscapes of religious pluralism—all in the service of understanding, engaging, and nourishing the difference that constitutes a vibrant and open democratic society.

Margaret M. Grubiak, PhD, is an associate professor of architectural history in the Department of Humanities at Villanova University.

Timothy K. Parker, PhD, is an architect and an assistant professor of architectural history and theory in the School of Architecture + Art at Norwich University.


1. Will Herberg, Protestant, Catholic, Jew: An Essay in American Religious Sociology (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1960).

2. On the MIT Chapel, see Margaret Grubiak, White Elephants on Campus: The Decline of the University Chapel in America, 1920–1960 (South Bend, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2014), 95–118. For the Air Force Academy Cadet Chapel, see Sheri Olson, “Lauded and Maligned: The Chapel,” in Modernism at Mid-Century: The Architecture of the United States Air Force Academy, ed. Paul Bruegmann (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1995), 156–168.

3. “Crystal Chapel [University of Oklahoma],” Architectural Forum 93 (July 1950): 86–89.

4. See and

5. Jonathan Z. Smith, To Take Place: Toward Theory in Ritual (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987).

6. Ann Taves, Religious Experience Reconsidered: A Building Block Approach to the Study of Religion and Other Special Things (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2010).

7. J. R. Hustwit, Interreligious Hermeneutics and the Pursuit of Truth (Plymouth, UK: Lexington Books, 2014), 91.

8. Ibid., 88.

9. Ibid., 117–118.

10. Ibid., 89.

11. Diana L. Eck, “American Religious Pluralism: Civic and Theological Discourse, ” in Democracy and the New Religious Pluralism, ed. Thomas Banchoff (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 243–270.

12. See Jürgen Habermas, The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere: An Inquiry Into a Category of Bourgeois Society (Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 1989).

13. See Charles Taylor, Modern Social Imaginaries (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2004).

14. Seyla Benhabib, “Toward a Deliberative Model of Democratic Legitimacy,” in Democracy and Difference: Contesting the Boundaries of the Political, ed. Seyla Benhabib (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1996), 73-74.

15. Sally M. Promey, “The Public Display of Religion” in The Visual Culture of American Religions, ed. David Morgan and Sally M. Promey (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001), 48.

16. Wolf Von Eckardt, “Spires of Babylonian Solemnity,” The Washington Post (June 30, 1973): C1.

17. See Duncan G. Stroik, “Editorial: Quo Vadis,” Sacred Architecture Journal 21 (Spring 2012).

18. See “Duke, Muslims, and the Limits of Interfaith Unity,” podcast, Interfaith Voices (January 29, 2015),

19. See Grubiak, White Elephants on Campus, 121–126.

20. See for an interactive version of the map.

| John Anton Mallin: Ecclesiastical Artist and Decorator in Twentieth-Century Chicago

John Anton Mallin: Ecclesiastical Artist and Decorator in Twentieth-Century Chicago

Saint Joseph Church in Hammond, Indiana

Saint Joseph Church in Hammond, Indiana. Photo credit: Noah Vaughn

John Anton Mallin was a well-known ecclesiastical artist and decorator in Chicago, whose works are found in more than one hundred churches and chapels, as well as several residences, banks, and theaters. His career spanned almost sixty years, from the time he came to Chicago in 1907 until he retired in 1963. Although he primarily decorated Roman Catholic churches, he also decorated Greek Orthodox and Protestant churches. His work was in high demand and received lavish praise. A 1932 letter from his alderman, James Quinn, to Colonel Isham Randolph, a manager at the Century of Progress, introduced Mallin as “one of the outstanding designers and interior decorators in the City of Chicago. His class of work has been the subject of very high recommendation and many of our leading churches have been the objects of his wonderful efforts.”1 Mallin’s work was so well known that a wealthy businessman, John Cuneo, hired him in 1940 to decorate a chapel in his mansion in Vernon Hills, Illinois. Cardinal Stritch of Chicago was able to obtain a permit from Rome for the Cuneo chapel. Mallin later decorated three other rooms in the Cuneo mansion.

John A. Mallin was born Jan Anton Malinkoviˇc on April 14, 1883, to parents Jan Malinkoviˇc and Barbora Drobiliˇc in Hlohovec, in what is now the Czech Republic, but which at that time was part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. In 1897, when he was fifteen years old, Mallin became a painter’s apprentice in the School of the Interior and Decorative Painters’ Guild in Vienna. He learned the art of church and interior decoration by working with a variety of master painters. He apprenticed in Vienna and throughout Europe. His workbook from this time period includes references to his good workmanship, diligence, and behavior. The last workbook entry was from Sankt Pölten, Austria, where he worked until December of 1906, when he was released due to lack of work.

In January 1907, he immigrated to Chicago, where his future sister-in-law was living. His bride-to-be, Rosalie Vokáˇc, a native of Prague whom he met in Vienna, joined him in Chicago later that year along with their infant daughter, Angela, who died within a few months of arrival. They subsequently had five additional children: Mildred, John, Louise, Anthony, and Ralph.

Mallin originally worked as a contractor on jobs throughout the Midwest and elsewhere. One of his first jobs, in 1907, was as a decorator of façades for the Riverview Amusement Park in Chicago. His other contracting jobs between 1907 and 1918 were in banks, theaters, courthouses, homes, and churches in several locations throughout Illinois, Iowa, and Indiana. Little documentation of these earlier works exists except in postcards he sent to his family and some photos. Most of the buildings are no longer standing.

In 1918, he formed his own decorating company, John A. Mallin, Interior Art Decorations, and one of his first contracts was the decoration of the Main Chapel in the Bohemian National Cemetery (BNC) Columbarium in Chicago. According to his contract, he was paid $545 for the job. In 1929 and 1931, Mallin added to the decorations in the chapel. Mallin later changed the name of his company to John A. Mallin and Sons, although his eldest son John was the only son who worked with him on a permanent basis. His daughter Mildred also worked as his secretary until the 1950s.

Mallin’s workers’ timesheets show that he employed a number of workers at any one time, depending on the job. Many of them were of Slavic origin. Other documents show that Mallin sometimes worked on more than one job at the same time. Some jobs took up to six months or more; others were shorter in duration.

Some of the churches Mallin decorated include Saint Mary of Czestochowa (Cicero, Illinois), Saint Edmund (Oak Park, Illinois), Saint Joseph (Hammond, Indiana), and, in Chicago, Saint Mary of Perpetual Help, Holy Rosary Slovak Church, Saint Mary of the Angels, Saint Hedwig, Saint Hyacinth, Saint Jerome, Saint John of God, Saint Basil, and Saint Procopius. Mallin worked closely with such well-known church architects as Joseph W. McCarthy (Saint Basil, Our Lady of Lourdes, Saint Jerome) and Henry Schlacks (Saint Ignatius, Saint John of God, Saint Mary of the Lake, Saint Ita). Although many of his churches have either been torn down or redecorated, there are still many churches with his original or slightly revised decorations.

Work documents exist for many of his church decorations, which include sketches and details of the decorations that he would provide to the priests based on what they had proposed. The priests would also suggest revisions to his proposals, which could be quite detailed. Many priests also had their own faces painted into the decorations.

Two churches, Saint Joseph in Hammond and Saint Edmund’s in Oak Park, are highlighted here. These church decorations are quite different and highlight the versatility of Mallin as a decorator. Documents for these churches also show how Mallin engaged with the priests whom he was working with.

Saint Joseph’s, 5310 Hohman Ave, Hammond, Indiana

Saint Joseph Church, located in Hammond, Indiana, was founded in 1879. In 1927, Father Francis J. Jansen was appointed pastor of Saint Joseph, which had eight hundred families at that time.2

In 1934, Mallin received a copyright for a drawing of the arch above the altar of Saint Joseph Church. The copyright states, “The work of St. Joseph. Composite picture within semi circular arch. Central group at top: The Holy Family at work, four angels around them. Group of modern laborers at work with other men studying plans and model, below at left and right.”3 However, it wasn’t until several years later that Father Jansen hired Mallin to decorate the church. Many of the parishioners of the church worked in the numerous steel mills in the area, which were hit hard by the Depression. It is likely that the church did not have sufficient funds for the decorations in 1934.

In November of 1942, John Mallin received a letter from Father Jansen asking him to come and see him regarding the decoration of the church.4 Father Jansen also wrote a detailed description of what was to be included in the frescoes, which included a history of the parish and the industries in the area.5

In Father Jensen’s description, he stated that he wanted to show workers of all varieties, including steel workers as well as the artist himself. He wrote, “It would be nice to have steel workers painted as working the glow of the white hot metal of the furnace. Down below, Father Berg showing . . . the cartoons, or sketches of the stained glass windows of the church (he had them put in) to the present Bishop John F. Noll. Instead of the two clergymen with the Bishop, we might have a stained glass worker and an artist (yourself).”

An article in the Hammond Times newspaper in February of 1943, entitled “Laborers in the Vineyard,” described the frescoes above the altar.6 The article stated that Father Jansen wanted Mallin “to carry out the theme that there are no idlers in the kingdom.” It also stated that “another picture presents Bishop John F. Noll, Msgr. Edward Mongovan, chairman of the building committee of the diocese, and Father John Berg, the third pastor, examining a model of the stained glass windows, depicting the life of Christ, which were installed by Father Berg.” The final mural, which was not yet complete at the time the newspaper article was written, includes the artist, John Mallin, wearing his distinctive bow tie, showing the sketch of the arch design to Bishop Noll.

The sanctuary arch of Saint Joseph Church. The Holy Family is pictured at the top of the arch. Steel workers are shown on the left side above priests and John Mallin discussing the decorations. On the right side, a building is shown under construction, while underneath appear Father Henry M. Plaster, who built the church, and Father Jansen, who built the parish school, discussing plans with an architect. Photo credit: Noah Vaughn

The sanctuary arch of Saint Joseph Church. The Holy Family is pictured at the top of the arch. Steel workers are shown on the left side above priests and John Mallin discussing the decorations. On the right side, a building is shown under construction, while underneath appear Father Henry M. Plaster, who built the church, and Father Jansen, who built the parish school, discussing plans with an architect. Photo credit: Noah Vaughn

The 1934 Mallin drawing included angels around the Holy Family. However, describing the center-arch picture of the Holy Family, Father Jansen states, “The angels around the Holy Family are out. There should be an open house, the front left out, in which they are working. Father Baumgartner’s head to represent St. Joseph. He was the first pastor.” The Hammond Times stated, “At the highest point and in the most central position the Holy Family is shown engaged in useful occupations as told by sacred records which have it that Joseph was a carpenter, or as many like to term it, a home-builder. As nobody living knows what Joseph looked like, his face in the painting is that of Father Francis X. Baumgartner, the first pastor of the parish. St. Joseph is shown at work on his carpenter bench. The Holy Mother is spinning. With a hammer and chisel the Christ Child is shown putting a hole in a plank, assisting his foster father. (The picture is 16 x 11 feet and the figure of St. Joseph 6 feet 5 inches tall). Thus the Holy Family is presented as a model for workers.”

Father Jansen described his ideas for the left arch: “On the left side (looking at the picture), Father Henry Plaster, the second pastor, and Father Jensen, the present pastor, discussing plans. Father Jansen to have the purple cincture and also purple Pom-pom on biretta. The architect to have on an ordinary present day business suit.” The Hammond Times further elaborated, “To the left and a little below the Holy Family are shown a brick mason, a stone mason and structural iron workers and to the right and under the level of the main picture are scenes from the steel mills. Under a drawing of a building in course of construction appear Father Henry M. Plaster, who built the church, and Father Jansen, who built the parish school, discussing plans with an architect. To the credit of Father Plaster, who was shepherd of the flock for 33 years, it must be said, the building, dedicated in 1913, was so well constructed there is not a crack in the structure to this day.”

The construction perhaps also protected the church against three attempts to burn down the church, in 1956, 1960, and 1971. The first attempt in 1956 may have prompted Father Jansen to ask Mallin to add additional decorations and restorations to the church in 1957. In a letter written to Father Jansen dated January 16, 1957, Mallin states, “There will be some new improvements made in the Sanctuary wall, color scheme and design. The wall will be laid in with genuine XX 23 carat gold leaf and worked out in a mosaic effect and symbols. All the mural paintings will appear like new after restoration and you will find all the decoration to come up to all your expectations.”7 In fact it was common for Mallin to add decorations or restorations to many of the churches he decorated.

Saint Edmund’s, 188 South Oak Park Ave, Oak Park, Illinois

Saint Edmund’s Church was the first Catholic parish established in the village of Oak Park, a town just west of the city of Chicago. Oak Park was predominantly Protestant at that time, and this community opposed the establishment of a Catholic church, believing, among other things, that “a horde of undesirables would rush in upon them with advent of the great Democratic church which draws no line between rich and poor.” The Reverend John J. Code was first appointed by Archbishop James Quigley to organize the church in 1907.8

The first Mass in 1907 was said in a barn, and with the help of a local banker, John Farson, funds were raised to build a church. In 1910, a new church designed by the architect Henry Schlacks was dedicated. The church was built in the English Gothic style of the fourteenth century using blue Bedford stone. Reverend Code chose an English saint for the parish, Edmund Rich of Abington, Archbishop of Canterbury.9

The construction of Saint Edmund Church in Oak Park, Illinois, was opposed by the Protestant community. Photo credit: Noah Vaughn

The construction of Saint Edmund Church in Oak Park, Illinois, was opposed by the Protestant community. Photo credit: Noah Vaughn

The Saint Edmund Preservation Society website notes that the church was decorated in 1920 by the artist John F. Sturdy, and the decorations were described in the 1920 parish bulletin. Describing the apse, it states, “Amid a wealth of wheat and grape foliations clad in priestly garments . . . is the figure of Christ upon a miniature altar. . . . On either side of him, surrounded by hovering and adoring angels are the kneeling figures . . . of the Jewish high priest, censer in hand, and Melchisedech with bread and wine.”10

Monsignor Code was still at Saint Edmund’s in 1943, celebrating his fiftieth anniversary as pastor. It was in this year that he hired John Mallin to decorate the church. The 1943 decorations are described in detail in the golden jubilee book for Monsignor Code. For example, in the sanctuary, “the decorations are in the Gothic style of ornament in which red, blue, and gold colors predominate. The cobalt blue and vermilion reds are made from expensive minerals and are very durable, while the gold color is real beaten gold leaf over 23 carats fine.”11

The Saint Edmund Preservation Society website indicates that the same three apse figures from the 1920 decorations appear in the 1943 decorations, suggesting that “Mallin was probably instructed by Msgr. Code to keep and restore these figures in the apse.” These include the figure of Christ in the center, with Old Testament priest figures Aaron and Melchisidech on either side.12 The Preservation Society notes:

To judge from the particular motifs of his floral and geometric stenciling, Mallin, like many other decorators and architects, may have owned a copy of the 1849 pattern book of A.W. Pugin, Floriated Ornament, now long out of print. Pugin’s immensely influential pattern book was based on his antiquarian research into medieval Gothic designs. His aesthetic premise that shapes found in nature (such as grape leaves) should be used, not naturalistically, but rather in two-dimensional, geometric patterns had a profound influence on the later Arts and Crafts movement and also on such Prairie School architects as George Maher and Frank Lloyd Wright.13

The 1943 golden jubilee book described the four large murals in the ceiling of the crossing: “the Descent of the Holy Ghost upon the Apostles, the Ascension of Christ into Heaven, the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin, and the Four Evangelists.” Other noted decorations were also mentioned: “Above the capitols [sic] in the transept where the ribs and arches meet are eight life size figures of angels. Four prophets are depicted on the north and south end of the transepts. In the nave ceiling are depictions of several ‘chief doctors of the church,’ and on the ceiling of the sanctuary are portraits of Peter, Prince of the Apostles, Paul, Apostle of the Gentiles, and Agnes and Aloysisus, patrons of youth of both sexes.”14

Ceiling of Saint Edmund Church. Photo credit: Noah Vaughn

Ceiling of Saint Edmund Church. Photo credit: Noah Vaughn

In 1951, additional decorations were added by Mallin, which took approximately six months to complete. The “Edmund Echoes” church bulletin from 1951 stated, “Walls and ceilings are covered with beaten pure gold leaf of 23 carats, in mosaic pattern adorned with delicate floral designs and symbols, furnishing a delightful background for more than two score oil paintings, illustrating teachings of the church from scenes in the life of its divine founder.”15 Mr. Don Giannetti, the parish assistant at Saint Edmund’s, remembers the gold leaf being applied to the ceilings in 1951. He described the process whereby the ceiling was painted the same color as the grout, after which stencils were glued to the ceiling. The gold leaf was applied over the stencils, and any excess gold leaf flaked off and fell to the floor.16

The 1951 church bulletin describes the paintings found in the vaulted ceiling, the transepts, sanctuary ceilings, and the front vestibule. The cost of the decorations was $25,000, and parishioners were asked to help defray the costs by making votive offerings, with the suggested donations of $330 for large paintings and $100 for medallions representing about half the cost of the paintings. Descriptions of the nineteen large paintings and twelve medallions are found in the bulletin and in a hand-written document of Mallin, which describes the placement of each painting and medallion. Of note, the medallion of Saint John the Baptist on the ceiling has the face of Monsignor Code. Monsignor Code also had Mallin paint the face of Saint Thérèse the Little Flower with that of Sister Urban, who was a principal at Saint Edmund’s School at the time.17

In the late 1990s, some restoration and renovations were done to the church. Major changes in the decorations included painting over the gold stenciling on the sanctuary and church walls.18 One can still see the original stencils in a photo of the sanctuary at the Saint Edmund Preservation Society website.19 The other paintings and decorations are still intact.

Mallin’s Studios, Advertising, and Travels

Mallin advertised his company through word of mouth and through his many brochures that included photos and descriptions of his work. He originally worked out of his Chicago residences but later rented a studio at the Fine Arts Building at 410 South Michigan Avenue in Chicago in the 1920s, and he stayed in the studio at least through the 1940s. In 1929, he had a two-story flat built at 2252 West Devon in Chicago that he also used as his studio. Mallin traveled back and forth to Europe several times for his work and to visit his relatives. He would visit churches and other buildings to get ideas for his work. He also imported oil paintings from European art houses to supplement his church decorations.

In retirement, Mallin painted portraits of his family at his Devon Avenue building. Mallin also purchased a farm property at the corner of Lake Cook and Waukegan Road in Deerfield. He and his family would spend some weekends there when he was not otherwise busy working. It probably reminded him of the farm and wine region where he grew up in Moravia. On January 9, 1973, Mr. Mallin died at the age of eighty-nine years old.

Katherine Mallin is the daughter of Ralph Mallin, the youngest of John Mallin’s children. She has created a website about Mallin’s work based on Mallin’s archival documents, photos, and paintings that were passed down to her from her aunt, Mildred Mallin Fritz. See


1. Letter from James R. Quinn, Alderman Chicago City Council, to Colonel Isham Randolph, Century of Progress, November 23, 1932.

2. Saint Joseph Jubilee book, 1879–1979. Copy provided by the Calumet Regional Archives, Indiana University Northwest.

3. John Mallin, Copyright of mural decorations received from Library of Congress Copyright office, June 30, 1934. The copyright is included in Catalog of Copyright Entries 29, no. 4 (1934).

4. Letter from Reverend Francis J. Jansen to John A. Mallin, November 12, 1942.

5. Description of decorations from Reverend Francis J. Jansen to John A. Mallin (no date).

6. “Laborers in the Vineyard,” Hammond Times, February 18, 1943,

7. Letter from John A. Mallin to Reverend Francis J. Jansen, January 16, 1957.

8. A History of the Parishes of the Archdiocese of Chicago, vol. 1, ed. Msgr. Harry C. Koenig, S.T.D. (Chicago: Archdiocese of Chicago, 1980).

9. Ibid.

10. Frank Heitzman, “A History of Saint Edmund Church,” published January 1999,

11. Golden Jubilee book in celebration of Monsignor John J. Code, Church of Saint Edmund, 1943.

12. Heitzman, “A History of Saint Edmund Church.”

13. Ibid.

14. Golden Jubilee book in celebration of Monsignor John J. Code.

15. “Edmund Echoes” Church Bulletin, vol. 6, November 18, 1951.

16. Conversation with Don Giannetti, parish assistant at Saint Edmund’s, 2016.

17. Ibid.

18. “History,” Saint Edmund Parish website,

19. Frank Heitzman, photos of Saint Edmund’s interior,

| “Urbs Ierusalem Beata”: The Hymn for Evening Prayer for the Dedication of a Church

“Urbs Ierusalem Beata”: The Hymn for Evening Prayer for the Dedication of a Church

Urbs beata Jerusalem

dicta pacis visio

quae construitur in caelis

vivis ex lapidibus

et angelis coronata

ut sponsata comite.

Nova veniens e coelo

nuptiali thalamo.

Praeparata, ut sponsata,

copuletur Domino.

Plateae et muri ejus

ex auro purissimo.

Portae nitent margaritis,

adytis patentibus,

et virtute meritorum

Illuc introducitur

omnis qui ob Christi nomen

hic in mundo premitur.

Tunsionibus, pressuris,

Expoliti lapides,

suis coaptantur locis,

per manus artificis,

Disponuntur permansuri,

sacris aedificiis.

Blessèd City, heavenly Salem,

Vision dear of peace and love,

Who, of living stones upbuilded,

Art the joy of heaven above,

And, with angel cohorts circled,

As a bride to earth dost move!

From celestial realms descending,

Bridal glory round her shed,

To his presence, deck with jewels,

By her Lord shall she be led:

All her streets and all her bulwarks,

Of pure gold are fashionèd.

Bright with pearls her portals glitter,

They are open evermore;

And, by virtue of his merits,

Thither faithful souls may soar,

Who for Christ’s dear name in this world

Pain and tribulation bore.

Many a blow and biting sculpture

Fashioned well those stones elect,

In their places now compacted

By the heavenly Architect,

Who therewith hath willed for ever

That his palace should be decked.

-trans. John Mason Neale

The hymn “Urbs Ierusalem beata” (Blessed city, Jerusalem), by an unknown author, is from the eighth or ninth century at the latest. The Liturgy of the Hours as revised by Pope Paul VI, consistent with the tradition, has assigned it to Evening Prayer for the anniversary of the dedication of a church. In the manuscripts, it is found in the Vatican, Benedictine, Carmelite, Cistercian, Premonstratensian, and Dominican breviaries.

The “Urbs Ierusalem beata” is one of the hymns that were greatly revised in 1632 by a commission under the direction of Pope Urban VIII, a humanist pope, in order for the hymns to reflect the language, forms, and meters of classical Latin rather than Christian Latin. The original versions of this and the other hymns of the Office were restored to the Liturgy of the Hours under the direction of Pope Paul VI after Vatican II.

This hymn is remarkable for its theology of the Church as the Bride of Christ and what it means for the Church to be built of living stones, the Christian faithful. The mystery of being Church is repeated throughout the hymn in a manner that is very much tied to both the sacred scriptures and to the movements of the Christian soul.

The hymn begins with the image of the Church as the new and heavenly Jerusalem, the very vision of peace itself—built of living stones, surrounded by angels, and beautiful as a bride adorned to meet her husband. The whole of chapter 21 of the Book of Revelation is summarized:

I also saw a new Jerusalem, the holy city, coming down out of heaven from God, beautiful as a bride prepared to meet her husband. I heard a loud voice cry out: “This is God’s dwelling among men.” . . . “Come, I will show you the woman who is the bride of the Lamb.” He carried me away in spirit to the top of a very high mountain and showed me the holy city Jerusalem coming down out of heaven from God. It gleamed with the splendor of God. The city had the radiance of a precious jewel that sparkled like a diamond. Its wall, massive and high, had twelve gates at which twelve angels were stationed. . . . I saw no temple in the city. The Lord, God the Almighty, is its temple—he and the Lamb. (Rv 21:2–3a, 9b–12, 22)

John sees the New Jerusalem by Johann Sadeler, 1579. Photo credit:

John sees the New Jerusalem by Johann Sadeler, 1579. Photo credit:

The second verse proceeds deeper into the theme of the Church as the mystical bridal chamber of the Son of God. The Church is seen as an intact virgin joined to the Lord and as a New City coming down from heaven whose squares and walls are of the purest gold, again a reference to Revelation 21: “The streets of the city were of pure gold, transparent as glass” (Rv 21:21). One can hardly make all of these references to the Book of Revelation without feeling the great truth of the church building as a place where heaven itself is made present and where the liturgy done there joins us to the very worship of God that takes place in the heavenly Kingdom. Moreover, the entrance antiphon for the Common of the Dedication of a Church, Genesis 28:17, itself comes to mind: “Terribilis est locus iste: hic domus Dei est, et porta caeli: et vocabitur aula Dei” (This is an awesome place. It is the house of God and the gate of heaven and will be called dwelling place of God). Then there is also the psalm verse that follows this antiphon (Ps 84:2): “Quam dilecta tabernacula tua, Domine virtutum! Concupiscit et deficit anima mea in atria Domini” (How lovely is your dwelling place, O Lord God of Hosts! My soul longs for the courts of the Lord).

The third verse carries the theme of the New Jerusalem further and speaks of how the pearly gates stand open to those who bore tribulation in this life for the name of Christ—“The twelve gates were twelve pearls, each made of a single pearl” (Rv 21:21). This tribulation, though, leads us on to the strength of the Christian who is judged worthy to serve as a living stone for God’s temple in verse four of the hymn.

There, the living stones have been fitted to their places and polished by nothing less than striking and all that accompanies the afflictions of the saints. But this is done by the divine and wise Architect who created them in the first place. As any sculptor knows, the image emerges from the stone only as what does not belong to that image is chipped away. It is quite the same with the image of God emerging in us, and in this manner we are fitted as living stones for the temple in which God is going to dwell. Christ, however, is really the one who is the stone living and precious in God’s eyes—but to whom we are joined—as 1 Peter 2:5–6 teaches: “Come to him, a living stone, rejected by men but approved, nonetheless, and precious in God’s eyes. You too are living stones, built as an edifice of spirit, into a holy priesthood, offering spiritual sacrifice acceptable to God through Jesus Christ.”

Fulfilled is what we read in the Letter to the Ephesians:

This means that you are strangers and aliens no longer. No, you are fellow citizens of the saints and members of the household of God. You form a building which rises on the foundation of the apostles and prophets, with Christ Jesus himself as the capstone. Through him the whole structure is fitted together and takes shape as a holy temple in the Lord; in him you are being built into this temple, to become a dwelling place for God in the Spirit. (Eph 2:19–22)

To truly appreciate all that this hymn contains, one final scriptural reference presents itself:

You have not drawn near to an untouchable mountain and a blazing fire, nor gloomy darkness and storm and trumpet blast, nor a voice speaking words such that those who heard begged that they be not addressed to them . . . No, you have drawn near to Mount Zion and the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem, to myriads of angels in festal gathering, to the assembly of the firstborn enrolled in heaven, to God the judge of all, to the spirit of just men made perfect, to Jesus, the mediator of a new covenant, and to the sprinkled blood which speaks more eloquently than that of Abel. (Heb 12:18–19, 22–24)

Finally, the hymn concludes in the customary way with the doxology to the Most Blessed Trinity.

Reverend Kurt Belsole, O.S.B. is a Benedictine monk of Saint Vincent Archabbey in Latrobe, Pennsylvania, and Director of Liturgical Formation at the Pontifical North American College in Rome. He studied at the Pontifical Liturgical Institute at Sant’Anselmo in Rome and has a website at


1. Britt, Matthew. The Hymns of the Breviary and the Missal. New York: Benzinger Brothers, 1922.

2. Ernetti, Pellegrino. Gli Inni della Liturgia delle Ore: Testo Latino e Versione Ritmica Italiana. Venice: San Giorgio Maggiore, 1981.

3. General Instruction on the Liturgy of the Hours. Translation and Commentary by Reverend Willian A. Jurgens. Collegeville, MN: The Liturgical Press, 1975.

4. Lentini, Anselmo. Te Decet Hymnus: L’Innario della “Liturgia Horarum.” Vatican City State: Typis Polyglottis Vaticanis, 1984.

5. The New American Bible. Washington, D.C.: The Confraternity of Christian Doctrine, 1970.

| On the Occasion of the Tenth Anniversary of the Publication of the Motu Proprio Summorum Pontificum

On the Occasion of the Tenth Anniversary of the Publication of the Motu Proprio Summorum Pontificum

This address was sent to the colloquium “The Source of the Future” on the occasion of the tenth anniversary of the publication of the motu proprio Summorum Pontificum by Pope Benedict XVI. The colloquium was held March 29 - April 1, 2017, in Herzogenrath near Aachen, Germany. The translation from the French original is by Michael J. Miller.

Cardinal Sarah celebrates a Novus Ordo Mass in the London Oratory, July 2016. Photo credit: OP

Cardinal Sarah celebrates a Novus Ordo Mass in the London Oratory, July 2016. Photo credit: OP

As you know, what was called “the liturgical movement” in the early twentieth century was the intention of Pope Saint Pius X, expressed in another motu proprio entitled Tra le sollicitudini (1903), to restore the liturgy so as to make its treasures more accessible, so that it might also become again the source of authentically Christian life. Hence the definition of the liturgy as “summit and source of the life and mission of the Church” found in the Constitution on the Sacred Liturgy, Sacrosanctum Concilium, of Vatican Council II (see n. 10). And it can never be repeated often enough that the liturgy, as summit and source of the Church, has its foundation in Christ Himself. In fact, Our Lord Jesus Christ is the sole and definitive High Priest of the New and Eternal Covenant, since He offered Himself in sacrifice, and “by a single offering He has perfected for all time those whom He sanctifies” (Heb 10:14). Thus, as the Catechism of the Catholic Church declares, “It is this mystery of Christ that the Church proclaims and celebrates in her liturgy so that the faithful may live from it and bear witness to it in the world” (n. 1068). This “liturgical movement,” one of the finest fruits of which was the constitution Sacrosanctum Concilium, is the context in which we ought to consider the motu proprio Summorum Pontificum, dated July 7, 2007; we are happy to celebrate this year with great joy and thanksgiving the tenth anniversary of its promulgation. We can say therefore that the “liturgical movement” initiated by Pope Saint Pius X was never interrupted and that it still continues in our days following the new impetus given to it by Pope Benedict XVI. On this subject we might mention the particular care and personal attention that he showed in celebrating the sacred liturgy as pope, and then the frequent references in his speeches to its centrality in the life of the Church, and finally his two magisterial documents Sacramentum Caritatis and Summorum Pontificum. In other words, what is called liturgical aggiornamento1 was in a way completed by the motu proprio Summorum Pontificum by Pope Benedict XVI. What was it about? The pope emeritus made the distinction between two forms of the same Roman rite: a so-called “ordinary” form, referring to the liturgical texts of the Roman Missal as revised following the guidelines of Vatican Council II, and a form designated “extraordinary” that corresponds to the liturgy that was in use before the liturgical aggiornamento. Thus, presently, in the Roman or Latin Rite, two missals are in force: that of Blessed Pope Paul VI, the third edition of which is dated 2002, and that of Saint Pius V, the last edition of which, promulgated by Saint John XXIII, goes back to 1962.

In his letter to the bishops that accompanied the motu proprio, Pope Benedict XVI clearly explained that the purpose for his decision to have the two missals coexist was not only to satisfy the wishes of certain groups of the faithful who are attached to the liturgical forms prior to the Second Vatican Council, but also to allow for the mutual enrichment of the two forms of the same Roman rite—in other words, not only their peaceful coexistence but also the possibility of perfecting them by emphasizing the best features that characterize them. He wrote in particular that “the two Forms of the usage of the Roman rite can be mutually enriching: new Saints and some of the new Prefaces can and should be inserted in the old Missal. . . . The celebration of the Mass according to the Missal of Paul VI will be able to demonstrate, more powerfully than has been the case hitherto, the sacrality which attracts many people to the former usage.” These then are the terms in which the pope emeritus expressed his desire to relaunch the “liturgical movement.” In parishes where it has been possible to implement the motu proprio, pastors testify to the greater fervor both in the faithful and in the priests, as Father Rodheudt himself can bear witness. They have also noted a repercussion and a positive spiritual development in the way of experiencing Eucharistic liturgies according to the Ordinary Form, particularly the rediscovery of postures expressing adoration of the Blessed Sacrament: kneeling, genuflection, etc., and also greater recollection characterized by the sacred silence that should mark the important moments of the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, so as to allow the priests and the faithful to interiorize the mystery of faith that is being celebrated. It is true also that liturgical and spiritual formation must be encouraged and promoted. Similarly, it will be necessary to promote a thoroughly revised pedagogy in order to get beyond an excessively formal “rubricism” in explaining the rites of the Tridentine Missal to those who are not yet familiar with it, or who are only partly acquainted with it—and sometimes not impartially. To do that, it is urgently necessary to finalize a bilingual Latin-vernacular missal to allow for full, conscious, intimate and more fruitful participation of the lay faithful in Eucharistic celebrations. It is also very important to emphasize the continuity between the two missals by appropriate liturgical catecheses. Many priests testify that this is a stimulating task, because they are conscious of working for the liturgical renewal, of contributing their own efforts to the “liturgical movement” that we were just talking about—in other words, in reality, to this mystical and spiritual renewal that is therefore missionary in character, which was intended by the Second Vatican Council, to which Pope Francis is vigorously calling us. The liturgy must therefore always be reformed so as to be more faithful to its mystical essence. But most of the time, this “reform” that replaced the genuine “restoration” intended by the Second Vatican Council was carried out in a superficial spirit and on the basis of only one criterion: to suppress at all costs a heritage that must be perceived as totally negative and outmoded so as to excavate a gulf between the time before and the time after the Council. Now it is enough to pick up the Constitution on the Sacred Liturgy again and to read it honestly, without betraying its meaning, to see that the true purpose of the Second Vatican Council was not to start a reform that could become the occasion for a break with Tradition, but quite the contrary, to rediscover and to confirm Tradition in its deepest meaning. In fact, what is called “the reform of the reform,” which perhaps ought to be called more precisely “the mutual enrichment of the rites,” to use an expression from the magisterium of Benedict XVI, is a primarily spiritual necessity. And it quite obviously concerns the two forms of the Roman Rite. The particular care that should be brought to the liturgy, the urgency of holding it in high esteem and working for its beauty, its sacral character, and keeping the right balance between fidelity to Tradition and legitimate development, and therefore rejecting absolutely and radically any hermeneutic of discontinuity or rupture: these essential elements are the heart of all authentic Christian liturgy. Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger tirelessly repeated that the crisis that has shaken the Church for fifty years, chiefly since Vatican Council II, is connected with the crisis of the liturgy, and therefore to the lack of respect, the desacralization and the leveling of the essential elements of divine worship. “I am convinced,” he writes, “that the crisis in the Church that we are experiencing today is to a large extent due to the disintegration of the liturgy.”2

The Most Reverend Steven J. Lopes, Bishop of the Personal Ordinariate of the Chair of Saint Peter, celebrates a Solemn Pontifical Mass in Marienkirche, Herzogenrath, during the colloquium

The Most Reverend Steven J. Lopes, Bishop of the Personal Ordinariate of the Chair of Saint Peter, celebrates a Solemn Pontifical Mass in Marienkirche, Herzogenrath, during the colloquium “The Source of the Future.” Photo credit: Liturgische Tagung

Certainly, the Second Vatican Council wished to promote greater active participation by the people of God and to bring about progress day by day in the Christian life of the faithful (see Sacrosanctum Concilium, n. 1). Certainly, some fine initiatives were taken along these lines. However we cannot close our eyes to the disaster, the devastation, and the schism that the modern promoters of a living liturgy caused by remodeling the Church’s liturgy according to their ideas. They forgot that the liturgical act is not just a PRAYER, but also and above all a MYSTERY in which something is accomplished for us that we cannot fully understand but that we must accept and receive in faith, love, obedience, and adoring silence. And this is the real meaning of active participation of the faithful. It is not about exclusively external activity, the distribution of roles or of functions in the liturgy, but rather about an intensely active receptivity: this reception is, in Christ and with Christ, the humble offering of oneself in silent prayer and a thoroughly contemplative attitude. The serious crisis of faith, not only at the level of the Christian faithful but also and especially among many priests and bishops, has made us incapable of understanding the Eucharistic liturgy as a sacrifice, as identical to the act performed once and for all by Jesus Christ, making present the Sacrifice of the Cross in a nonbloody manner throughout the Church, through different ages, places, peoples and nations. There is often a sacrilegious tendency to reduce the Holy Mass to a simple convivial meal, the celebration of a profane feast, the community’s celebration of itself, or even worse, a terrible diversion from the anguish of a life that no longer has meaning or from the fear of meeting God face to face, because His glance unveils and obliges us to look truly and unflinchingly at the ugliness of our interior life. But the Holy Mass is not a diversion. It is the living sacrifice of Christ Who died on the Cross to free us from sin and death, for the purpose of revealing the love and the glory of God the Father. Many Catholics do not know that the final purpose of every liturgical celebration is the glory and adoration of God, the salvation and sanctification of human beings, since in the liturgy “God is perfectly glorified and men are sanctified” (Sacrosanctum Concilium, n. 7). Most of the faithful—including priests and bishops—do not know this teaching of the Council. Just as they do not know that the true worshippers of God are not those who reform the liturgy according to their own ideas and creativity to make it something pleasing to the world, but rather those who reform the world in depth with the Gospel so as to allow it access to a liturgy that is the reflection of the liturgy that is celebrated from all eternity in the heavenly Jerusalem. As Benedict XVI often emphasized, at the root of the liturgy is adoration, and therefore God. Hence it is necessary to recognize that the serious, profound crisis that has affected the liturgy and the Church itself since the Council is due to the fact that its CENTER is no longer God and the adoration of Him, but rather men and their alleged ability to “do” something to keep themselves busy during the Eucharistic celebrations. Even today, a significant number of Church leaders underestimate the serious crisis that the Church is going through: relativism in doctrinal, moral, and disciplinary teaching, grave abuses, the desacralization and trivialization of the sacred liturgy, a merely social and horizontal view of the Church’s mission. Many believe and declare loud and long that Vatican Council II brought about a true springtime in the Church. Nevertheless, a growing number of Church leaders see this “springtime” as a rejection, a renunciation of her centuries-old heritage, or even as a radical questioning of her past and Tradition. Political Europe is rebuked for abandoning or denying its Christian roots. But the first to have abandoned her Christian roots and past is indisputably the postconciliar Catholic Church. Some episcopal conferences even refuse to translate faithfully the original Latin text of the Roman Missal. Some claim that each local Church can translate the Roman Missal, not according to the sacred heritage of the Church, following the methods and principles indicated by Liturgiam authenticam, but according to the fantasies, ideologies and cultural expressions which, they say, can be understood and accepted by the people. But the people desire to be initiated into the sacred language of God. The Gospel and revelation themselves are “reinterpreted,” “contextualized,” and adapted to decadent Western culture. In 1968, the Bishop of Metz, in France, wrote in his diocesan newsletter a horrible, outrageous thing that seemed like the desire for and expression of a complete break with the Church’s past. According to that bishop, today we must rethink the very concept of the salvation brought by Jesus Christ, because the apostolic Church and the Christian communities in the early centuries of Christianity had understood nothing of the Gospel. Only in our era has the plan of salvation brought by Jesus been understood. Here is the audacious, surprising statement by the Bishop of Metz:

The transformation of the world (change of civilization) teaches and demands a change in the very concept of the salvation brought by Jesus Christ; this transformation reveals to us that the Church’s thinking about God’s plan was, before the present change, insufficiently evangelical. . . .No era has been as capable as ours of understanding the evangelical ideal of fraternal life.3

With a vision like that, it is not surprising that devastation, destruction, and wars have followed and persisted these days at the liturgical, doctrinal, and moral level, because they claim that no era has been capable of understanding the “evangelical ideal” as well as ours. Many refuse to face up to the Church’s work of self-destruction through the deliberate demolition of her doctrinal, liturgical, moral, and pastoral foundations. While more and more voices of high-ranking prelates stubbornly affirm obvious doctrinal, moral, and liturgical errors that have been condemned a hundred times and work to demolish the little faith remaining in the people of God, while the barque of the Church furrows the stormy sea of this decadent world and the waves crash down on the ship so that it is already filling with water, a growing number of Church leaders and faithful shout: “Tout va très bien, Madame la Marquise!” [“Everything is just fine, Milady,” the refrain of a popular comic song from the 1930s, in which the employees of a noblewoman report to her a series of catastrophes]. But the reality is quite different: in fact, as Cardinal Ratzinger said:

What the Popes and the Council Fathers were expecting was a new Catholic unity, and instead one has encountered a dissension which—to use the words of Paul VI—seems to have passed over from self-criticism to self-destruction. There had been the expectation of a new enthusiasm, and instead too often it has ended in boredom and discouragement. There had been the expectation of a step forward, and instead one found oneself facing a progressive process of decadence that to a large measure has been unfolding under the sign of a summons to a presumed “spirit of the Council” and by so doing has actually and increasingly discredited it.4

“No one can seriously deny the critical manifestations” and liturgy wars that Vatican Council II led to.5 Today they have gone on to fragment and demolish the sacred Missale Romanum by abandoning it to experiments in cultural diversity and compilers of liturgical texts. Here I am happy to congratulate the tremendous, marvelous work accomplished, through Vox Clara, by the English-language episcopal conferences, by the Spanish- and Korean-language episcopal onferences, etc., which have faithfully translated the Missale Romanum in perfect conformity with the guidelines and principles of Liturgiam authenticam; and the Congregation for Divine Worship and the Discipline of the Sacraments has granted them the recognitio [approval].

Following the publication of my book God or Nothing, people have asked me about the “liturgy wars” which for decades have too often divided Catholics. I stated that that is an aberration, because the liturgy is the field par excellence in which Catholics ought to experience unity in the truth, in faith, and in love, and consequently that it is inconceivable to celebrate the liturgy while having in one’s heart feelings of fratricidal struggle and rancor. Besides, did Jesus not speak very demanding words about the need to go and be reconciled with one’s brother before presenting his own sacrifice at the altar? (See Mt 5:23-24.)

The liturgy in its turn moves the faithful, filled with “the paschal sacraments,” to be “one in holiness”6; it prays that “they may hold fast in their lives to what they have grasped by their faith”; the renewal in the Eucharist of the covenant between the Lord and man draws the faithful into the compelling love of Christ and sets them on fire. From the liturgy, therefore, and especially from the Eucharist, as from a font, grace is poured forth upon us; and the sanctification of men in Christ and the glorification of God, to which all other activities of the Church are directed as toward their end, is achieved in the most efficacious possible way. (Sacrosanctum Concilium, n. 10)

In this “face-to-face encounter” with God, which the liturgy is, our heart must be pure of all enmity, which presupposes that everyone must be respected with his own sensibility. This means concretely that, although it must be reaffirmed that Vatican Council II never asked to make tabula rasa of the past and therefore to abandon the Missal said to be of Saint Pius V—which produced so many saints, not to mention three such admirable priests as Saint John Vianney, the Curé of Ars, Saint Pius of Pietrelcina (Padre Pio), and Saint Josemaría Escrivá de Balaguer—at the same time it is essential to promote the liturgical renewal intended by that same Council, and therefore the liturgical books were updated following the constitution Sacrosanctum Concilium, in particular the Missal said to be of Blessed Pope Paul VI. And I added that what is important above all, whether one is celebrating in the Ordinary or the Extraordinary Form, is to bring to the faithful something that they have a right to: the beauty of the liturgy, its sacrality, silence, recollection, the mystical dimension, and adoration. The liturgy should put us face-to-face with God in a personal relationship of intense intimacy. It should plunge us into the inner life of the Most Holy Trinity. Speaking of the usus antiquior (the older form of the Mass) in his letter that accompanies Summorum Pontificum, Pope Benedict XVI said that

immediately after the Second Vatican Council it was presumed that requests for the use of the 1962 Missal would be limited to the older generation which had grown up with it, but in the meantime it has clearly been demonstrated that young persons too have discovered this liturgical form, felt its attraction and found in it a form of encounter with the Mystery of the Most Holy Eucharist, particularly suited to them.

This is an unavoidable reality, a true sign of our times. When young people are absent from the holy liturgy, we must ask ourselves: Why? We must make sure that the celebrations according to the usus recentior (the newer form of the Mass) facilitate this encounter too, that they lead people on the path of the via pulchritudinis (the way of beauty) that leads through her sacred rites to the living Christ and to the work within His Church today. Indeed, the Eucharist is not a sort of “dinner among friends,” a convivial meal of the community, but rather a sacred Mystery, the great Mystery of our faith, the celebration of the Redemption accomplished by Our Lord Jesus Christ, the commemoration of the death of Jesus on the Cross to free us from our sins. It is therefore appropriate to celebrate Holy Mass with the beauty and fervor of the saintly Curé of Ars, of Padre Pio or Saint Josemaría, and this is the sine qua non condition for arriving at a liturgical reconciliation “by the high road,” if I may put it that way.7 I vehemently refuse therefore to waste our time pitting one liturgy against another, or the Missal of Saint Pius V against that of Blessed Paul VI. Rather, it is a question of entering into the great silence of the liturgy, by allowing ourselves to be enriched by all the liturgical forms, whether they are Latin or Eastern. Indeed, without this mystical dimension of silence and without a contemplative spirit, the liturgy will remain an occasion for hateful divisions, ideological confrontations, and the public humiliation of the weak by those who claim to hold some authority, instead of being the place of our unity and communion in the Lord. Thus, instead of being an occasion for confronting and hating each other, the liturgy should bring us all together to unity in the faith and to the true knowledge of the Son of God, to mature manhood, to the measure of the stature of the fullness of Christ—and, by living in the truth of love, we will grow into Christ so as to be raised up in all things to Him who is the Head (see Eph 4:13–15).8

The Most Reverend Alexander K. Sample of Portland, Oregon, celebrates a Solemn Pontifical Mass at the former Abbey Church of Ralduc in the Netherlands at the close of the colloquium

The Most Reverend Alexander K. Sample of Portland, Oregon, celebrates a Solemn Pontifical Mass at the former Abbey Church of Ralduc in the Netherlands at the close of the colloquium “The Source of the Future.” Photo credit: Liturgische Tagung

As you know, the great German liturgist Monsignor Klaus Gamber (1919–1989) used the word Heimat to designate this common home or “little homeland” of Catholics gathered around the altar of the Holy Sacrifice. The sense of the sacred that imbues and irrigates the rites of the Church is the inseparable correlative of the liturgy. Now in recent decades, many, many of the faithful have been ill-treated or profoundly troubled by celebrations marked with a superficial, devastating subjectivism, to the point where they did not recognize their Heimat, their common home, whereas the youngest among them had never known it! How many have tiptoed away, particularly the least significant and the poorest among them! They have become in a way “liturgically stateless persons.” The “liturgical movement,” with which the two forms (of the Latin Rite) are associated, aims therefore to restore to them their Heimat and thus to bring them back into their common home, for we know very well that in his works on sacramental theology, Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger, well before the publication of Summorum Pontificum, had pointed out that the crisis in the Church and therefore the crisis of the weakening of the faith comes in large measure from the way in which we treat the liturgy, according to the old adage: lex orandi, lex credendi (the law of faith is the law of prayer). In the preface that he wrote for the French edition of the magisterial volume by Monsignor Gamber, La réforme de la liturgie romaine [English edition: The Reform of the Roman Liturgy], the future Pope Benedict XVI said this, and I quote:

A young priest told me recently, “What we need today is a new liturgical movement.” This was an expression of a concern which nowadays only willfully superficial minds could ignore. What mattered to this priest was not winning new, daring liberties: what liberty has not been arrogantly taken already? He thought that we needed a new start coming from within the liturgy, just as the liturgical movement had intended when it was at the height of its true nature, when it was not a matter of fabricating texts or inventing actions and forms, but of rediscovering the living center, of penetrating into the tissue, strictly speaking, of the liturgy, so that the celebration thereof might proceed from its very substance. The liturgical reform, in its concrete implementation, has strayed ever farther from this origin. The result was not a revival but devastation. On the one hand, we have a liturgy that has degenerated into a show, in which one attempts to make religion interesting with the help of fashionable innovations and catchy moral platitudes, with short-lived successes within the guild of liturgical craftsmen, and an even more pronounced attitude of retreat from them on the part of those who seek in the liturgy not a spiritual “emcee,” but rather an encounter with the living God before Whom all “making” becomes meaningless, since that encounter alone is capable of giving us access to the true riches of being. On the other hand, there is the conservation of the ritual forms whose grandeur is always moving, but which, taken to the extreme, manifests a stubborn isolation and finally leaves nothing but sadness. Surely, between these two poles there are still all the priests and their parishioners who celebrate the new liturgy with respect and solemnity; but they are called into question by the contradiction between the two extremes, and the lack of internal unity in the Church finally makes their fidelity appear, wrongly in many cases, to be merely a personal brand of neo-conservatism. Because that is the situation, a new spiritual impulse is necessary if the liturgy is to be once more for us a communitarian activity of the Church and to be delivered from arbitrariness. One cannot “fabricate” a liturgical movement of that sort—any more than one can “fabricate” a living thing—but one can contribute to its development by striving to assimilate anew the spirit of the liturgy, and by defending publicly what one has received in this way.

I think that this long citation, which is so accurate and clear, should be of interest to you, at the beginning of this colloquium, and also should help to start off your reflections on “the source of the future” (“die Quelle der Zukunft”) of the motu proprio Summorum Pontificum. Indeed, allow me to communicate to you a conviction that I have held deeply for a long time: the Roman liturgy, reconciled in its two forms, which is itself the “fruit of a development,” as the great German liturgist Joseph Jungmann (1889–1975) put it, can initiate the decisive process of the “liturgical movement” that so many priests and faithful have awaited for so long. Where to begin? I take the liberty of proposing to you the three following paths, which I sum up in the three letters SAF: silence-adoration-formation in English and French, and in German, SAA: Stille-Anbetung-Ausbildung. First of all, sacred silence, without which we cannot encounter God. In my book The Power of Silence [La Force du silence], I write: “In silence, a human being gains his nobility and his grandeur only if he is on his knees in order to hear and adore God” (n. 66). Next, adoration; in this regard I cite my spiritual experience in the same book, The Power of Silence:

For my part, I know that all the great moments of my day are found in the incomparable hours that I spend on my knees in darkness before the Most Blessed Sacrament of the Body and Blood of Our Lord Jesus Christ. I am so to speak swallowed up in God and surrounded on all sides by His presence. I would like to belong now to God alone and to plunge into the purity of His Love. And yet, I can tell how poor I am, how far from loving the Lord as He loved me to the point of giving Himself up for me. (n. 54)

Finally, liturgical formation based on a proclamation of the faith or catechesis that refers to the Catechism of the Catholic Church, which protects us from possible more-or-less learned ravings of some theologians who long for “novelties.” This is what I said in this connection in what is now commonly called, with some humor, the “London Discourse” of July 5, 2016, given during the Third International Conference of Sacra Liturgia:

The liturgical formation that is primary and essential is . . . one of immersion in the liturgy, in the deep mystery of God our loving Father. It is a question of living the liturgy in all its richness, so that having drunk deeply from its fount we always have a thirst for its delights, its order and beauty, its silence and contemplation, its exultation and adoration, its ability to connect us intimately with He who is at work in and through the Church’s sacred rites.9

In this global context, therefore, and in a spirit of faith and profound communion with Christ’s obedience on the cross, I humbly ask you to apply Summorum Pontificum very carefully: not as a negative, backward measure that looks toward the past, or as something that builds walls and creates a ghetto, but as an important and real contribution to the present and future liturgical life of the Church, and also to the liturgical movement of our era, from which more and more people, and particularly young people, are drawing so many things that are true, good, and beautiful.

I would like to conclude this introduction with the luminous words of Benedict XVI at the end of the homily that he gave in 2008, on the Solemnity of Saints Peter and Paul: “When the world in all its parts has become a liturgy of God, when, in its reality, it has become adoration, then it will have reached its goal and will be safe and sound.”

I thank you for your kind attention. And may God bless you and fill your lives with His silent Presence!

His Eminence Robert Cardinal Sarah is Prefect of the Congregation for Divine Worship and the Discipline of the Sacraments.


1. “Aggiornamento” is an Italian term that means, literally: “updating.” We celebrated the fiftieth anniversary of the Constitution on the Sacred Liturgy of Vatican Council II, Sacrosanctum Concilium, in 2013, since it was promulgated on December 4, 1963.

2. Joseph Ratzinger, Milestones: Memoirs: 1927–1977, trans. Erasmo Leiva-Merikakis (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1998), 148.

3. Cited by Jean Madiran, L’hérésie du XX siècle (Paris: Nouvelles Editions Latines [NEL], 1968), 166.

4. Joseph Ratzinger and Vittorio Messori, The Ratzinger Report: An Exclusive Interview on the State of the Church, trans. Salvator Attanasio and Graham Harrison (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1985), 29–30.

5. Joseph Ratzinger, Principles of Catholic Theology: Building Stones for a Fundamental Theology, trans. Sister Mary Frances McCarthy, S.N.D. (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1992), 370.

6. Cf. Postcommunion for the Easter Vigil and Easter Sunday.

7. Cf. Interview with the Catholic website Aleteia, March 4, 2015.

8. Cf. Interview with La Nef, October 2016, question 9.

9. Robert Cardinal Sarah: Third International Conference of the Sacra Liturgia Association, London. Speech given on July 5, 2016. See the Sacra Liturgia website: “Towards an Authentic Implementation of Sacrosanctum Concilium,” July 11, 2016,

| Revisiting the Stones

Revisiting the Stones

This is the second edition of a book originally published in 2000 to enthusiastic reviews and which, one may assume from this new version, quite reasonably sold out. The text is only slightly rearranged and remains for the most part what it was: a series of judiciously culled selections from Ruskin’s The Stones of Venice, the sprawling half-million-word work that was published in three volumes between 1851 and 1853. The abridgement was illustrated with Ruskin’s original drawings and printed versions from his book, in addition to many photographs made by Sarah Quill.

Second editions often incorporate material discovered since the appearance of the first, or allow the insertion of thoughts that have occurred to the author in the meantime. In this case there are additions in both categories. In the first, the chance discovery in 2006 of more than 180 daguerreotypes made in Venice for Ruskin as study material dramatically altered what we know of the images at his disposal as he worked. As for the second, the author-editor’s updated thoughts centered on her pictures.

Sarah Quill is a first-rate photographer; she reconsidered the illustrations extensively, and there are many new photographs—both additions and replacements—that improve the visual content of the second edition. There are as well some significant changes to its design, which is now clearer and more appealing; notes that were in the margins have been moved to the end, for example, making pages open and pleasanter to read. And while it is not likely that many people will carry the book around Venice as a tourist guide, that will be easier to do with the new version, for in an added section all the sites referred to in the text are listed by sestiere, the six sections of the city.

Given that the content of Ruskin’s Venice has not been radically altered, the following brief discussion is only secondarily a review of the book as an abridged edition of Ruskin’s great work, a topic covered in write-ups of the first edition. My primary interest here is the second edition as a carefully crafted illustrated book. Nonetheless a word or two is in order about The Stones of Venice and why we need to have it in a shortened and rearranged form.

Ruskin had a great poetic soul, but his perceptive and vastly wide-ranging mind was not very well organized. He worked on many things at once—The Stones of Venice was, along with two editions of The Seven Lamps of Architecture, written between volumes 1 and 2 of Modern Painters. Kenneth Clark suggested that one of the reasons Ruskin is hard to read is his severe inability to concentrate. He tended to write things as they popped into his head, and his ideas on one topic often appear in a book that purports to be on another; Modern Painters contains an extended discussion of the geology of the Alps, and in The Stones of Venice Ruskin wanders off the subject to rail against the evils of the capitalism of his own day. An example of this tendency that bears on Ms. Quill’s book is the text she put on her frontispiece: the justly famous and rapturous description of Venice as “a golden city, paved with emerald . . . bossed with jasper.” It is in fact not from The Stones of Venice but from volume 2 of Modern Painters. Ruskin penned it after the former was finished, so, too good not to use, it was slipped into the next thing he wrote. To be sure, he smoothed transitions to some degree, but the many changes of direction and unexpected inclusions give to his works at times an almost stream-of-consciousness character. The passage in question fits far better where Sarah Quill put it than where Ruskin did. To be fair to Ruskin, she could do it easily while he could not, but the reader is still grateful to her for bringing it into the book on Venice.

The glory of the new edition lies in its much-improved photographic illustrations. Ms. Quill is gifted, of course, but she is also fortunate in her publisher; not all houses would allow a photographer to change serviceable pictures merely because they can be improved. One learns a great deal about Ms. Quill as an exacting image maker by carefully comparing pictures in the two editions. As that is not the sort of thing most readers will do (although it is much recommended), I mention it here.

Improvements take the form of images that were remade in more balanced light and from more informative angles. One in particular, which shows the labors of the months from an arch at San Marco, is vastly superior to the illustration in the first edition. A different sort of improvement, one that is striking for its intelligence, is seen in a picture of some houses in Campo Santa Maria Mater Domini. The original showed much more of them than was necessary to make Ruskin’s point, so it was remade and better cropped to focus more on what matters in his context. That saves some space on the page, allowing for an additional picture, and tightens the visual presentation. Nearly every new photograph repays careful looking.

Ruskin had a love-hate relationship with photography. When he first saw a daguerreotype he thought it was a miracle of accuracy and that the new medium would save him a great deal of labor. But later he came to distrust and dismiss camera-made images, preferring to make his own illustrations by hand rather than settling for what the process gave him. Photography could scarcely be more different today from what it was in Ruskin’s time, and although it is risky to guess what an author as crotchety and opinionated as he was would have made of digital images, I am rather sure that he would have been delighted by the illustrations Sarah Quill made and selected for her new presentation of The Stones of Venice. Feeling as he did about modern industrial means, he might not have been impressed by their technical aspects, more than likely disparaging them as machine made; but he would have recognized instantly that they are deeply respectful of his aims and aspirations. When he had lingered over them a bit and reread his words, he would surely have acknowledged that, with their deep and palpable respect for the lovingly hand-carved forms they show, many of the Quill photographs serve Ruskin’s ideas every bit as well as—and perhaps even better than—his own drawings.

Ralph Lieberman is an architectural historian and photographer who has published on Renaissance architecture in Venice, Michelangelo, perspective, and the Crystal Palace. He has taught at Williams College, Smith College, Amherst College, Harvard University, and the Rhode Island School of Design, and is now at work on a book on photography and art history.

| Embracing Boredom

Embracing Boredom

“Boredom at Mass is not something that should be eliminated. The moment in which we find ourselves bored while listening to the readings and the homily, bored while hearing the same Eucharistic Prayer offered once again, and bored while singing this same hymn we chant every Advent, is also the moment in which we are invited to participate more fully in the love of God poured out in Christ. . . . To lose our attention during the praying of the Eucharistic Prayer and find ourselves fascinated by the crucifix is not something that should be stopped but is instead our own particular way of participating in the Mass this day.” (Bored Again Catholic, p. 9)

In our contemporary culture, boredom is a state of being that ought to be avoided at all costs. Liturgical celebrations are tailored to eliminate boredom by stimulating people with upbeat hymns and funny, engaging homilies. However, this attention to removing boredom from the Mass and making it more “fun” ultimately has the disastrous effect of distracting people from the real meaning of the Mass.

In Bored Again Catholic: How the Mass Could Save Your Life, Professor Timothy O’Malley of the University of Notre Dame asserts that boredom is something we should embrace, that it is essential to spiritual growth and gaining spiritual insight. Distracting ourselves when boredom encroaches inhibits our ability to receive this insight, or even to pray at all.

In order to help people learn to embrace this boredom, Professor O’Malley offers a series of reflections on every part of the Mass and its significance. Beginning with the entrance hymn and ending with the concluding rites, he helps the reader to understand what is happening in the Mass and encourages a deeper contemplation of it.

One of the topics that he touches on in chapter 4 is the significance of the altar and why it is fitting that the priest reverences it at the beginning of the Mass. O’Malley acknowledges the pagan symbolism of the altar, a bloody place of sacrifice to angry gods; but he explains how the meaning of the altar is transformed because it is the place of Christ’s sacrifice of love that is the very origin of the Church to begin with. When armed with an understanding of the central importance of the altar to the celebration of the Mass, it becomes easy to understand why the altar is the center and focal point in church architecture. “(The priest) kisses the altar because it stands among us as a sign of Christ’s total act of love.”

This book is especially directed towards O’Malley’s undergraduate students, whom he observes struggling to remain engaged with the Mass. However, with brief chapters and an engaging writing style, it is a book that any audience can read to gain a more thoughtful appreciation of the Mass. Professor O’Malley exhorts his readers to allow themselves to be bored by the Mass, but in a good way. He encourages a boredom that opens our thoughts to contemplation of God and the Sacrifice of the Mass—to be fruitfully “bored again.”

Therese Madigan is on the staff of Sacred Architecture and is studying architecture at the University of Notre Dame.

| Every Part Had To Be Sanctified

Every Part Had To Be Sanctified

Gittos opens her study of Anglo-Saxon church architecture with a personal recollection. Returning to the town in which she grew up, she considers an “unremarkable nineteenth-century building” that may be the successor to an early Anglo-Saxon chapel. As it lies within the precinct of the minster in Yeovil, Somerset, she wonders why ecclesiastical sites of this era commonly included more than one church. Thinking that an answer might lie in an examination of extant, contemporary liturgical manuscripts, she proposes that such a study might answer other puzzling questions as well, like why multiple churches were often laid out end to end or what function raised exterior balconies or internal upper chapels served.

Gittos recognizes that the dearth of surviving major Anglo-Saxon churches poses a challenge. Moreover, surviving minor structures’ function is less likely to be explained by relevant textual remains, which typically are produced for cathedrals and monasteries. An additional hurdle is that most of the relevant liturgical manuscripts date to the tenth century, while the physical evidence comes mostly from the seventh to ninth centuries. Gittos is cautious about precise coordination of texts and monuments and about making unjustified generalizations. Yet, she reasonably and necessarily makes use of the sources she has available while being conscious of potential problems.

Despite these complications, and while the extant documents clearly cannot provide answers to all her questions, Gittos believes that analysis of available texts holds keys to better comprehension of these spaces and, in so doing, charts a method for integrating analysis of ancient liturgical manuals with the spaces that hosted the kinds of rituals they describe. Even here she acknowledges an additional concern that liturgical scholars will recognize: written liturgical manuals describe ideal or model ritual practices and as such are not absolutely reliable sources for reconstructing actual activities. Nonetheless, Gittos carefully coordinates evidence for liturgical practices with the existing structures that could have housed them, which provides a rich and illuminating study in spite of the caveats.

Throughout, Gittos poses questions that liturgical historians sometimes overlook when considering textual evidence alone. For example, how many people would have attended church services, and how often would they have done so? Was weekly attendance expected, or were most Christians likely to show up only on the major feasts? Did people travel significant distances to major churches, or were they more likely to congregate at local shrines? How widespread were pilgrimages, and to what degree were they a basis for urban and ecclesiastical competition?

The book’s chapters proceed logically from the general to the specific. Chapter 2 considers the identification and ritual consecration of sacred sites, while chapter 3 turns more concretely to actual buildings, in particular those that were grouped together in ecclesiastical precincts. That leads to chapter 4 and a discussion of the links among such groups through pilgrimages, stational liturgies, and other kinds of liturgical processions (e.g., rogations). Chapter 5 explores the ways the forms of Anglo-Saxon churches reveal their function and how those forms (and functions) developed over time. This includes particularly interesting sections on the placement of altars, the purposes of west chapels, the display of relics, gendered divisions of space, and the design of baptisteries and fonts.

Chapter 6 shifts attention to ritual practices. Here Gittos offers a detailed study of Anglo-Saxon dedicatory rituals, attending to the steps of the rite as it unfolded in both time and space, and explaining how participants experienced these ceremonies as typologically linked both to sacred (biblical) stories and the narrative of individual salvation. In her words, “Every part of a church had to be sanctified: foundations, floors, walls, roof, and altar. It was also symbolically a person who was catechized, baptized, and took first communion” (p. 244). The last chapter draws this idea out even further, borrowing Mary Carruthers’s idea of a building as a “machine for thinking” and justifying Gittos’s brief conclusion that, despite all the possible problems in bringing together disparate kinds of evidence, her results were “likely to be worthwhile” (p. 278). This modest statement underestimates the rich contribution of this study, which this reviewer enthusiastically recommends to historians of both liturgy and church architecture.

Robin M. Jensen is the Patrick O’Brien Professor of Theology at the University of Notre Dame. She holds a concurrent appointment in the Department of Art, Design, and Art History and is a Fellow of the Medieval Institute and the Notre Dame Institute for Advanced Study. Her research and writing focuses on the history of Christian art and architecture in light of its theological and liturgical significance.

| Whose Art?

Whose Art?

Was there an art committee for San Vitale in Ravenna in the sixth century? An emperor was coming—Justinian, who had recaptured this capital city from the Arian Ostrogoths in 540. An orthodox church, faithful to the Nicene Creed, was needed—one to match the brand new Hagia Sophia Justianian had built in the Byzantine capital, Constantinople. This Western building had to send two messages: first, Christ has two natures, fully God and fully man. Second, even an emperor takes second place to Jesus Christ, Lord of all.

Standing in that church today, one wonders just who figured it all out. The architecture is clearly modeled on Hagia Sophia. (Scholars agree the builders came from Constantinople.) The mosaic in the apse shows a young Christ in Glory (fully man) seated over the rainbow, presiding over the New Jerusalem, over all creation (fully God). Justinian and his wife Theodora—on a lower level—process toward Christ with the appropriate gifts. Side mosaics tell the story of salvation and the Trinity. All messages clear. In AD 547.

In her book Visual Arts in the Worshiping Church, Westmont College art history professor Lisa J. DeBoer takes us inside the workings of today’s congregations as they make similar decisions about spaces where they worship. Of course, Christianity today is no longer one body in one Church as it was in Justinian’s time. So, DeBoer begins by outlining how the three major divisions of Christian believers approach the role of art in their worship—Orthodox, Roman Catholic, and Protestant.

Describing the Orthodox, DeBoer focuses on their covenant with icons—icons being not art but what Russian scholar Alexei Lidov of Moscow State University calls “mediating images,” meaning that through them the saint is present to the faithful. DeBoer is also clear that when the Orthodox worship they understand themselves to be in the New Jerusalem that is both coming and already present. What is missing is that the Orthodox understand their church buildings to be three-dimensional icons of the Holy City to come, as Lidov has shown. Further, there is evidence that churches in Western Europe shared that understanding. According to urban historian Lewis Mumford, Augustine’s City of God shaped the design of European cities into the thirteenth century.1 Christians were understood to be pilgrims on earth with their ultimate citizenship in the City of God, and they modeled their cities on that perfect city. One other issue DeBoer does not address is the meaning of architecture to the Orthodox. For example, Orthodox churches insist on having a dome. Why? Ask their theology.

For the Roman Catholic Church, DeBoer looks mainly at the findings of the Second Vatican Council and subsequent documents. She concludes that for Catholics the focus is on the liturgy and the Eucharist and the consequent importance of the congregation as the Body of Christ. Communal worship is, therefore, more important than individual devotion, one of the pre-Vatican II practices that drew particular criticism. What that means for the arts, according to DeBoer, is that the focus is on worship spaces and liturgical furnishings, things essential for communal worship. Paintings and sculpture can distract from corporate worship. The need to apply these guidelines has given birth to the profession of liturgical consulting, something DeBoer laments because it often leaves local artists out of the equation.

For Protestants, she argues, the arts take cues from the art world in which we live—drawing from the post-Enlightenment idea that Art is “nonutilitarian, disinterested, and autonomous.” Training available in our public arts education programs and the workings of the art market economy embed that notion in our thinking. With Protestant diversity ranging from old mainline churches to warehouse post-Seeker congregations, there are no other norms or guidelines to be found, especially in traditions stretching to Reformation iconoclasm. Unlike Catholic and Orthodox traditions, where artists working in the church are working in service of the Church, in Protestant churches the artist is autonomous and answers to his or her own standards—the artist leads the church, rather than serving it. DeBoer closes this section with a startling but, regrettably, probably true observation: “To the extent that Art in our current art system is believed by many [in Protestant churches] to both represent and call forth true humanity, it parallels the Catholic and Orthodox understandings of the Divine Liturgy.” Art as liturgy.

Throughout, DeBoer makes it clear that her goal is to map the present geography of how the arts function in churches in order to help congregations think through the needs of their own meeting places. In that goal, she certainly succeeds. The second section of her book deals with how questions of ecclesiology and of the contemporary art market impinge on local congregations. For example, how do the arts function in a church called to be both local and universal? Or, looking at the art world, are artists to be servants of the congregation or autonomous consultants working according to their own vision? Beyond that, do the arts shape the church or do the teachings of the church shape the arts? Carefully, DeBoer compares and contrasts responses in each tradition. All of this is aimed at the contemporary church.

This approach is helpful and no doubt needed, but a deeper consideration of theology and history is a crucial dimension. Architecture is touched upon, but not in depth and not with a historical or theological perspective. Art historian Elizabeth Lev has pointed out that the first churches built after Christianity became legal in 313 were designed with a clear theological message about the Nicene teaching on the two consubstantial natures of Christ. The outside was common Roman red brick—fully man; the inside was glorious with mosaics of gold, red, green, and blue—fully God.

Whoever was on Bishop Maximianus’s design committee in 540s Ravenna, San Vitale conformed to that idea.

Roberta Green Ahmanson is a writer, speaker, and philanthropist who focuses on art, culture, history, and Christianity. She lives in Southern California.


1. Lewis Mumford, The City in History.

| Iesus Autem Abscondit Se

Editorial: Iesus Autem Abscondit Se

“Always winter and never Christmas; think of that!”

—The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe by C. S. Lewis

Santissima Trinità dei Pellegrini, Rome. Photo: New Liturgical Movement

Santissima Trinità dei Pellegrini, Rome. Photo: New Liturgical Movement

Every year I am struck visually and spiritually by Passiontide.

In recent decades the observance of Passiontide has had a modest revival. In order to better prepare for Easter, we fast from images and sometimes instruments. For visual and aural people, this is a powerful shock to the system. Statues, paintings, and, in some places, even crucifixes are covered with purple fabric. The saints are there, in form, but we cannot see their image—they are veiled in mystery. It is the last penance of Lent: the giving up of images, which are, theologically, windows into the divine.

And then with the Triduum, we do not just fast but we also strip the altar in preparation for the Crucifixion; and on Good Friday we come to church, but there is no Mass. All of this makes the Easter Vigil more spectacular: the Easter fire in darkness and then a single candle leading to a church full of candlelight and the reappearance of the saints, beautiful flowers, and iconography of the Resurrection.

Yet what about the parishes that have nothing to cover up? No mysteries to veil, their churches and iconography have already been pared down to the minimum. We know the iconoclastic movement in the East in the seventh century and in the West in the sixteenth century, which sought not to cover up images for Passiontide, but to remove them completely. But the iconoclasm of the twentieth century has been even more surprising, since it was done by some within the Church. Instead of protecting icons, the monks destroyed them. What resulted was churches that are always Passiontide and never Easter; think of that!

Duncan G. Stroik is the editor of Sacred Architecture Journal.

| The Poverty of the Church and the Beauty of the Liturgy

The Poverty of the Church and the Beauty of the Liturgy

A penitent woman anoints the feet of Jesus in Peter Paul Rubens’s painting Feast in the House of Simon the Pharisee.

A penitent woman anoints the feet of Jesus in Peter Paul Rubens’s painting Feast in the House of Simon the Pharisee. Photo:

Is there a place for the beauty of the liturgy in what Pope Francis calls “a Church which is poor and for the poor”?1 It would seem there is not. God through Isaiah declares His “hatred” for “feasts” and “solemn assemblies,” for “the melody of harps” and “incense,” in a world in which the rich oppress the poor. Instead of all this cultic extravagance, says Amos, “let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream. . . . Cease to do evil, learn to do good; seek justice, correct oppression; defend the fatherless, plead for the widow” (Is 1:13f, 15–17; Am 5:21, 23f). Twelve hundred years later, Saint John Chrysostom presents a similar challenge to the people of Antioch: “What is the use of loading Christ’s table with vessels of gold, if He Himself [in His members] is dying of hunger?”2 If we accept, then, these admonitions of the saints, preoccupation with the externals of religion would seem to be a distraction from the essence of religion: “Religion pure and undefiled before God the Father is this [says Saint James]: to give aid to orphans and widows in their tribulation, and to keep oneself unspotted from this world” (Jas 1:27).

The case against the sacred beauty of the liturgical arts appears to be overwhelming until we recall a dinner long ago in Bethany. In our mind we see the tears of a penitent woman as she pours sweet-smelling ointment over feet soon to be pierced by nails, and we hear the protest of a man who is a thief and a traitor: “Why this waste? The ointment might have been sold for a large sum, and given to the poor.” And as we think about this meeting of humble love with hypocritical indignation, the words of the eternal Word incarnate resound in our conscience with new force: “She has done a beautiful thing for me. . . . The poor you have always with you, but me you have not always” (Mt 26:10f). The Heart of Jesus enfolds the poor with the charity of truth and justice. He wants them always to be loved for His sake. He will not allow them to be used as an ideological plaything, as Judas uses them, to denigrate the devotion of a contrite heart. The Divine Saviour insists, “She has done a beautiful thing for me,” and by His Holy Spirit, throughout the centuries, He inspires the Church, His Bride, to see herself in the person of Mary of Bethany and to do beautiful things for Him, to lavish the loveliness of her love upon Him in the liturgical arts of chant and ceremonial, iconography and architecture. Saint John Paul speaks for the whole Tradition when he says:

The Church is not afraid of being “wasteful,” and devotes the best of her resources to expressing her wonder and adoration before the unsurpassable gift of the Eucharist. No less than the first disciples charged with preparing the “large upper room,” she has felt the need, down the centuries and in her encounters with different cultures, to celebrate the Eucharist in a setting worthy of so great a mystery. . . . Could there ever be an adequate means of expressing the acceptance of that gift of self which the divine Bridegroom continually makes to His Bride, the Church, by bringing the Sacrifice offered once and for all on the Cross to successive generations of believers and thus becoming nourishment for all the faithful?3

In what follows, I want first to consider what it means to say that the Church is “poor and for the poor,” and secondly to argue that it is precisely because the Church is in a certain way “poor and for the poor” that she must worship God by means of sacred beauty. The poverty of her life and the beauty of her liturgy have the same source and the same goal in Christ, the divine Head and Bridegroom of the Church, Priest and Victim of the Eucharistic Sacrifice. For His sake, and by His sanctifying influence upon her, the Bride of Christ is herself Lady Poverty and the Mother of Fairest Love. The Church is poor, and for that very reason she has the power to bring forth the beauty of holiness in our souls and the holiness of beauty in our sanctuaries.

1. The Church That Is Poor

The Poverty and Beauty of Dependence

The Church is poor, first of all, in her dependence upon Christ, for without Him she has nothing, can do nothing, and is nothing (cf. Jn 15:5). “What do you have that you did not receive?” asks Saint Paul of the Corinthians (1 Cor 4:7). The Church’s riches come entirely from the Trinitarian Godhead through the humanity of the Son, and are all of the spiritual order: Christ’s revealed truth in her teaching and His sanctifying grace in the sacraments, with all that accompanies sanctifying grace in the lives of the sanctified—the infused virtues and the gifts of the Holy Spirit, bearing fruits and bringing Beatitudes. Now, the truth of Christ that the poor Church proclaims to the nations is beautiful, as is His grace in the sacraments. Indeed, all that is true is beautiful, as it is also good. Now, the poverty of the Church is her receptivity to this beauty of the truth and grace of her Head; what Hopkins said of Holy Mother Mary applies also to Holy Mother Church: she “lets all God’s glory through.”4 And since her children on earth are creatures made up of flesh and spirit, with senses as well as intellect, the Church honours the invisible beauty of Christ’s truth and grace—the beauty of Christ Himself hidden under the sacramental species—with the outward and sensible splendour of the liturgical arts.

The Poverty and Beauty of Imitation

Secondly, the Church is poor because she imitates the life lived by Jesus, her Head and Bridegroom, in this world. She does not seek the world’s glittering prizes any more than He did. Her goal is the glory of the Triune God and the salvation of mankind. The ninth-century monastic theologian Rabanus Maurus says that in her poverty, “renouncing the world and its delights, [the Church] daily serves God and struggles for the Kingdom of Heaven.”5 She asks her pastors to employ temporal possessions in a prudent and temperate way for that spiritual end, and condemns simony, clerical avarice, and all abuse of ecclesiastical office for the sake of personal enrichment.

Now, the beauty of the Church’s liturgy, like the poverty of her life in imitation of Christ, is a support of her preaching; indeed, it is itself a kind of preaching. To quote Pope Francis: “The Church evangelizes and is herself evangelized through the beauty of the liturgy, which is both a celebration of the task of evangelization and the source of her renewed self-giving.”6 The holy images defended by the Second Council of Nicaea and the Council of Trent against the heresy of iconoclasm are a “Bible for the poor”: they convey to the mind through the eyes the whole content of scripture.

In the last question of the last complete treatise of the Summa theologiae, placing himself in the great tradition of liturgical exegesis, Saint Thomas argues that the ceremonial actions of the celebrant of Mass are not “ridiculous gesticulations”: they are done for the sake of reverence, and they “represent something,” that is, they teach a lesson.7 For example, the censing at high Mass is done in a particular order: first the altar, then the priest and sacred ministers, and then the people, to signify that grace comes from Christ the Head (symbolized by the altar) through the priest to the people. The architecture of the Dominican friars who designed Santa Maria Novella in Florence and Santa Maria sopra Minerva in Rome was a kind of preaching, as was the painting of the Dominican blessed, John of Fiesole (Fra Angelico). In her new and groundbreaking book Religious Poverty and Visual Riches, Joanna Cannon of the Courtauld Institute in London shows how the Dominicans of central Italy in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries produced iconography of immense beauty, not in contradiction of their life of poverty and preaching, but as one of its chief fruits. Professor Cannon argues that in early Dominican church design and decoration, the chief principles were “moderation and humility, not abnegation and humiliation”8: neither in their lives nor in their convents did religious poverty mean squalor or the neglect of liturgical beauty. There was no extravagance of expenditure on sacred art: friar-artists would often use Mass stipends and stole fees to buy their materials, and secular masters, such as Andrea Bonaiuti in Florence, were sometimes paid in kind by being given free bed and board, even for life.9

The Church of Santa Maria Novella, completed in 1360 by the Dominicans in Florence

The Church of Santa Maria Novella, completed in 1360 by the Dominicans in Florence. Photo:

The Tornabuoni Chapel in Santa Maria Novella was frescoed by Domenico Ghirlandaio and his workshop from 1485 to 1490.

The Tornabuoni Chapel in Santa Maria Novella was frescoed by Domenico Ghirlandaio and his workshop from 1485 to 1490. Photo:

The same coincidence of “religious poverty and visual riches” can be observed in the Franciscan Order. For the love of Jesus, Saint Francis of Assisi imitated His poverty, and for love of Him too he ensured that the celebration of the Sacrament in which He renews the Sacrifice He once offered on the Cross was adorned with all the beauty he could muster. The Poverello clothed himself in rags, but believed that only what was clean and beautiful should furnish the house and altar of God. His restoring of the Church, Christ’s Mystical Body, began with the repairing of a church building. In one of his letters he castigates the clergy for “the sad state of the chalices, the corporals, and the altar-linens upon which the Body and Blood of our Lord are sacrificed.”

Are we not moved by a sense of piety concerning all these things, since the good Lord offers Himself into our hands, and we handle Him and receive Him daily with our mouth? Or do we forget that we must come into His hands? Well then, let us quickly and firmly amend our ways in these and other matters, and wherever the most holy Body of our Lord Jesus Christ has been unlawfully housed and neglected, let it be removed from that place and deposited and locked in a precious location.10

The poverty of Saint Francis’s holy life inspired new forms of beauty in Christian art. Through Cimabue and Giotto, he brought the gift of tears into Western painting. In the laudi of his spiritual son Jacopone da Todi, and in his own Canticle of the Sun, with which vernacular literature in Italy begins, he purified and surrendered to the Blessed Trinity the joie de vivre of the troubadours. As the poet Francis Thompson said, “Sworn to Poverty [Saint Francis] forswore not Beauty, but discerned through the lamp Beauty the Light God. . . . Poetry clung round the cowls of his Order.”11

The Beauty of Evangelical Poverty

Thirdly, the Church is poor because she commends to her children the vow of evangelical poverty. In fidelity to Christ she distinguishes between commandment and counsel. The commandments remove from our lives what is incompatible with charity (mortal sin, including the sins of envy, avarice, theft, and obsession with material things).12 The counsels, embraced by religious under vow, remove from our lives what can hinder perfection in charity (such as the personal ownership of material things). In commending evangelical poverty, the Church follows the straight path of wisdom and rejects the extremism of those who, like the Fraticelli, despised worldly goods almost in the manner of the Manichees, as if they were intrinsically evil.

The poverty of the Church’s religious, undertaken in imitation of Christ and for the sake of more intimate union with Him in charity, has been a fruitful source of the sacred beauty of the liturgical arts. Freed from the desire to possess and exploit, consecrated religious have had the peace to contemplate the natural beauty of God’s creation and the supernatural beauty of His work of re-creation. Liturgical chant in both East and West was preserved, developed, and most honoured in monasteries, communities of men and women who follow the poor Christ in poverty. The iconography of the Byzantine East, to which Western art in the Middle Ages never ceased in some measure to be indebted, was likewise chiefly the work of monks. True, most iconographers and architects in the West have been laymen and sometimes wealthy men, but many of the greatest of them—once again we think of Fra Angelico or of the anonymous artists who produced the Lindisfarne Gospels or the Book of Kells—were religious with “affections withdrawn from worldly things.”

The Beauty of Poverty of Spirit

Fourthly, the Church is poor because she is holy and therefore has poverty of spirit, for whoever is holy has poverty of spirit. She has compassion for those who suffer material poverty in the sense of being deprived of the food, clothing, and shelter needed for life and health (miseria, misère); but realist that she is, she knows that, while such a state of need may help a man to be humble and trust in God, it may have the opposite effect, making him bitter and eaten up with envy. She commends the vow of poverty, but she knows, as Saint Paul says, that “if I distribute all my goods to feed the poor

. . . and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing” (1 Cor 13:3). And the Church also recognizes, in the words of Pope Saint Leo the Great, that “very many rich people use their wealth for works of charity rather than as a means to puff up their pride.”13 What the Church prizes above all, what she herself possesses, what she enables her children to possess, is the beatitude of poverty of spirit: “Poverty is blessed,” says Saint Leo, “when it is not beguiled by a longing for earthly goods, and does not seek increase of the world’s riches, but desires to be enriched with heavenly blessings.”

“Blessed are the poor in spirit.” Beautiful is poverty of spirit, for there is nothing more grotesque than its opposite: the bloating of the soul of the man who “seeks greatness in honours and riches,” who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing. Such a man is in danger of falling into sensualism and intemperance—of all sins, says Saint Thomas, the most spiritually ugly: “It is repugnant to [man’s] brightness and beauty, for indulgence in the pleasures of intemperance dulls the light of intelligence, in which all loveliness of virtues shines.”14 Now, the beauty of poverty of spirit in the saints has inspired the Church’s iconographers throughout the ages. Consider Saint Dominic in the works of Fra Angelico and El Greco: here is a man who seeks to know nothing but Christ, and Him crucified. Or Saint Francis as Cimabue represents him in the lower basilica in Assisi, the glorious little pauper, radiating humility and the love of Christ, with the mark of the nails in his hands and of the lance in his side. Consider above all the portraits of the all-holy Mother of God, from the icons of Saint Catherine’s Monastery on Mount Sinai to the Madonnas of Botticelli, Perugino, and Raphael. If there is beauty anywhere on earth in the works of men, it is here, in these depictions of an immaculate heart whose only treasure is Jesus.

Saint Dominic in Prayer by El Greco, 1588

Saint Dominic in Prayer by El Greco, 1588. Photo:

Madonna Enthroned with the Child, Saint Francis, and Four Angels by Cimabue, lower basilica of San Francesco, Assisi, 1280
Madonna Enthroned with the Child, Saint Francis, and Four Angels by Cimabue, lower basilica of San Francesco, Assisi, 1280. Photo:

2. The Church That Is “For the Poor”

The Church is “for the poor,” and for that very reason she is “for sacred beauty.” She is for the poor because her divine Head, even though He is glorified in Himself at the Father’s right hand, on earth is hungry and thirsty, naked and imprisoned, in His members: “Amen I say to you, as long as you did it [or did not do it] to one of these my least brethren, you did it [or did not do it] to me” (Mt 25:40, 45). She is for the poor because her Head and Bridegroom is for the poor. In the words of Pope Francis, “God shows the poor ‘His first mercy.’”15 The Holy Father says that the poor “have much to teach us. . . . In their difficulties they know the suffering Christ. We need to let ourselves be evangelized by them.”16

Now, if we “listen” to the poor, if we let ourselves be “evangelized” by them, then we shall find that they themselves love and long for sacred beauty, for a visible expression of the invisible beauty of the risen Christ, in the manner in which the liturgy is celebrated and in the buildings in which the celebration takes place. The beauty of the liturgy is first of all for God’s greater glory, but it is also—and for that very reason—good news for the poor. In her classic work The Humiliated Christ in Modern Russian Thought, Nadezhda Gorodetsky quotes the nineteenth-century Russian Orthodox Bishop Ignaty: “The people are pressed like ants in their poor huts, but they would build a high and beautiful temple of God. . . .

They walk almost in rags, but they long to see the church shining with gold and silver.” The hovels in which they live are, in Gorodetsky’s words, “but a night lodging of a pilgrim;” but they see the church shining with its gilded icons and blazing candles as “the reflection of eternal life and bliss.”17 If we listen to the poor, if we let ourselves be evangelized by them, then we shall hear them reminding us that their first needs may be material in the order of time (a starving man must be fed before he can be catechized), but are spiritual in the order of eternal salvation. We owe the poor the corporal works of mercy, but we must not fail to give them the spiritual works of mercy, helping them and ourselves by sacred beauty to (in the words of the Liturgy of Saint John Chrysostom) “lay aside all earthly cares” and “sing the thrice-holy hymn to the life-giving Trinity.”

The Church is poor and for the poor, and is therefore beautiful and for sacred beauty. We can make the converse argument: it is because she is for sacred beauty that the Church is “for the poor.” The argument runs as follows: Saint Thomas distinguishes in the sacraments between what was instituted by Christ and what was instituted by the Church.18 The incarnate Son of God Himself determined the substance of each of the sacraments, while His Church, in all the diversity of times and places, has adorned the celebration of the sacraments with the accidents of sacred beauty: ceremonies; music; sacred vessels and vestments; the ordering, furnishing, and decorating of the church building; and the holy images of Christ and His saints. These forms of beauty, chosen and made by men, according to Saint Thomas are “not essential to the Sacrament, but belong to the solemnity that is added to the Sacraments in order to arouse devotion and reverence in the recipients.”19 By arousing our devotion and reverence for Christ really present in the Eucharist, the forms of sacred beauty enable us with greater love to unite ourselves to His self-offering to the Father, and to receive Him—His Body and Blood, Soul and Divinity—when He comes to us in Holy Communion. The Eucharist is indeed the sacramentum caritatis, the loving gift of the Heart of Jesus and the chief source of the charity of the whole Church and of her members. It is therefore from the Eucharistic Heart of Christ that the saints, moved to devotion and reverence by the sacred beauty of the liturgy, have drawn the power to love and serve the poor for the sake of Jesus. As Pope Benedict says in Deus caritas est, “The saints—consider the example of Blessed Teresa of Calcutta—constantly renewed their capacity for love of neighbour from their encounter with the Eucharistic Lord, and conversely this encounter acquired its realism and depth in their service to others.”20 To the words of Joseph Ratzinger we may add this remark: to support the devotion of “their encounter with the Eucharistic Lord,” the saints ensured that the celebration of the Eucharist was made beautiful with all the resources at their disposal.

3. Iconoclasm: The Heresy That Is Against the Poor

The spirit of Judas the thief has never died. Without fear of refutation, we can say that, throughout the Church’s history, the destroyers of sacred beauty have been oppressors of the poor, or at least have indulged themselves with worldly goods to the point of doing injustice to the poor. For example, the Iconoclastic clergy of the eighth century were notorious for wearing expensive clothes. The men who smashed icons and whitewashed frescoes smeared themselves with scent and wrapped themselves in purple. That is why the sixteenth canon of the Second Council of Nicaea (787), which defended the holy icons against the Iconoclasts, ruled that “it does not become those in holy orders to be clad in costly apparel.”21

In his History of the Protestant Reformation, William Cobbett—farmer, soldier, political agitator, and journalist of the early nineteenth century—shows how the English Reformation not only destroyed the sacred beauty of a thousand years of Catholic Christianity, but wrecked the countryside, ruined agriculture, and impoverished the common people. It was, he said, “engendered in lust, brought forth in hypocrisy and perfidy, and cherished and fed by plunder, devastation, and by rivers of innocent English and Irish blood.”22 The land worked by the monks for the common good of local communities was seized by the coming men of the court of Henry VIII for their own enrichment, as were the treasures of a thousand sanctuaries. Inspired in part by Cobbett, Augustus Welby Pugin, the great architect of the Gothic Revival, in his book Contrasts presents drawings to illustrate the differences between the Middle Ages and modern times, not only in building styles but also in social philosophy. At the bottom of one page, we see the poor finding hospitality in a Benedictine abbey, where the monks have the obligation to welcome guests as if they were Christ. By contrast, at the top of the page, Pugin shows us the “scientific” way of housing the poor in early Victorian England: incarcerating them in the “Panopticon,” the model jail invented by Jeremy Bentham, the founding father of Utilitarianism.23 In the mind of Pugin and Cobbett, the abolishers of the Mass and the sacraments—the destroyers of the old faith and its heritage of beauty—were also guilty of a crime that cries to heaven for vengeance: grinding the faces of the poor. Were Pugin and Cobbett succumbing to anti-Protestant bigotry? Well, Pugin was a convert to the Catholic faith from Protestantism, and by temperament a zealot; but Cobbett, to whose writings Pugin was indebted, was born and died a Protestant, and was a down-to-earth countryman. He assures his readers that his only motive in writing his History, the most violent denunciation of the Protestant Reformation ever published, was “a disinterested love of truth and justice.”24

Plate from A. W. Pugin’s Contrasts

Plate from A. W. Pugin’s Contrasts. Photo:

4. Poverty and Beauty: Resolving the Difficulties

Like the Angelic Doctor in the articles of the Summa, let us return to the objections to beauty with which we began. First, there is the prophets’ denunciation of feasts and incense. To understand the message of Isaiah and Amos, we need to remember that in the sacrifices of the Old Covenant what was pleasing to God was not the thing offered (the blood of animals), but the righteous disposition of the person who made the offering.25 When that disposition was absent, as it was when the priest or layman was culpably indifferent to the poor, then, as Isaiah and Amos teach us, the sacrifices were odious to God. Now, in the Sacrifice of the New and Everlasting Covenant in the Mass, which is the re-presentation of the Sacrifice once offered by Christ on the Cross, what is offered is infinitely pleasing to God because it is the Body and Blood of His only-begotten Son, the slain Lamb of God; and the principal offerer, too, has a disposition, a Heart, of the purest reverence and self-giving love, for that principal offerer is the same Jesus, the Eternal High Priest. What may be deficient is the heart of the ordained priest at the altar and of the laity in the pews. Even a priest whose soul is black in mortal sin can validly consecrate and offer the Eucharistic Sacrifice, and from the objective power of that Sacrifice a profusion of blessings are poured out upon the living and the dead, though the priest, by saying Mass without repenting, has added sacrilege to his already existing offences.

Saint John Chrysostom, in the passage I quoted at the beginning, is likewise condemning not liturgical beauty as such. After all he is the greatest liturgist among the Greek Fathers, and his anaphóra, celebrated almost daily in the Churches of the Byzantine rite, remains one of the jewels of Tradition. Saint John is not forcing us to choose between charity towards the poor and beauty in the liturgy, but simply challenging us to make sure that, in striving for the latter, we do not neglect the former. He says, “I am not saying this to criticize the use of such ornaments. We must attend to both, but to Christ [in the poor] first.”

Conclusion: Maria, tota pulchra, Mater pauperum

Saint Francis of Assisi loved to call the Mother of God the Virgo paupercula, the poor little Virgin. I said earlier that the Church herself is the one Francis called Lady Poverty, but first of all Lady Poverty is our Lady Mary. She is the Church’s supreme member, the Church’s most perfect model of union with Christ, and the Church’s devoted Mother, the mediatrix of all the graces that flow from Christ the Head into His members. Mary, Virgin Mother of Christ, is thus the living personification of the Church, Virgin Mother of Christ’s faithful. She is also therefore the personification of the Church “that is poor and for the poor.” Our blessed Lady is poor in her utter dependence on Christ, in her poverty of spirit, in her immaculate humility, in her virginity which looks for no source of fruitfulness other than the direct action of God. Her Magnificat is testament to her poverty. No one is more conscious of her nothingness as a creature than the mother of the Creator, His lowly handmaid. She recognizes that whatever she has or does, whatever she is, is His gift to her. “He that is mighty hath magnified me, and holy is His name” (Lk 1:49). She is the answer to the prayers of the fathers, Abraham and his seed. She is the queen of the poor and faithful remnant of the Lord.

Madonna of the Magnificat by Sandro Botticelli, 1481

Madonna of the Magnificat by Sandro Botticelli, 1481. Photo:

And Mary, Virgo paupercula, is also “all fair,” tota pulchra: beautiful by the sanctifying grace of her Son from the first moment of her conception, beautiful by the risen glory of her Son from her Assumption, body and soul, into heaven. She is beautiful in all the virtues, in the gifts and fruits and Beatitudes of the Holy Spirit, her Spouse. Her divine Son’s beautification of the whole created order, the new heaven and earth, is inaugurated in her, the Mother of Fairest Love. Heaven’s queen is paradise in perfection. Dante sings in the person of Saint Bernard: “Virgin Mother, daughter of your Son, / humbler and loftier past creation’s measure, / the fulcrum of the everlasting plan. . . . In you is mercy, in you is piety, / in you magnificence, in you the sum / of excellence in all things that come to be.”26 In our Lady we see everything that in Christianity, by the grace of Jesus, is compassion and humility, everything that is most purely and perfectly beautiful. Is there a place for liturgical beauty in the Church that is poor and for the poor? There is. The name of that place is the Immaculate Heart of Mary.

Rev. John Saward is a Fellow of Blackfriars Hall, Oxford, and priest-in-charge of the parish of Saints Gregory and Augustine in the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Birmingham, England.


1. Evangelii gaudium, n. 198.

2. Homilia 50 in Matthaeum, nn. 3; PG 58.508.

3. Ecclesia de Eucharistia, n. 48.

4. “The Blessed Virgin Compared to the Air We Breathe,” in The Poetical Works of Gerard Manley Hopkins, ed. N. H. Mackenzie (Oxford, 1990), 94.

5. Commentariorum in Ecclesiasticum libri decem, lib. 9, cap. 1; PL 109.1054D.

6. Evangelii gaudium, n. 24.

7. Summa theologiae 3a q. 83, a. 5, ad 5. The translation is by Thomas Gilby OP.

8. Joanna Cannon, Religious Poverty, Visual Riches: Art in the Dominican Churches of Central Italy in the Thirteenth and Fourteenth Centuries (New Haven & London: Yale University Press, 2014), 19. In the eighteenth century, in his encyclical Annus qui hunc, Pope Benedict XIV recognizes that not every church will have great resources to spend on the liturgical arts, but a certain minimum of beauty is of obligation: “We wish to stress that we are not speaking of the sumptuousness and magnificence of the Sacred Temples, or of the preciousness of the sacred furnishings, we knowing as well that they cannot be had everywhere. We have spoken of decency and cleanliness which it is not licit for anyone to neglect, decency and cleanliness being compatible with poverty” (cited by the Office for the Liturgical Celebrations of the Supreme Pontiff, The Noble Simplicity of Liturgical Vestments, November 14, 2010).

9. Ibid., 16.

10. A Letter to the Clergy, nn. 4–11.

11. “Shelley,” in The Complete Works of Francis Thompson, new ed., vol. 3 (Westminster, 1947), 2.

12. See Saint Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae 2a2ae q. 184, a. 3; CCC 1973.

13. Sermo 95, 2.

14. Summa theologiae 2a2ae q. 145, a. 2.

15. Evangelii gaudium, n. 198.

16. Ibid.

17. The Humiliated Christ in Modern Russian Thought, 96.

18. Summa theologiae 3a q. 64, a. 2, ad 1.

19. Ibid.

20. Deus caritas est, n. 18.

21. Theodore Balsamon et al., In canones SS. Apostolorum, conciliorum et in epistolas canonicas SS. Patrum commentaria; PG 137. 968C-972C.

22. William Cobbett, A History of the Protestant Reformation in England and Ireland, revised with notes and preface by His Eminence Cardinal Gasquet, O.S.B. (London: Burns, Oates & Washbourne, 1925), 2f.

23. Contrasts: Or, a Parallel Between the Noble Edifices of the Middle Ages and Corresponding Buildings of the Present Day, Shewing the Present Decay of Taste, Accompanied by Appropriate Text (London: Charles Dolman, 1841) no page number.

24. Cobbett, History of the Protestant Reformation, 401.

25. See Saint Thomas Aquinas, Super Isaiam, cap. 1, lectio 3.

26. Dante, Paradiso: A New Translation by Anthony Esolen (New York: The Modern Library, 2007), 351 (Canto 33).

| Ontoluminescence: Bright God and Brilliant Creatures in Thomas Aquinas

Ontoluminescence: Bright God and Brilliant Creatures in Thomas Aquinas

Stained-glass windows in the cathedral of Lille give color and coherence to the light of the sun.

Stained-glass windows in the cathedral of Lille give color and coherence to the light of the sun. Photo: OP

“The discussion of the beautiful occupies a marginal place in Thomas’s work.”1

Such a premonishment is very nearly de rigueur for essays on the theme of beauty in the works of Thomas Aquinas. The reader is warned that no treatise, question, or article is devoted to the beautiful. The undeniable implication is that expectations should be adjusted accordingly (e.g., all hope of encountering “the aesthetics of Thomas Aquinas” must be abandoned).2 But like the playing of the national anthem before a Cubs game, this caveat is largely a formality preceding chaos.3 Students of Aquinas’s aesthetic marginalia have displayed a preternatural ability to compose multiple theories of beauty “according to Saint Thomas.”4 One of the most noteworthy aspects of these accounts is their nearly complete incompatibility.

Francis Kovach reckons that Saint Thomas make some mention of beauty in 665 places. When minor references, quotations from other authors, and loci where Thomas is commenting on a text are deducted, only 130 texts on beauty remain,5 with few of these more than a handful of lines. Denied the sustained treatments given the other (quasi) transcendental properties of esse,6 “beauty,” like Purple of Tyre, must be laboriously harvested from these many small sources. Further, Saint Thomas offers no musings on the fine arts or religious artwork.7 The author of Adoro te devote and Pange lingua gloriosi8 passes over the liturgical role of beauty in silence. Impressively written introductions to Saint Thomas’s masterpiece never include beauty among “die großen Themen der Summa theologiae.”9 Yet, the most extravagant encomia have been raised by those who descry in the Angelic Doctor’s happenstance reflections the key to his most profound ideas.10

Despite a number of attempts to produce one,11 there is no rounded and reasonably complete account of beauty per se, much less a theory of aesthetics, to be had in Saint Thomas.12 The modest intent of this essay is to offer some reflections on an “aesthetic analogy”; viz., the Son is to the Trinity as bright color is to a creature. The comparison is found in Summa Theologiae, I.39.8, resp.13: “For beauty includes three conditions, integrity or perfection, since those things which are impaired are by the very fact ugly; due proportion or harmony; and lastly, brightness or clarity, whence things are called beautiful which have a bright color.” As Brendan Sammon observes, almost every scholar who draws upon this passage isolates it from its broader context, treating it as a philosophical definition of the beautiful.14 This is a doubtful enterprise on at least three counts: First, Thomas provides no explanation of how these three qualities relate to one another,15 though all are grounded in creaturely form (see below). Second, these three terms never again appear together in Aquinas’s remarks on the “objective principles” of beauty.16 And third, these remarks are part of Thomas’s defense of the appropriation of names within Trinitarian theology.17 Thomas argues that beauty in each of its dimensions has a likeness to the property of the Son: integritas, “inasmuch as He as Son has in Himself truly and perfectly the nature of the Father”; proportio, “inasmuch as He is the express Image of the Father” (“hence we see that an image is said to be beautiful, if it perfectly represents even an ugly thing”); and claritas, which “agrees with the property of the Son, as the Word, which is the light and splendor of the intellect.”18

What is the claritas to which the Son is likened? Like “health,”19 “wisdom,”20 and “justice,”21 “beauty” and its components are predicated analogically (i.e., they posit something as literally true of God, but deny the creaturely mode of what they predicate).22 Thus, God is perfection, proportion, and brightness, but not in a way that involves material composition or potentiality. Further, within the created realm, we may distinguish between sensible beauty, such as characterizes a human body possessing well proportioned limbs with a certain brightness of a due color, and spiritual beauty, such as human actions which are “well proportioned in respect of the spiritual clarity of reason.”23 The semantic potency of the language of light makes it an irresistible figure for analogizing everything from the simplest act of recognition to the generation of the Son.24 “In its primary meaning [light] signifies that which makes manifest to the sense of sight; afterwards it was extended to that which makes manifest to cognition of any kind. If, then, the word is taken in its strict and primary meaning, it is to be understood metaphorically when applied to spiritual things. . . . But if taken in its common and extended use, as applied to manifestation of every kind, it may properly be applied to spiritual things.”25 And so, in addition to physical light,26 Saint Thomas speaks of “the light that makes beauty known” (lumen manifestans),27 “the spiritual clarity of reason” (spiritualem rationis claritatem),28 the “lightsomeness of glory” (claritas gloriae),29 a good reputation (excellentia vel claritas),30 and the lustre (decor) and light (lumen) of grace.31 In his commentary on John’s Gospel, Saint Thomas writes:

Sense perceptible light, however, is a certain image of spiritual light. . . . Just as particular light has an effect on the thing seen, inasmuch as it makes colors actually visible, as well as on the one seeing, because through it the eye is conditioned for seeing, so intellectual light makes the intellect to know because whatever light is in the rational creature is all derived from that supreme light “which enlightens every man coming into the world.” Furthermore, it makes all things to be actually intelligible inasmuch as all forms are derived from it, forms which give things the capability of being known, just as all the forms of artifacts are derived from the art and reason on the artisan.”32

The keys here are form and intelligibility. Aquinas sees form as the measure of every creature’s participation in the divina claritas.33 God is light because He does not share in—but is—beauty. He is unlimited act,34 ipsum esse per se subsistens—“not abstract being, but being that is fully determinate in itself and subsistent, and from which all other things derive their being.”35 Created things are in a variety of ways, and what a thing is determines how its beauty arises.36 For our purposes, we can say that every thing possesses a form which, as a stained-glass window gives color and coherence to the greater light of the sun, shapes the gift of being, In this sense, claritas is “ontoluminescence,” the infinitely varied brightness of the ways of participating in the divine Light. Form is the fluorescence by which things declare themselves to intellect.

This prodigal distribution of beauty can be an aid to Christian theology and prayer. Christian perspectives have often provoked extremes in regards to the beautiful: Clairvaux and Suger, the Beeldenstorm and the Baroque, the stripping of altars and their ghastly “renovation.” Scripture sings the cosmos aesthetic, commending the wonder of God’s handiwork to the faithful (Psalm 104), but is hardly sentimental about the natural world and is very wary of the cunning alchemy of the human heart which transmutes calves into gold, reveling in the worthless products of human art made by the “ancient hand” of idolatry (Wis 13:10), the self-made “snares for the souls of men” who are “distracted by what they see, because the things seen are fair” (Wis 13:7). Yet, Christ is “the image of the invisible God” (Col 1:15; 2 Cor 4:3-4), who reveals the Father (Jn 1:18) to human sight, hearing, and touch (1 Jn 1:1-2), valorizing the visible as the vehicle of divine self-expression, yet possessing “no stately bearing to make us look at him, nor appearance that would attract us to him” (Is 53:2). Is not beauty too appealing to the rebel imagination, too coarse in its elevation of sensory delight over the discipline of reason, as Plato warned?37

Further, the connection between the cultivation of beauty and the wanton ease of the privileged (Am 6:1-7), the Gospel’s focus on the king of shreds and patches who made His habitation with the unlovely of the world, and the need to proclaim the Gospel amidst a world beset by the hydra-like problems of global hunger and disease combine to suggest that discerning the face of the Crucified in human suffering must take precedence over any dilettantish swooning about wild flowers or the relics of slave cultures, much less the fussy elevation of aesthetic standards and vision over “practical considerations” in the matters of church design, construction, and ornamentation. Is not beauty too hopelessly trivial and effete to be granted full membership in the counsels of proclamation, prayer, and theology?

To return to the analogy: bright color is a delightful, domestic analogate. It may be, as Monroe Beardsley observes, that Thomas’s “casual reference to ‘bright color’ does not perhaps invite a very fancy reading.”38 But this may be part of its value. Anyone who has flipped through the massive swatch books available in the paints section of even the most modest hardware store, or endured the recherché nomenclature of a tony florist (citrine, opalescent, sea glass, cameo, cerulean, etc.), has seen how nearly undetectable gradations of color lend themselves to a sort of visual wine tasting, centered on self-flattering and very profitable discriminations (e.g., Hamlindigo blue). But Aquinas has something much simpler in mind. As Umberto Eco observes, “The Middle Ages was a time of bright hues. It was a period that identified beauty with light and color (as well as with proportion), and this color was always elementary, a symphony of reds, blues, gold, silver, white, and green, without subtleties and half tones. . . . In medieval poetry this sense of radiant color is always present: the grass is green, blood is red, milk pure white, and a pretty woman, in the words of Guido Guinizzelli, has ‘a face of snow colored in carmine.’”39

The north rose window of the Cathedral of Notre-Dame in Paris exemplifies Umberto Eco’s observation that “the Middle Ages was a time of bright hues.”

The north rose window of the Cathedral of Notre-Dame in Paris exemplifies Umberto Eco’s observation that “the Middle Ages was a time of bright hues.” Photo: OP

In one sense, the language of beauty—“The Word is to the Father as red is to freshly washed cherries; like a cobalt dinner plate, or a clean copper pot, or butterflies sipping nectar from sunflowers”—is no different from any speech about God, in that it attempts to approach the divine by means of the sensible. Since “the beautiful is something pleasant to apprehend,”40 bright color may be an especially “eye-catching” way to depict the Word. But Saint Thomas licenses us to say something more when he writes that “the senses are given to man, not only for the purpose of procuring the necessaries of life, for which they are bestowed on other animals, but also for the purpose of knowledge. Hence, whereas the other animals take delight in the objects of the senses only as ordered to food and sex, man alone takes pleasure in the beauty of sensible objects for its own sake.”41 And indeed, there is something about bright color that catches, fixes, and absorbs the gaze. If we find ourselves staring at the deep copper hue of a desert sunrise, or the blue of the Virgin’s gown in a van Eyck reproduction, or the primary greens and yellows of a mobile hung above a crib, we are not surprised by their appeal; more often, like the new notice given to the purple of a local field, our apprehension is accompanied by surprise at how easily we become inured to bright colors (likely due in no small degree to our overexposure to them, a situation which did not often confront humanity for most of its existence).

The Annunciation by Jan Van Eyck

The Annunciation by Jan Van Eyck. Photo:

The use of so basic an analogy as bright color suggests that created ontoluminescence is, at least initially, an engagement with simplicities both quotidian and exceptional. Aquinas specifies this experience as the pleasurable contemplation of the real. Claritas is one of the fundamental ways we recognize difference. Black cow, white cow; blue sky, red sky; green shirt, purple dress—bright color is the initial and abiding herald of the deeper intelligibilities that surround us, because it is in part the “radiance of distinction,” the light which allows what is to be grasped by the intellect. Such simple radiance offers fulfillment to our minds. Aquinas defines the ratio of beauty as “that which calms the desire by being seen or known. . . . It is evident that beauty adds to goodness a relation to the cognitive faculty: so that ‘good’ means that which simply pleases the appetite; while the ‘beautiful’ is something pleasant to apprehend.”42 Again, the “something” involved here is not exclusively or even primarily great works of art or mighty natural formations, though they are included. It is first a matter of simple knowing—that is a desk, this is falling water, those are bright wings—in which color plays a key role.

Of course, color never stands on its own. We always encounter something which is colored,43 something upon which and from which claritas flows, just as we always experience proportioned things and never proportion in the abstract. Along with the organic and intellectual specificities of the beholder, the concrete embeddedness of sensible color presides over the particulars of its contemplation. Consider Kitty Fane’s experience of the chapel of the Catholic sisters ministering to the cholera victims of Mei tan fu, in W. Somerset Maugham’s The Painted Veil. The mother superior invites Kitty to see a life-size statue of the Blessed Virgin, a gift recently arrived from France.

The chapel was no more than a long low room with whitewashed walls and rows of deal benches; at the end was the altar on which stood the image; it was in plaster of Paris painted in crude colours; it was very bright and new and garish. Behind it was a picture in oils of the Crucifixion with the two Maries at the foot of the Cross in extravagant attitudes of grief. The drawing was bad and the dark pigments were put on with an eye that knew nothing of the beauty of colour. Around the walls were the Stations of the Cross painted by the same unfortunate hand. The chapel was hideous and vulgar. . . .

“The altarpiece and the Stations of the Cross were painted by one of our Sisters, Soeur St Anselme.” The Mother Superior crossed herself. “She was a real artist. Unfortunately, she fell a victim to the epidemic. Do you not think that they are very beautiful?”

Kitty faltered an affirmative. On the altar were bunches of paper flowers and the candlesticks were distractingly ornate.

“We have the privilege of keeping here the Blessed Sacrament.”

“Yes?” said Kitty, not understanding.

“It has been a great comfort to us during this time of so terrible trouble.”

To this point, everything that Kitty has learned about the mother superior indicates that it is highly unlikely she is given to sentimental blindness as regards poorly executed art. She is of an ancient French family, possesses a simple and unaffected dignity which inspires awe and makes it unthinkable that anyone one would fail to show her respect, and has “the authority of one who has never known that it is possible to be disobeyed. She had the condescension of a great lady and the humility of a saint. There was in her strong, handsome, and ravaged face an austerity that was passionate; and at the same time she had a solicitude and a gentleness which permitted those little children to cluster, noisy and unafraid, in the assurance of her deep affection.”44 But Kitty understands the superior’s aesthetic judgments no better than she grasps what it means to the sisters to have the consolation of the reserved Eucharist. She experiences the colors in a shallow way, and so misses the meaning so evident to the mother superior. Only tears, emptiness, and self-recrimination over her shabby treatment of her husband allows her to see things more deeply. “But once within the convent it had seemed to her that she was transported into another world situated strangely neither in space nor time. Those bare rooms and the white corridors, austere and simple, seemed to possess the spirit of something remote and mystical. The little chapel, so ugly and vulgar, in its very crudeness was pathetic; it had something which was wanting in the greatness of a cathedral, with its stained glass and its pictures: it was very humble; and the faith which had adorned it, the affection which cherished it, had endued it with a delicate beauty of the soul.”45 The colors are no less garish, nor the figures better executed; but their very vividness contributes to Kitty’s movement from the consideration of strictly sensible beauty to the contemplation of spiritual beauty.

What does it mean to say that the Son is to the Trinity as bright color is to a creature? Perhaps we might put it so: every encounter with bright color holds the potential to present to the believer an analogy of the primal act of beauty, the generation of the Son from the Father, the manifestation within the divine being of Image and Word. The brilliance of gold, the brightness of the red in the Coca-Cola logo, and the varied greens of Edward Hopper’s Road in Maine can all furnish contemplative pleasure to an eye which is untrained but attentive. Such colors draw into relief the vast diversity of forms. Just so does Jesus of Nazareth shine light upon Deus in se, revealing Him to be from all eternity not just claritas, but Light from Light, True God from True God, presented to us now in scripture and sacrament, in fire and water, that our eyes might become slowly prepared for eternal residence in the New Jerusalem, which has no need of sun or moon to shine on it, for the glory of God will give it light, and the Lamb will be its lamp (Rv 21:23).

Rev. Francis J. Caponi, O.S.A. is a native of Philadelphia. He received his bachelor’s degree from Villanova University in 1983, his master’s degree from the Washington Theological Union in 1989, and his doctorate from Harvard University/School of Divinity in 2000. He has taught systematic theology at Villanova for the last decade. He has published essays in The Thomist, the International Journal of Systematic Theology, Dante Studies, and Horizons, and authored the chapter on Karl Rahner in Partakers of the Divine Nature: The History and Development of Theosis/Deification in the Christian Traditions [2007].


1. Jan A. Aertsen, “Beauty in the Middle Ages: A Forgotten Transcendental?,” Medieval Philosophy & Theology 1 (1991): 68–97, here p. 72.

2. Ludger Müller, “Das ‘Schöne’ im Denken des Thomas von Aquin,” Theologie und Philosophie 57 (1982): 413–24, at 423–24.

3. Berkeley Breathed, Bloom County: The Complete Library, vol. 3: 1984–1986 (San Diego: Library of American Comics, 2010).

4. Cyril Barrett, S.J., “The Aesthetics of St. Thomas Re Examined,” Philosophical Studies (Ireland) 12 (1963): 107–24, at p. 107. Abelardo Lobato, O.P., points out the paradox of the “forgotten transcendental” generating more scholarly treatments than any other transcendental, save “being.” (“Santo Tomás de Aquino y la via transcendental en filosofia,” in Die Logik des Transzendentalen: Festschrift für Jan A. Aertsen zum 65. Geburtstag, ed. Martin Pickavé [Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2003], 163–78, at p. 177).

5. Francis J. Kovach, Die Ästhetik des Thomas von Aquin (Berlin: Walter De Gruyter, 1961), 38.

6. Much debate has been occasioned by the “magna quaestio della trascendentalità della bellezza all’interno della riflessione tommasiana” (Angela Monachese, Tommaso d’Aquino e la bellezza [Roma: Annando, 2016], 209). See Jan A. Aertsen, Medieval Philosophy and the Transcendentals: The Case of Thomas Aquinas (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1996), 335–59; Pascal Dasseleer, “L’être et la beauté selon Saint Thomas d’Aquin,” in Actualité de la pensée médiévale, ed. by J. Follon and J McEvoy (Louvain la Neuve: Éditions de l’Institut supérieur de philosophie; Louvain/Paris: Éditions Peeters, 1994), 268–86; Umberto Eco, Il problema estetico in Tommaso d’Aquino, 2nd ed. (Milano: Valentino Bompiani, 1970); Jacques Maritain, Art and Scholasticism with Other Essays, trans. J.F. Scanlan (New York: Scribner, 1960), 19–30; and Günther Pöltner, Schönheit: Eine Untersuchung zum Ursprung des Denkens bei Thomas von Aquin (Wien/Freiburg/Basel: Herder, 1978).

7. “Thomas Aquinas, while affirming the veneration of images on the grounds that the movement of the soul toward the image is at the same time its movement toward the thing imaged, never paused for long to ponder how the aesthetic qualities of the image might affect one’s response to what is thereby imagined.” Frank Burch Brown, Religious Aesthetics: A Theological Study of Making and Meaning (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1989), 2.

8. The most recent scholarship confirms Aquinas’s authorship of the former, and inclines towards the authenticity of the latter. See Jean Pierre Torrell, O.P., Saint Thomas Aquinas, vol. 1: The Person and His Work, trans. Robert Royal (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of America Press. 1996), 129–36.

9. For example, David Berger, Thomas von Aquins Summa theologiae (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 2010); Brian Davies, O.P., Thomas Aquinas’s “Summa Theologiae”: A Guide and a Commentary (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014); Philip McCosker and Denys Turner, eds., The Cambridge Companion to the Summa Theologiae (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016); Andreas Speer, ed., Thomas von Aquin: Die Summa theologiae. Werkinterpretationen (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2005).

10. See Willehad Paul Eckhert, “Der Glanz des Schönen und seine Unerfüllbarkeit im Bilde: Gedanken zu einer Theologie der Kunst des heiligen Thomas von Aquino,” in Thomas von Aquino: Interpretation und Rezeption, ed. W. P. Eckhert (Mainz: Grünewald, 1974), 229–44, at p. 229.

11. Etienne Gilson famously called beauty the “forgotten transcendental” (Elements of Christian Philosophy [New York: Doubleday, 1960], 159–163). However true that may have been at the time, the last decade alone has seen no fewer than four full-dress treatments of the theme: Kevin O’Reilly, Aesthetic Perception: A Thomistic Perspective (Dublin: Four Courts Press, 2007); Brendan Sammon, The God Who is Beauty: Beauty as a Divine Name in Thomas Aquinas and Dionysius the Areopagite (2013);

Christopher S. Sevier, Aquinas on Beauty (Lanham, Maryland: Lexington Books, 2015); and Monachese, Tommaso d’Aquino e la bellezza.

12. Whether or not one can be constructed along Thomistic lines is another question. Two such attempts are Armand A. Maurer, C.S.B., About Beauty: A Thomistic Interpretation (Houston: Center for Thomistic Studies, 1983); and Piotr Jaroszynski, Beauty and Being: Thomistic Perspectives, trans. Hugh McDonald (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 2011).

13. “Species autem, sive pulchritudo, habet similitudinem cum propriis filii. Nam ad pulchritudinem tria requiruntur. Primo quidem, integritas sive perfectio, quae enim diminuta sunt, hoc ipso turpia sunt. Et debita proportio sive consonantia. Et iterum claritas, unde quae habent colorem nitidum, pulchra esse dicuntur. Quantum igitur ad primum, similitudinem habet cum proprio filii, inquantum est filius habens in se vere et perfecte naturam patris. Unde, ad hoc innuendum, Augustinus in sua expositione dicit, ubi, scilicet in filio, summa et prima vita est, et cetera. Quantum vero ad secundum, convenit cum proprio filii, inquantum est imago expressa patris. Unde videmus quod aliqua imago dicitur esse pulchra, si perfecte repraesentat rem, quamvis turpem. Et hoc tetigit Augustinus cum dicit, ubi est tanta convenientia, et prima aequalitas, et cetera. Quantum vero ad tertium, convenit cum proprio filii, inquantum est verbum, quod quidem lux est, et splendor intellectus, ut Damascenus dicit. Et hoc tangit Augustinus cum dicit, tanquam verbum perfectum cui non desit aliquid, et ars quaedam omnipotentis Dei, et cetera.” Latin text and English translations are from Summa Theologiae, translated by Laurence Shapcote, O.P.; edited by John Mortensen and Enrique Alarcón (Lander, Wyoming: The Aquinas Institute for the Study of Sacred Doctrine, 2012), 8 vols. Hereafter ST.

14. The God Who Is Beauty, 343. Likewise is Saint Thomas’s observation “pulchra enim dicuntur quae visa placent” (ST, I.5.4, ad 1) treated as a formal definition. See Andreas Speer, “Thomas von Aquin und die Kunst: Eine hermeneutische Anfrage zur mittelalterlichen Ästhetik,” Archiv für Kulturgeschichte 72.2 (1990): 323–45, here p. 325.

15. Aertsen, “Beauty in the Middle Ages,” 71.

16. Integritas is the odd man out, though comparable terms (e.g., perfectio, magnitudo) do appear with proportio and claritas. See Kovach, Die Ästhetik des Thomas von Aquin, 106–113; and Eco, Il problema estetico in Tommaso d’Aquino, 128–32.

17. Trinitarian theology is also the context of Aquinas’s remarks on beauty in Scriptum super libros sententiarum magistri Petri Lombardi, vol. 1, 2nd ed., ed. R.P. Mandonnet, O.P. (Paris: Lethielleux, 1929), lib. 1, d. 32, q. 2, a. 1. “There is no good reason to separate this ‘aesthetic’ language and its concepts from the systematic context of Aquinas’s teaching on the divine nature. Their close association with its systematic background, which itself finds confirmation in similar associations within the tradition, makes suspect the claim that this definition can be treated as a ‘material’ definition of beauty divorced from its larger context.” Andreas Speer, “Aesthetics,” in The Oxford Handbook of Medieval Philosophy, ed. John Marenbon (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 661–84, at p. 669.

18. Aquinas writes of “integritas sive perfectio” and “debita proportio sive consonantia,” but for the third dimension simply gives “claritas.” In the rendering of Shapcote (the “English Fathers” translation of the Summa Theologiae), a synonym is provided where none is given in the Latin: “brightness or clarity.”

19. Sententia libri Ethicorum, vols. 47.1–2 of Opera Omnia (Romae: Sancta Sabina, 1969), lib. 1, cap. 7; ST, I.13.10, resp.

20. ST, I.13.5, resp.

21. ST, I-II.60.4, resp.; II-II.57.1, ad 1.

22. Quaestiones disputatae de potentia, ed. P.M. Pession (Turin: Marietti, 1965), VII.2, ad 7.

23. ST, II II.145.2, resp.

24. See Gerald O’Collins and Mary Ann Meyers, eds., Light from Light: Scientists and Theologians in Dialogue (Grand Rapids, Michigan: Eerdmans, 2012).

25. ST, I.67.1, resp. See also Scriptum super libros sententiarum, lib. 1, d. 3, q. 1.

26. A good account of the span of “light talk” in Aquinas is given by David L. Whidden III, Christ the Light: The Theology of Light and Illumination in Thomas Aquinas (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2014).

27. ST, II-II.180.2, ad 3.

28. ST, II-II.145.2, resp.

29. Summa contra Gentiles, IV.86.2. (English translation: On the Truth of the Catholic Faith, ed. and trans. A. C. Pegis et al., 5 vols. [Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1975]).

30. ST, I.II.84.4, resp.

31. ST, I II.109.7, resp.

32. Commentary on the Gospel of John, 3 vols., trans. Fabian Larcher, O.P. and James Weisheipl, O.P.; introduction and notes by Daniel Keating and Matthew Levering (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of America Press, 2010), cap. 8, lect. 2, 1142.

33. “[O]mnis autem forma, per quam res habet esse, est participatio quaedam divinae claritatis.” In librum Beati Dionysii De divinis nominibus expositio, ed. Ceslai Pera, O.P. (Turin: Marietti, 1950), cap. IV, lect. 5, 349.

34. Commenting on Saint Paul’s declaration that God “dwells in unapproachable light” (1 Timothy 6:16), Aquinas writes: “Light in sensible things is the principle of seeing; whence that is called light by which something is known in whatever way. However, each thing is known through its own form, and according as it is in act. Whence, as much as it has form and act, so much does it have light. Therefore, things which are of a certain act, but are not pure act, are illumined, but not light. But the divine essence, which is pure act, is itself light.” Commentaries on St. Paul’s Epistles to Timothy, Titus, and Philemon, trans. Chrysostom Baer, O. Praem. (South Bend, Indiana: St. Augustine’s Press, 2007), cap. 6, lect. 3, 268.

35. Rudi te Velde, Aquinas on God: The “Divine Science” of the Summa Theologiae (Aldershot, Hants, England/Burlington, Vermont: Ashgate, 2009), 81.

36. ST, I.5.4., ad 1.

37. “Artists obscure the enlightening power of thought and skill by aiming at plausibility rather than truth. Art delights in unsavoury trivia and in the endless proliferation of senseless images. . . . The artist cannot represent or celebrate the good, but only what is daemonic and fantastic and extreme; whereas truth is quiet and sober and confined.” (Iris Murdoch, The Fire and the Sun [Oxford: Clarendon, 1977], 65).

38. Aesthetics from Classical Greece to the Present: A Short History (Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press, 1966), 104.

39. Umberto Eco, Inventing the Enemy: Essays, trans. Richard Dixon (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2012), 49–50.

40. ST, I-II.27.1, ad 3.

41. ST, I.91.3, ad 3. See also In libros Aristotelis De caelo et mundo expositio, lib. 2, lect. 14, n. 7.

42. ST, I II.27.1, ad 3. Christopher Sevier writes, “Aesthetic perception is the perception of beauty that recognizes it as intrinsically valuable, and enjoyment—aesthetic pleasure—naturally results. To view aesthetic pleasure this way is not to view the subject (the perceiver) as uninterested in the object of pleasure, but rather to be interested in a certain way—namely, to have an impartial interest. It is a universalized sort of interest, divorced from any particular bodily need—an interest that a rational being in any time or place could, in principle, share. That is, it is an interest that springs from reason rather than from any bodily desire” (Aquinas on Beauty, 76).

43. Karl Rahner uses the impossibility of conceiving color apart from a possible colored thing as an example of the Thomistic conversio ad phantasma. See Spirit in the World, trans. W. V. Dych (New York: Continuum, 1994), 121.

44. W. Somerset Maugham, The Painted Veil (London: William Heinemann, 1925), 143–44.

45. Ibid., 137–38, 141.

| A Magnificent Witness: Our Lady of the Angels Mission, Chicago

A Magnificent Witness: Our Lady of the Angels Mission, Chicago

Our Lady of the Angels Mission

Our Lady of the Angels Mission. Photo: Laker

As unlikely as it seems, a mystical vision experienced by Saint Francis of Assisi eight centuries ago recently found a parallel in a twentieth-century Chicago church associated for decades with anxiety and terror. While praying at the abandoned church of San Damiano, Francis famously heard the Lord’s voice ring out: “Rebuild my church.” Immediately, he began a lifelong path of simplicity and service, beginning by rebuilding the church with his own hands. But commentators have rightly noted that “rebuilding the church” has a double meaning. Because the church building signifies the Christian community joined mystically to Christ its Head,1 the renovation of a church building is the fruit of a renewed Christian community and in turn brings new life to the community itself. In a kind of divine economy, when a worshipping community is dispirited and departs, the buildings which signify Christ’s presence decay and crumble. When the community returns and is reedified—spiritually “rebuilt”—church buildings again provide the visible sign of the Holy Spirit building up the temple of Christ’s body. It is then that a church building flowers and stands as a queen amidst the city’s surrounding buildings.

Nowhere is this more evident than in the renewal of the former Our Lady of the Angels Church in the West Humboldt Park neighborhood of Chicago, where a once-thriving parish became an aching gash on the face of Chicago after a devastating school fire left ninety-two children and three sisters dead in an eighteen-hour ordeal that sent shockwaves across the world. But new life has come to the neighborhood and its church, beginning with a small community of men and women inspired by Saint Francis himself.

Noble Simplicity, Noble Beauty

The story of Our Lady of the Angels Church in Chicago, now called the Our Lady of the Angels Mission, in many ways follows the familiar path of many of Chicago’s immigrant-driven neighborhood churches. Irish immigrants outgrowing their old neighborhood in the 1890s moved west past Humboldt Park, and their pastor named the parish after a personal interest: he had studied at Our Lady of the Angels Seminary in Niagara, New York.2 Worship began in a storefront, sisters were found to begin a school, and a temporary church was built. Decades later, despite the dark days of the Depression and war, the parish built a modest but still grand Italian Romanesque church from plans drawn by architect Gerald A. Barry. Samuel Cardinal Stritch dedicated the church in 1941.

Gerald Barry, a busy Chicago architect, would eventually design several dozen buildings in the Archdiocese of Chicago, and his son, also named Gerald, would later form a firm called Barry and Kay, and design churches which pushed the envelope of modern expression. The elder Barry’s work, however, revealed a stylistic versatility common to the best architects of the early twentieth century. His 1936 Saint Bartholomew Church in Chicago and 1953 Our Lady of Perpetual Help Church in Glenview, Illinois, each used a sophisticated Colonial mode. His Saint Nicholas of Tolentine Church showed his versatility with modernized English Gothic, and his Saint Priscilla Church showed a facility with ’50s high modern which nonetheless retained a strong ecclesiastical character.

At Our Lady of the Angels, Barry’s choice of “modernized Italian Romanesque” was not uncommon for the tight budgets of the 1930s. Pastors had become wary of “cathedral-like structures” that “had been overtaken by the depression with a huge burden of debt.”3 Unlike the dreamy English Gothic churches of the Roaring Twenties with their complexities of cut stone, the Italian Romanesque provided a credible historical style closely associated with the Catholic tradition which nonetheless required only small areas of stone detail and allowed for broad, unornamented expanses of brick. At Our Lady of the Angels, Barry gave the façade an appearance of simplicity which contains, nonetheless, significant architectural detail. The front façade displays a rich ecclesiology fitting to a church building as an image of Christ’s hierarchically arranged Mystical Body. Above one entry door is displayed the coat of arms of Pope Pius XII, while the other reveals the arms of Cardinal Mundelein, both reigning when the church was built. Moving from the earthly church to the heavenly community, carvings under the triumphal arch entry symbolize the Persons of the Trinity, most notably the center arch with the crowned hand of God coming down into the new garden of the glorified earth shown by glorified vines and peacocks, the birds of eternity.

The interior, too, continues its theological richness amidst an immediate sense of simplicity. Theologically considered, every church is an image of God and humanity reconciled, where the new heaven and the new earth of the Book of Revelation are shown in perfect order (Rv 21:1). Rows of Byzantine-inspired columns, literally the “pillars of the church” (Gal 2:9), support the roof just as individual people support its mission. Even the roof trusses are treated in a polychromatic iconographic scheme indicating vines, peacocks, and symbols of the Virgin and Christ. The sanctuary, ringed by columns of colorful marbles akin to the jeweled walls of the Heavenly Jerusalem (Rv 4), also display the architect’s understanding of the newer trends inspired by the early Liturgical Movement. Every seat has a clear view of the altar, which itself takes inspiration from Early Christian sources, combining swirling vines, peacocks, and the chi-rho in a wreath, the symbol of the victory of Christ. Above, a large bronze crucifix that could be seen by the people in the pews hangs from a carefully designed tester, revealing the period’s new interest in observance of liturgical law and in the participation of the people in the action at the altar.

Tragedy and Decline

For the first seventeen years of its life, Our Lady of the Angels Church operated like many thriving urban parishes. Tragedy struck on December 1, 1958, however, when a raging fire believed to have begun in the basement of the elementary school engulfed much of the building, trapping students and teachers alike. As horrified parents looked on, students, some with their hair and clothes on fire, jumped out of second-story windows, and television coverage showed the limp bodies of children being carried down fireman’s ladders. Three nuns and ninety-two students died, making headlines across the nation and the world. Photos of small coffins lined up for the funeral Mass remained burned in the collective consciousness of the city. Eventually a new Our Lady of the Angels school was built with the most modern fire protection standards, and throughout the country, school boards reviewed their fire safety provisions in light of the tragedy. Nonetheless, the gaping wound caused by the fire remained, and many families moved away from the neighborhood to avoid the painful memories of the day’s events.

Soon after, in an urban phenomenon common in the 1960s and ’70s, many traditionally Catholic ethnic groups left the cities for the suburbs, and the West Humboldt Park neighborhood faced increasing pressure from the phenomenon of “blockbusting.” In what is sometimes called “panic peddling,” unscrupulous real estate agents developed intentional programs to frighten white residents into selling their homes by stimulating fears of declines in property values because of an influx of African Americans. In some cases, agents “hired African American subagents and other individuals to walk or drive through changing areas soliciting business and otherwise behaving in such a manner as to provoke and exaggerate white fears.”4 Even though the parish formed the “Our Lady of the Angels Committee Against Panic Peddling” in 1969,5 the Catholic population in the area continued to decline. Despite enlarging the parish boundaries several times and consolidation with other Catholic schools in the area, the parish church closed in 1990, and the school closed in 1999. The West Humboldt Park neighborhood became known for gang violence, drug trafficking, and poverty; and as of 2011 it remained one of the poorest in Chicago, with a 42% unemployment rate, a 67% high school dropout rate, and one of the highest juvenile arrest rates in the state.6

New Hope and a New Mission

In 2005, Francis Cardinal George invited Father Bob Lombardo, C.F.R., a founding member of the Franciscan Friars of the Renewal, to begin a mission on the site with three aims: serve the neediest people in the city, bring a Catholic presence to the area, and provide a life of prayer at the location of the 1958 fire. The Franciscan Friars of the Renewal, founded by eight Capuchin Friars in 1987, are committed to serving the poorest of the poor in a “hands on” manner, and their missions provide for both the material needs of the poor and evangelization through the preaching of the Gospel. Father Lombardo had already served as a missionary in Honduras and Bolivia, and had directed the Padre Pio Shelter for the Homeless in the Bronx.

For the Friars of the Renewal, as for Saint Francis, building up the Mystical Body of Christ tends to be inextricably linked with buildings and construction. When he arrived in Chicago, Father Lombardo was faced with a church campus that had been neglected for decades. He noted that the kitchen floor of the 1940s-era rectory, which had been empty for fifteen years, looked like it had been “roto-tilled.”7 With many donations of money, time, materials, and expertise, the rectory’s plumbing and electrical systems were updated, plaster was repaired and painted, a chapel was created, and landscaping freshened up the property, making a colorful oasis in the blighted neighborhood. The rectory now serves as the home of a newly founded and growing religious community, the Franciscans of the Eucharist, whose primary apostolate is working with the local poor. Similarly, a thirty-seven-room convent built in 1955 required extensive repair and now serves as a place for retreats, for housing volunteers, and for storing donations. A gymnasium and social center named Kelly Hall, built by the parish in 1968, reopened after receiving significant repair and cleaning. It now serves the neighborhood and the mission in conjunction with the Chicago Metro YMCA and the Greater Chicago Food Depository, feeding seven hundred families every month.

Perhaps the most splendid part of the rebuilding was the renovation and reopening of the church itself. Though it was rented to a Baptist congregation for almost twenty years, the church was only partly usable because of a significantly leaky roof, including a section of the ceiling the community somewhat affectionately called “the hole.” The estimated price tag for the required church renovations totaled over $2 million, including a new roof, tuck pointing, complete electrical rewiring, window and plumbing repairs, and an overhaul of the basement kitchen and hall seating five hundred people.

The restored interior of the church

The restored interior of the church. Photo: Our Lady of the Angels Mission

The church’s original altar, which had been moved out onto a wooden platform with a shag carpet decades earlier, was reconstructed and relocated back to the original sanctuary. The marble floors and wall panels were cleaned, the original exterior doors were recreated and installed, the pews were restored, the entire interior was repainted, devotional shrines were restored, and the infamous hole in the roof was repaired. An ambo comprised of four rectangular-shaped images of the four evangelists was crafted out of pieces of the church’s original altar rail. And surprisingly, the first-ever outdoor memorial to the children who died in the fire was erected on the church grounds.

Sister Stephanie Baliga, one of the members of the Franciscans of the Eucharist, served as the de facto general contractor for the project and, together with Father Lombardo and the other sisters, organized groups of volunteers, donors, and construction workers. Fundraising took all forms, including several sisters asking sponsors to support them in running the Chicago Marathon. Several of Chicago’s unions—including pipe fitters, plumbers, electricians, and carpenters—donated their time, using the church as a hands-on training center where apprentices could perfect their skills in the field.

In many cases, the sisters described the appearance of contractors and supplies as “miraculous.” Precisely when they pondered how they would afford the renovation of the church basement and kitchen, a man whose sister had died in a fire unrelated to the school tragedy agreed to provide the materials and labor. After Sister Stephanie spent the summer with volunteers sanding the pews, she picked up a phone book looking for furniture refinishers and, without knowing it, providentially called a man whose family members had been involved in the school fire. He came over fifteen minutes later. One man donated all of the electrical work, and one electrician frequently spent overnights in the church pulling wire. In many cases, Sister Stephanie reported, people who had little or no faith had remarkable awakenings while working on the project. Others who had traumatic childhood memories of the 1958 tragedy returned to the parish, donating time and labor, thereby finding healing by letting positive memories replace the old ones. “It was a reminder,” Sister Stephanie says, “that the Mystical Body of Christ who are the People of God still come together today, not only in the past.”

Aedificavit Sibi Domum

In December of 2012, Francis Cardinal George presided at the Mass celebrating the church’s reopening, joined by school alumni, former parishioners, and current residents of the neighborhood. Though not operating as a parish, the church has become a beacon of beauty for the neighborhood. Although very few of the residents in the area are Catholic, many see it as their own. In the same parish where burning children once jumped out of windows, today’s neighborhood children have spoken of being moved to prayer after looking at the stained-glass windows, which are lit at night from the inside as a jewel-like beacon. Right now, the Franciscans are focused mostly on meeting the immense material needs of the area’s residents, but prayer in the church forms an important part of the mission. When groups visit on special occasions, the church is opened for prayer, and several times a month, the Franciscans offer the neighborhood residents a community dinner that begins with prayer in the upper church and ends with a meal in the hall below.

A memorial to the victims of the 1958 fire is located next to the church.

A memorial to the victims of the 1958 fire is located next to the church. Photo: blue skies

In a 2011 interview, Cardinal George called the church “the most gracious building, the most impressive building in the neighborhood.” He noted that before the renovation, the “place didn’t lift the spirit very much,” but he hoped that “a dispirited people might find a new spirit because the Holy Spirit is working there.”8 This indeed is the modern restatement of God’s call to Saint Francis in the thirteenth century. At the Our Lady of the Angels Mission, hundreds of generous people have acted and continue to act as the face and hands of Christ, asking nothing in return. And the result is renewed hope signified to every passerby, evident in feeding the hungry and clothing the naked, but also in a silent but magnificent witness composed of brick, stone, and glass.

Photo: blue skies

Photo: blue skies

Denis R. McNamara is Associate Director and Associate Professor at the Liturgical Institute of Mundelein Seminary in the Archdiocese of Chicago. He is the author of Heavenly City: The Architectural Tradition of Catholic Chicago and Catholic Church Architecture and the Spirit of the Liturgy.


1. See Introduction, Order of Laying a Foundation Stone or the Commencement of Work on the Building of a Church, paragraph 1: “The structure built of stones will be a visible sign of the living Church, God’s building, which they themselves constitute.”

2. For a short history of the parish, see Harry Koenig, A History of the Parishes of the Archdiocese of Chicago, vol. 1 (Chicago: Archdiocese of Chicago, 1980), 670–73.

3. Anonymous, “We Build a Church,” Atlantic Monthly 171 (January 1943): 111.

4. For more on blockbusting in Chicago, see entry “blockbusting,” in the online resource sponsored by the Chicago History Museum called The Encyclopedia of Chicago,

5. Koenig, A History of the Parishes, 672.

6. Metro Chicago YMCA, “Kelly Hall Environmental Scan,” (Chicago, IL, September 16, 2011), cited on the Our Lady of the Angels Mission web site:

7. Our Lady of the Angels Mission website:

8. Francis Cardinal George, on a television episode of “The Church, the Cardinal and You,” November 8, 2011.

| The Human Figure and Contemporary Sacred Art

The Human Figure and Contemporary Sacred Art

“The Beauty of all things in the world as well of architecture lay in proportion, the origin of which may be said is divine; for it derives from the body of Adam who was not only made by the divine hands of God, but shaped in His image and likeness.”1

These profound words were spoken on the second of June 1665 by the great sculptor of the counter-reform, Gian Lorenzo Bernini, and they ring true in our own time. The human figure has always had an inseparable role in art and reached its highest summit in the light of the Incarnation. With our rich Greco-Roman and Judeo-Christian heritage, handed down to us through the will and piety of great generations past, it is hard to imagine an ancient temple without a crystalline marble deity, or a church without the face of a saint reflecting the light of God. Though, in our current utilitarian hubris we find ourselves in an epoch of confusion where tradition has been abandoned, and the role of the human figure is in dire need of artistic revitalization.

The fall of figurative art and rise of modern secularism, stemming from a loss of moral objectivity, has deep origins; the floodgates of relativism were opened with the Protestant Reformation, and the iconoclasm of Martin Luther and John Calvin toward works of sacred art has had a lasting impact on the subsequent centuries of tributary denominations. The vibrancy of what we now refer to as the Baroque was in part the light of truth in response to heresy, and the radiant language of classical beauty in the service of the Church is as valid today as it was then.

In The Spirit of the Liturgy, Cardinal Ratzinger eloquently stated, “The theology of the liturgy is in a special way a ‘symbolic theology,’ a theology of symbols, which connects us to what is present but hidden.”2 Having myself converted from a Pentecostal denomination, I was struck by this truth in the Chigi Chapel of Siena by Bernini. Upon entering this intimate space, one stands before an ancient icon of La Madonna del Voto being supported by angels above the altar. Turning laterally one discovers an effigy of Mary Magdalene and Saint Jerome, oriented toward the altar together with the viewer. In the presence of these masterpieces the humble intention of the artist shines forth: more than just skillful figures of beauty, they are in fact a living representation of the saints in adoration of Christ and Our Lady, whom they point us toward and make present. It could therefore be said that these carved figures are a sort of hinge between the militant and triumphant Church, a material vehicle that effects greater union with Christ by “connecting us with what is present but hidden.”

The Chigi Chapel in the Cathedral of Siena

The Chigi Chapel in the Cathedral of Siena. Photo: Wasserman

Our ecclesial artistic tradition is intrinsically bound to us in our unity of faith, and no one can deny that true works of beauty will always resonate with bold immediacy and relevancy. In time God has revealed to us many mysteries of our faith,3 and while the Church’s understanding has developed, the actual mysteries have not changed. Is it not then urgent to seek a conveyance of transcendent beauty, as elevation from the mundane and ephemeral world in preparation for the heavenly Jerusalem? Glenn Gould offers a congruent observation of the music of the twentieth-century composer Richard Strauss, which could be considered an inspiration to modern ecclesial artists:

The great thing about the music of Richard Strauss is that it presents and substantiates an argument which transcends . . . all questions of style and tastes and idiom—all frivolous, effete preoccupations of the chronologist. It presents to us an example of the man who makes richer his own time by not being of it; who speaks for all generations by being of none.4

This pursuit, of course, runs entirely contrary to the philosophy of our mainstream academic “taste makers” and their oppressive rules. Originality has become a cardinal virtue, and the systematic destruction of our heritage is symptomatic of inordinate obsession with progression. In his “Choruses from The Rock,” T.S. Eliot confronts this phenomenon of “new,” born of personal autonomy, with a poetic and revelatory response:

But it seems that something has happened that has never happened before: though we know not when, or why, or how, or where. Men have left God not for other gods, they say, but for no god; and this has never happened before.5

David by Gian Lorenzo Bernini, 1624, located in the Galleria Borghese in Rome

David by Gian Lorenzo Bernini, 1624, located in the Galleria Borghese in Rome. Photo:

This new atheistic development may be the foremost reason for the decline of occidental figurative art. If man says he is not created in the image and likeness of God, and the figure no longer has an essential role in the worship of our Creator, it is inevitable that artistic manifestations will become slowly deformed and unrecognizable.

We have also seen the dehumanized figure used as a vehicle for political propaganda by powerful atheist regimes. These lessons should teach us that when removed from the Church, figurative art will wither and die, just as a branch ripped from the vine of tradition will no longer produce fruit: “We build in vain unless the Lord builds with us.”6

Another hypothesis should be presented to help understand the dehumanization of the figure. August Rodin is widely considered one of the last great figurative sculptors in the western tradition; it is a curious fact that in the beginning of the twentieth century, his “friends were astounded at the things he did not know about contemporary culture, like who Charles Darwin was.”7 It should come as no surprise that this most illustrious master, whose palpitating figures showed us the innermost expression of the human spirit, had not the slightest interest in the theory of evolution. Looking at the posthumous decline, I am convinced that in following Cartesian doubt, the anticlerical French Revolution, and the Enlightenment proponent Immanuel Kant, the final nail in the coffin for figurative art was driven in by Charles Darwin. No great artist had ever been confused about his origin as a species. And what are the results? Science has become largely a religion of first-world atheists, with a vicious backlash toward those with opposing views; their destructive effects on everyday society have been reflected in artistic trends. One need only read these lines from the futurist manifesto of Umberto Boccioni from 1910 to understand their intentional desecration:

Destroy the cult of the past, the obsession with the ancients . . . Elevate all attempts of originality, however daring, however violent. . . . Support and glory in our day-to-day world, a world which is going to be continually and splendidly transformed by victorious Science.8

Consequently, the artistic figurative dilemma of the past century was in fact a highly calculated attack by opponents of Christianity. Today this is linked to the current decline in childbirth, the agenda to change the traditional definition of marriage, and gender confusion. These are many of the reasons why secular artistic and social currents cannot be integrated into the life and liturgy of the Church, and Christian artists have a duty to fight this “dictatorship of relativism” with a sword of truth and shield of moral objectivity, firmly rooted in tradition.

We must also ask prudently, what is the forecast? Perhaps Rodin may have given us the answer in 1911 in Rome, as quoted by the Duchess de Choiseul: “[Rodin] had admired Bernini’s work and everything to do with 17th century architecture, then very much out of fashion—but ‘fashions will change,’ he predicted, and the baroque and Jesuit styles will regain their prestige.”9

In conclusion, I present these ideas about sacred art:

1. Beauty and truth are synonymous, and beauty cannot possibly exist for its own sake, as everything beautiful originates in God.

2. An artist should avoid an arrogant obsession with originality, for there is nothing more original than the perfect Sacrifice of Christ; He is our originality, and He will always “make things anew.”10

3. Christ’s salvation is eternal, and the Church is an immoveable “pillar and foundation of truth.”11 A true work of art should transform us and transcend fleeting superficiality, speaking to all generations.

4. Art cannot be limited to one canon or based entirely upon the quantitative interpretation of nature.12 The iconography of the saints should be formed upon their individual charisms (i.e., Saint Teresa of Bernini is idealized, whereas Saint Philip Neri and Saint Ignatius are often depicted naturalistically).

5. One of the essential characteristics of Truth is clarity; artistic and cultural trends born in opposition to Christ, the Church, and Sacred Tradition are entirely incompatible with the life of the faith and should not be introduced to the Church in any way.13

6. The observation and interpretation of the natural world should always be accompanied by the study of the great masters in the light of our rich living tradition.14

7. Blue jeans do not give a figurative work a modern message. Caravaggio may have used modern dress, though at the time their clothing was beautiful. Just because it worked for Caravaggio does not mean it will work for us. Besides, Bernini said Caravaggio lacked invention!15

8. Jesus and the Blessed Virgin should not look like any ordinary individual. Christ is both human and divine, and Our Lady was born without original sin. They should be composed ideally based upon centuries of successful interpretation.

9. Avoid sentimentality! Seek harmony in proportion and sincerity of expression.

10. Do not lose hope and do not compromise!

Saint Michael the Archangel at Saint Patrick Church in New Orleans, Louisiana, sculpture by Cody Swanson

Saint Michael the Archangel at Saint Patrick Church in New Orleans, Louisiana, sculpture by Cody Swanson. Photo: Cody Swanson

Presentation by Cody Swanson for the workshop Christian Art & the Corporeal at the conclusion of the exhibit In One Flesh at the Opera del Duomo museum in Florence.

Cody Joseph Swanson is an artist and instructor who resides in Florence, Italy with his wife and five children. He holds a Masters in Liturgy, Sacred Art and Architecture from the Pontifical Athenaeum Regina Apostolorum, and is a graduate of the Florence Academy of Art, where he also taught for five years. Swanson’s numerous award-winning works can be found all over the United States and Italy. In addition to his professional vocation as a sculptor he is also a board and faculty member of the Sacred Art School of Florence.


1. Paul Freart de Chantelou, Diary of the Cavaliere Bernini’s Visit to France (Princeton University Press, 1985), 9.

2. Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger, The Spirit of the Liturgy (San Francisco, Ignatius Press, 2000), 60.

3. Ephesians 3:8–9: “To me, the very least of all the holy ones, this grace was given, to preach to the Gentiles the inscrutable riches of Christ, and to bring to light [for all] what is the plan of the mystery hidden from ages past in God who created all things” (New American Bible).

4. Glenn Gould, “An Argument for Richard Strauss,” The Glenn Gould Reader (Alfred A. Knopf Inc., New York, 1985), 92.

5. T.S. Eliot, “Choruses from The Rock,” in Selected Poems (Faber and Faber, London, 1954), 109.

6. Ibid., 106.

7. Rachel Corbett, You Must Change Your Life: The Story of Rilke and Rodin (W. W. Norton & Company, 2016), 23.

8. Umberto Boccioni, “Manifesto of Futurist Painters,” Documents of 20th Century Art: Futurist Manifestos (Viking Press, New York, 1973), 24–27.

9. Frederic V. Grunfeld, Rodin, A Biography (Henry Holt and Co., New York, 1987), 602–3.

10. Revelation 21:5: “The one who sat on the throne said, ‘Behold, I make all things new.’ Then he said, ‘Write these words down, for they are trustworthy and true’” (New American Bible).

11. Timothy 3:15: “But if I should be delayed, you should know how to behave in the household of God, which is the church of the living God, the pillar and foundation of truth” (New American Bible).

12. “Nature, because of many accidents, almost never brings its products, and man in particular, to total perfection, or even to a greater degree of beauty than ugliness . . . and I do not know whether all the beauty that a human body can possess has ever been seen all together in one man; but one might well say that we can see one part in this man and another in that other, and that, scattered among many men, we can find it in its entirety.” (Vincenzo Danti, “The Treatise on Perfect Proportions” in Italian Art 1500–1600 [Northwestern University Press, Illinois, 1966], 104.)

13. “‘Rock’ . . . is the expression of elemental passions, and at rock festivals it assumes a cultic character, a form of worship, in fact, in opposition to Christian worship. People are . . . released from themselves by the experience of being part of a crowd and by the emotional shock of rhythm, noise, and special lighting effects. However, in the ecstasy of having all their defenses torn down, the participants sink, as it were, beneath the elemental force of the universe. The music of the Holy Spirit’s sober inebriation seems to have little chance when self has become a prison, the mind is a shackle, and breaking out from both appears as a true promise of redemption that can be tasted at least for a few moments. . . . Not every kind of music can have a place in Christian worship. It has its standards, and that standard is the Logos. If we want to know whom we are dealing with, the Holy Spirit or the unholy spirit, we have to remember that it is the Holy Spirit who moves us to say, ‘Jesus is Lord’” (1 Cor 12:3). (Ratzinger, Spirit of the Liturgy, 147–8), 151.

14. “He gave it as his opinion that the Academy ought to possess casts of all the notable statues, bas-reliefs, and busts of antiquity. These would serve to educate young students; they should be taught to draw after these classical models and in that way form a conception of the beautiful that would serve them all their lives. . . . for if their imagination has nothing but nature to feed on, they will be unable to put forth anything of strength or beauty; for nature itself is devoid of both strength and beauty, and artists who study it should first be skilled in recognizing its faults and correcting them; something that students who lack grounding cannot do.” (Chantelou, Bernini’s Visit to France, 106.)

15. “Collectively his work is called ‘Baroque,’ a term which defines it and yet is defined by it. The truth is more complicated, and deeply involved with classicism. Raphael he admired for his talent in arranging figures and for the purity of his drawing. Painting by the ‘classical’ Annibale Carraci met with his approval, while he brushed off the radically ‘Baroque’ Caravaggio as a painter possessing ‘neither spirit nor invention.’ The contemporary he favored particularly was Guido Reni, another artist who also mingled ‘Classical’ and ‘Baroque.’ But Bernini was not responsive to theory, and like most artists, was indifferent to labels.” (Robert T. Petersson, Bernini and the Excesses of Art [Artout-Maschiettoeditore, Florence, Italy, 2003], pp. 29–30.)

| Recapturing Sacred Art from Secular Bondage

Recapturing Sacred Art from Secular Bondage

Art history, which came of age during the secularizing nineteenth century, has spent over a century grappling with the problem of interpreting religious imagery. In our forensic society, the fact that Giotto, Michelangelo, and Leonardo never left explanatory texts to assure the faithful of their artistic intentions has opened a door to a relativist school of interpretation. The history of art often seems submerged in a quagmire of interpretative methodologies from the purely stylistic to the doggedly archival to the mood swings of Marxist, gender, or psychological approaches. The problematic fallout is that the titillating-yet-unsubstantiated explanation of a sacred image can be considered as possessing equal merit as the most well-documented hypotheses.

Dr. Chloë Reddaway brings much-needed order to these proceedings in her book Transformations in Persons and Paint: Visual Theology, Historical Images, and the Modern Viewer, pointing out that a chapel functions as a space for religious activity—prayer, liturgy, the sacrifice of the Mass—and that the formal decisions of the artist in the manipulation of pictorial space, the use of directed light, and the plasticity of the figures are often influenced by the theological content of the subject of the fresco cycle.

Reddaway does this in the most compelling of ways—bringing her reader to visit the most famous chapels in Florence (along with the enchanting convent of San Marco) and offering new and rich insights into these very familiar images.

These “sacred tours” commence with a description of the cycle (accompanied by splendid illustrations). Reddaway then presents the most authoritative interpretations to date by the finest scholars on the subject. Many readers will recognize the names of John Spike, Eve Boorsok, Marilyn Lavin, and Irwin Panofsky, luminaries in the history of art. From scene to scene the reader learns the story, analyzes the work, and hears what sounds like a fulfilling interpretation.

The author then adds a new component to this 20/20 vision of art history: the lens of theological interpretation. These frescoes, viewed through the belief in the Incarnation, the constant need for conversion, and humanity’s ultimate destiny and desire to return to God, reveal the secret of their continued attraction for viewers. Empty space in Santa Croce’s Bardi Chapel becomes an invitation to enter into faith; a few steps away in the Baroncelli Chapel, light not only flaunts the art-historical achievement of a night scene, but describes revealed Truth.

The enhanced vision of these six spaces is part of Reddaway’s larger ambition to create a “methodology for the theological interpretations of images.” Art history has waited a long time for this interpretative key. Michael Baxandall’s Painting and Experience in Renaissance Italy (1988) started considering the devotional use of art, then Pamela Jones analyzed five altarpieces in Altarpieces and Their Viewers in the Churches of Rome from Caravaggio to Guido Reni (2008), blending documentary erudition with careful consideration of the religious sensitivities of the viewers. Reddaway goes a step further, drawing the viewer into each scene, as the artists clearly intended, and indicating the potentially transformative spiritual experience that chapel art was expected to produce both in Renaissance Florence and in Counter-Reformation Rome.

The book makes important strides in Reddaway’s work to construct a methodology to pinpoint specifically Christian elements in art. In ReVisioning: Critical Methods of Seeing Christianity in the History of Art (eds. James Romaine and Linda Stratford, 2013), Dr. Reddaway outlined a critical method that would allow for theological hermeneutics and reception studies to assist traditional art-historical analysis in revealing the eschatological meaning within a work of art. This book road-tests her methodology to great success.

The one drawback in the work is that while the painting of Giotto, Ghirlandaio, and Fra Angelico mimicked the accessible preaching style of their patrons, and their open spaces or familiar details helped to bring mysteries and miracles into an easy-to-understand context, Reddaway’s writing can be a little pedantic, occasionally to the detriment of the engaging nature of her subject. Sharper editing might have captured the reader right away with the wondrous art, preparing the nonspecialist to follow Reddaway’s methodology with an example in mind. Editing also might have caught a couple of minor errors (i.e., Pope Clement VII as son of Lorenzo de’Medici), which, while unfortunate, do not seriously interfere with the scholarly effort of this book.

Chloë Reddaway offers more than just new insights into old Florentine favorites; she lays down a framework to recapture sacred art from its secular bondage with a critical method that future art historians will hopefully be inspired to employ and develop.

Elizabeth Lev is an art historian who teaches, studies and writes in Rome with a special focus on Renaissance and Baroque art. Her most recent book is How Catholic Art Saved the Faith: The Triumph of Beauty and Truth in Counter-Reformation Art.

| Moderate and Humble Houses

Moderate and Humble Houses



Ever wondered why religious orders dedicated to poverty would build enormous churches filled with monuments to the wealthy and masterpieces of art? According to this wonderful history by Caroline Bruzelius, these are questions that members of the Franciscan and Dominican orders argued about from the beginning. Though both were mendicant (begging) orders, they had very different foundings. The Franciscans began as a lay movement while the Dominicans were founded as clerical preachers. That led to a greater emphasis on hierarchy, order, and stability among the Ordo Praedicatorum. While often building their churches outside the city center where land was available and there was less competition with secular parishes, the mendicants also took over declining Benedictine monasteries in the city centers. Early on the Dominicans embraced the architecture of the monastic cloister along with the chapter house and the separate monastic choir. The Franciscans followed suit.

Both orders had rules against owning land and buildings or dealing with money, but their rapid success required them to find ways to build. Sometimes planned from the beginning, other times growing organically, large mendicant complexes were constructed in phases. Typically, friars were given a small chapel to use that would be replaced by a larger chapel for the religious community (with little emphasis on the laity). Later, this church would be replaced or added onto with a nave for the laity. Generals of the orders, such as Bonaventure, wrote against size, height, ostentation, stained glass, and lay burials. However, from early on, greater dignity was permitted for the choir and sanctuary areas. This resulted in naves for the laity with simple brick columns and trussed ceilings separated from the nave of the friars, which would have more ornate columns, vaulted ceilings, and side chapels. The allowance for vaulted ceilings gave the apse and choir greater importance as well as better acoustics. The popularity of pilgrimages to Assisi after the death of Saint Francis led to the construction of a unique and beautifully decorated basilica for his tomb. It also inspired the Dominicans to renovate and rename their mother church in Bologna as a pilgrimage site for Saint Dominic.

One of the early distinguishing characteristics of the mendicants, appreciated by popes and reform-minded bishops, was their emphasis on outdoor preaching against heresy. Some communes supported this activity by assisting in the construction of churches and in the clearing of large piazze for preaching. A good example of this is the piazza nuova in front of Santa Maria Novella in Florence, designated by the city as a site for preaching in perpetuity. Moveable wooden pulpits were employed in the piazze, and in some cases stone pulpits were built onto the church exteriors such as at San Eustorgio in Milan, San Domenico in Bologna (demolished), and San Domenico in Naples. Later, large stone pulpits with sculptural panels were built inside mendicant churches on the laity side of the rood screen.

This is a story of two great religious orders that saw tremendous growth during the Middle Ages. In spite of their founding emphasis on poverty and serving the poor, success necessitated architecture. Generally the mendicants started with simple structures that later had their walls demolished so that apses and naves could be extended and side chapels built onto them. Theirs was an architecture of accretion. But how did all of this get paid for, if the friars were not supposed to own land or employ money? By the laity, both the wealthy and the middle class. The Franciscan and Dominican orders were founded to root out heresy, so naturally they later became the inquisitors, which they often benefited from financially. This and the assistance friars gave in the development of wills and donations for intercessory prayer and burial brought in large sums of money. Bruzelius cites many examples of abuses by the Franciscans and Dominicans that should temper the popular belief that the Gothic period was the golden age of Christianity. However, these great buildings continue to preach the truths of the faith and witness to the devotion inspired by the followers of Saints Francis and Dominic.

Duncan G. Stroik is the editor of Sacred Architecture Journal.

| Writings of a Prolific Architect

Writings of a Prolific Architect

Illuminated letters from Pugin. The left to J.R. Bloxam, fellow of Magdalen College, Oxford, Pugin’s principal liaison with the Oxford Movement. The right to J.F. Russell, member of the Cambridge Camden Society.

Illuminated letters from Pugin. The left to J.R. Bloxam, fellow of Magdalen College, Oxford, Pugin’s principal liaison with the Oxford Movement. The right to J.F. Russell, member of the Cambridge Camden Society.

This book is the final volume of the letters of Augustus Welby Pugin (1812–1852), the man most responsible for the nineteenth-century Gothic Revival. He designed Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament, six cathedrals, sixty churches, monasteries, convents, homes for retirees and construction workers, and more, as well as everything inside and out of these structures: gargoyles, doors, floor tiles, candelabras (or Pugin’s term “coronas”), crucifixes, altar linen and vestments, chalices, stained-glass windows, umbrella holders—everything.

A self-taught architect, Pugin died at age forty after a working life of only fifteen years. This volume includes his formal letters to editors (e.g., March 9, 1851, to the Tablet and Catholic Standard); 50 letters concerning his March 1851 An Earnest Address on the Establishment of the Hierarchy following the pope’s reestablishment of the hierarchy in 1850 that had resulted in antipapal riots; 25 on his newly published A Treatise on Chancel Screens and Rood Lofts; 225 on the Houses of Parliament with the House of Commons to open in February 1852 (he made over two thousand drawings); and over 100 concerning his stunning marketing success, his “Medieval Court,” filled with examples of his work, at London’s 1851 Great Exhibition, to which came six million people, equivalent to a third of the population of Great Britain. The young (age thirty-two) Queen Victoria visited Pugin’s Medieval Court twice.

Margaret Belcher, the editor of all five volumes, died in November 2016 at the age of eighty. She was a retired senior lecturer in English at the University of Canterbury, Christchurch, New Zealand. She authored a highly regarded chapter entitled “Pugin Writings” for the book published in conjunction with the 1994 Pugin exhibition at the Victoria & Albert Museum. She devoted six of her eleven pages to explaining why Pugin’s first book, Contrasts, self-published in 1836 at age twenty-four, was more than a work of architectural history or criticism, but a work of literature. And she devoted three pages to the Earnest Address.

In 1987, Dr. Belcher published A.W.N. Pugin: An Annotated Critical Bibliography. That same year, she started working on Pugin’s letters. She collected, from a large array of sources, all the letters Pugin had written. She also collected all the letters she could find written to Pugin. Pugin had routinely destroyed letters he received, but he forwarded some to other people who saved them.

Dr. Belcher transcribed all from longhand. Many of the letters were written when Pugin was traveling by stagecoach and, later, the early trains; and during this period he suffered frequent severe illnesses, facts that did not make his penmanship clearer: “It is awful travelling by rail now there are such accidents everywhere & I will not travel after dark”; “I was seized in the Carriage going to Exeter with intense pain . . . my dear Friend I can assure you all joking apart that in London I thought I was struck with Death.”

In her introduction to the first volume, which appeared in 2001, Dr. Belcher included “Editorial Procedure,” which is not repeated in subsequent volumes. She informed her readers that she would not change the spelling, punctuation, or capitalization of Pugin’s letters lest this interrupt the reader’s attention. She also described her conventions for italicizing or boldfacing the text. If Pugin included a sketch in a letter, she indicates such. If a word is illegible, she indicates this too.

Dr. Belcher gives her opinions on the identity of unidentified recipients and on the dates of undated letters. Her detective work was so thorough that there are only twelve pages of letters she despaired of dating; she placed them in this final volume. Also in this final volume are eighty-four pages of letters that she obtained after the first four volumes were printed. And there is one page of errata for the previous four volumes.

There are over three thousand pages in the five volumes, plus introductions, indices, and black-and-white figures and plates. Moreover, they are squeezed in by using 9-point type for regular text and 7-point type for notes and the letters to Pugin.

All the notes for a letter follow that letter. The notes cross-reference Pugin’s cryptic diary entries. They include explanations of phrases like “to have the weather gauge” and “I throw the Hatchet.” For every correspondent or person mentioned in the letters, the editor provided full name, age, role, relationship with Pugin, occupation, and place of residence. Pugin wrote some letters in French, but they are not translated.

Dr. Belcher succeeded immensely in exhaustive, painstaking work.

James M. Thunder is an environmental lawyer who reviewed two books about his ancestor, A.W. Pugin, for SACRED ARCHITECTURE (Summer 1999). He is writing a book on Faith-Based Land Use Planning and welcomes comments.

| Priest of the Via Pulchritudinis: Father Michael Morris, O.P.

Priest of the Via Pulchritudinis: Father Michael Morris, O.P.

This homily was given at the Funeral Mass for Father Michael Thomas Morris, O.P., on Friday, July 22, 2016, at Saint Albert’s Priory in Oakland, California. Father Morris entered the Order of Preachers in 1971 and was ordained a priest in 1977. He taught at the Dominican School of Philosophy and Theology in Berkeley, California, and served as director of the Sante Fe Institute, also known as the Blackfriars Institute for Religion and the Arts. Father Morris was well known for his essays on sacred art in the devotional publication Magnificat and was a contributor to Sacred Architecture.

We suffer the loss of Father Michael Thomas Morris of the Order of Preachers, not simply because he was an exceptional son and brother, Dominican friar, priest, and teacher, author, artist, and friend, but because he was onto something that we cannot live without.

I. It is the subject of Pope Saint John Paul II’s 1999 Letter to Artists, which must have been the cause of some euphoria for Father Michael when it was published, since that letter expresses the very substance of his superlative heart.

Saint John Paul wrote: “This world in which we live needs beauty in order not to sink into despair.”1

Back in the fifth century BC, the philosopher Plato said that it is beauty that draws our heart out of accommodation with daily routine, and that keeps it from decaying into nothingness.

Beauty possesses the power to overcome our crippling resistance.

Monsignor Luigi Giussani, Servant of God, once remarked: “The motivation for saying ‘yes’ to something that comes into our life, defeating all preconceptions, is beauty.”2

II. Even more, there is a direct link between the beauty of art and the human longing for God. In that Letter to Artists, Saint John Paul tells us:

Art remains a kind of bridge to religious experience. Insofar as it seeks the beautiful, . . . art is . . . a kind of appeal to the mystery. . . . True beauty . . . open[s] the human soul to the sense of the eternal. . . . Beauty . . . stirs that hidden nostalgia for God.3

John Paul’s successor, Pope Benedict XVI, was to echo this:

Art is capable of making visible our need to go beyond what we see, and it reveals our thirst for infinite beauty, for God.4

And the current Holy Father, Pope Francis, himself adopts the theme:

Every expression of true beauty can . . . be acknowledged as a path leading to an encounter with the Lord Jesus.5

Why such unshakeable conviction about the religious potential of art and beauty?

The French playwright Jean Anouilh said it best: because “beauty is one of the rare things that do not lead to doubt of God.”

III. But the question is: Where can you find a person who takes the evangelical power of beauty seriously?

That is why God raised up Dominican Father Michael Thomas Morris.

Father Michael was tuned in to a truth well expressed by Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger:

The Church is to transform, improve, “humanize” the world—but how can she do that if at the same time she turns her back on beauty, which is so closely allied to love? For together, beauty and love form the true consolation in the world, bringing it as near as possible to the world of the Resurrection.6

With ominous foreboding, the great twentieth-century theologian Father Hans Urs von Balthasar warned that “whoever sneers at [beauty’s] name as if she were the ornament of a bourgeois past . . . can no longer pray and soon will no longer be able to love.”7

Ratzinger goes one step further in a statement some may find shocking: “A theologian who does not love art, poetry, music, and nature can be dangerous.”8

That is the reason why, for us, Father Michael Morris, true son of Saint Dominic and true brother of Blessed Fra Angelico—twin brother!—was so irresistible.

Saint Dominic at the Foot of the Cross by Fra Angelico in the convent of S. Marco, Florence

Saint Dominic at the Foot of the Cross by Fra Angelico in the convent of S. Marco, Florence. Photo:

More than a PhD in art history and professor of religion and the arts, Father Michael was a kind of prophet, in this sense: a prophet is someone who announces the significance of the world and the value of life.9

For example, when Father Michael’s cancer doctor delivered his devastating diagnosis of stage 4 colon cancer, Father Michael listened to the news and responded with complete peacefulness—nonplussed, composed, resigned.

The doctor was taken aback by this. Really? No agitation; no anger; not even a slight sign of surprise. Alarmed, the doctor spoke up again, repeating more clearly the terrible news. And, again, Father Michael stayed totally serene—nonchalant even.

This only unnerved the doctor, who feared Father Michael wasn’t really grasping what he was trying to communicate to him, or that he was in denial. So the doctor said to him directly and rather bluntly, “You’re going to die, you know.” And Father Michael, the picture of tranquility, replied, “Yes, I know. I understand.”

Well, the doctor was utterly undone by this. He told Father Michael that he had never met a patient who ever received such a dire diagnosis so calmly and acceptingly.

He then confessed to Father Michael that he himself was an atheist. And he went on to ask Father Michael this question: “Do you think the reason why you have no fear of death is because you are a Catholic priest?” Father Michael thought about it, and said in answer, “I suppose so.”

In one of his beautiful art commentaries, Father Michael speaks a truth that he himself exemplified, and that very likely he learned from his special patron, Saint Mary Magdalene, whose feast day is today, and in whose parish he was so honored and delighted to live and serve:

The cradle of contemplation begins at the foot of the Cross, in close proximity to the source of all grace. For it is there that one can penetrate the mysteries of salvation and gain true understanding.10

IV. Father Michael showed his prophetic grace in the wondrous way he looked at art and enabled us all to see.

The art-historical eye sees all! He held a deep conviction regarding artists: they are not just architects, sculptors, musicians, poets, and painters, but veritable preachers.

When we can see what they say, we receive what we need.

Father Michael had a large, ancient, painted wooden statue of Saint John the Baptist ensconced on a pillar in the corner of his bedroom—an object of his devotion.

In the Gospel, John the Baptist, seeing Jesus walk by, is so struck, so overcome by the beauty of Jesus Christ, that he can’t help himself. Intuiting something that Pope John Paul II would explicitly teach—“The Church needs art [in order to communicate the message entrusted to her by Christ]”11—John the Baptist is moved to point out Jesus to the world by way of a symbol in an artistic image: the Lamb of God.

Saint John the Baptist by Juan Van Der Hamen, 1625

Saint John the Baptist by Juan Van Der Hamen, 1625. Photo:

And he instructs us: “Behold!” (which means a lot more than just “Look at him”). Father Michael’s genius was in the way he understood, practiced, and taught us “beholding”—because the ability to behold is a gift. “Beholding beauty is . . . a [method] of . . . trans-formation [by which we are able] to respond to God’s beauty in grace and so be gradually deified [made God-like], becoming more able to see beauty as [we] become more beautiful.”12

This is why we pray those words—“Behold the Lamb of God”—at Mass as a most proper way of preparing ourselves just before we receive Holy Communion.

In all he taught us, in all he preached to us, in all he shared with us, Father Michael so well communicated an insight of Saint John Paul II:

Beauty makes one feel the beginning of . . . fulfillment, and seems to whisper to us: “You will not be unhappy; the desire of your heart will be fulfilled—what is more, it is already being fulfilled.”13

V. Father Michael could not have foreseen the radical evangelical initiative that Pope Francis would launch in his apostolic exhortation Evangelii Gaudium—The Joy of the Gospel.

The pope there calls for “a renewed esteem for beauty [that serves] as a means of touching the human heart.” He says that “each particular Church should encourage the use of the arts in evangelization” and that “we must be bold enough to discover new signs and new symbols . . . [that] prove particularly attractive for others,”14 because “the Church grows by attraction.”15

Pope Francis calls this new initiative the via pulchritudinis—the “way of beauty”—and he declares that “a formation in the via pulchritudinis ought to be part of our effort to pass on the Faith.”

No brag, just fact—who could name a more outstanding patron, formator, and priestly proponent of the via pulchritudinis than Father Michael Morris?

It is not a coincidence that, during these eighteen years of the publication of Magnificat, one remark that is invariably made to me again and again, when I have the chance to travel and meet subscribers to the magazine, is “When my Magnificat arrives in the mail, the first thing I read each month is Father Michael Morris’s art essay.” The via pulchritudinis in action!

VI. But, of course, as Pope Benedict reminded us, “the truest beauty is the love of God.”16

And to be true to this truest beauty, Father Michael was the truest and most generous of friends, who lavished the love of God on others in gracious and extravagant ways.

Just one story: In addition to all his many other astonishing talents, Father Michael was a marvelous cook. He loved food. He loved to talk about food. He referred to delicious food “ambrosia.”

Keep this in mind now as we travel back to one week ago—to last Friday, the day Father Michael died. He was returning from a treatment at the hospital. I was accompanying him. As we walked in the corridor of the rectory that leads to his bedroom, Father Michael became short of breath.

He slumped against the wall. I rushed right behind him. And then I held him as he collapsed to the floor, fighting hard to breathe.

I called 911. I gave Father Michael absolution. Very quickly, the EMTs came. As they were performing CPR, I saw Father Michael’s dear friend of decades, Dominican Father Michael Carey, arrive, across the way from me. I called to him to come around to the other side of the hallway where I was, and to bring the holy oils so that we could anoint Father Michael, administering the Sacrament of the Sick.

Father Carey had just moved to Saint Mary Magdalen and did not yet have the chance to unpack his holy oil stocks. So I asked him to go down to the kitchen and bring up some cooking oil—which he did. Father Carey blessed the oil, crawled on the floor close to his beloved friend of so many years, and then anointed him, giving Father Michael the Last Rites of the Church.

Now I have to tell you this: no one besides Father Michael Morris would have been so delighted by the fact that his ultimate, sacramental entrance into the long-awaited eternity of God’s Paradise was expedited by means of Kirkland Signature Greek Olive Oil.

Extra virgin.


The official, recorded time of Father Michael’s death was 4:15 p.m.—“Around four in the afternoon.17 Saint John the Evangelist wanted to be sure that the approximate time of their encounter with Jesus was specified in his Gospel so that at four p.m. every day they would remember what had happened to them and relive the wonder of meeting the Man who changed everything in their lives. May we do the same.

On the day of Father Michael’s death, Friday, July 15, Pope Francis sent a telegram to all the Dominican provincials of the world, assembled these days in a General Chapter in Bologna, Italy. In that telegram, the Holy Father declares: “Dominicans should be signs of the nearness and tenderness of God.”

Father Michael, we thank you for being an obedient Dominican—for being such a loving, compelling sign of the nearness and tenderness of God.

We beg you, Blessed Virgin Mary, Most Holy Mother of God: Behold your son, Michael, and love him who so loved you.

O Lord, grant eternal rest to Father Michael, and let perpetual Beauty shine upon him.

Rev. Peter John Cameron, O.P., is chairman of the department of homiletics at Saint Joseph’s Seminary—Dunwoodie, New York, the artistic director of Blackfriars Repertory Theatre in New York City, and the editor-in-chief of Magnificat.


1. Letter to Artists, no. 11.

2. 1998 Fraternity Exercises, 16.

3. Letter to Artists, no. 16.

4. General Audience, August 31, 2011.

5. Evangelii Gaudium, no. 167.

6. The Feast of Faith, 124–125.

7. The Glory of the Lord—Volume 1, 18–19.

8. The Ratzinger Report, 130.

9. An insight of Monsignor Luigi Giussani, Servant of God


11. Letter to Artists, no. 12.

12. Fr. Gabriel Torretta, O.P., Beholding Beauty: A Theological Aesthetics of Deification (Tesina, Pontifical Faculty of Theology of the Immaculate Conception, Washington, D.C., March, 2015), 72.

13. Message to Rimini, August 20, 2002.

14. Evangelii Gaudium, no. 167.

15. Ibid., no. 14.

16. Sacramentum Caritatis, no. 35.

17. John 1:39

| The Alliance des Arts, The Chapelle des Lazaristes and the Reliquary Shrine of Saint Vincent de Paul

The Alliance des Arts, The Chapelle des Lazaristes and the Reliquary Shrine of Saint Vincent de Paul

Fig. 1. Old Saint-Lazare. Vintage postcard of “Prison Saint-Lazare,” which features the entry portal of the former motherhouse prior to demolition in 1940. Photo: DePaul University Special Collections and Archives

I. The Historical, Geographic, and Architectural Foundations: Hittorff, Gallois, and Étienne

Located at number 93 rue de Sèvres, and just down the block from the Bon Marché department store in the chic VIème arrondissement, is the Chapelle des Lazaristes, which exemplifies the Catholic Renouveau movement of nineteenth-century France. This is the motherhouse church of the Congregation of the Mission, founded in 1624 by the French Apostle of Charity, Saint Vincent de Paul (1581–1660). But their chapelle is also poised on the street to welcome the faithful to venerate the saint’s reliquary shrine. As such, this setup reprises the Congregation’s first motherhouse chapel at Saint-Lazare in the present-day Xème, which functioned up to the French Revolution. And open-door access was enhanced in 1685, when the church got imbedded into a sprawling new streetwall on the main road of rue du Faubourg-Saint Denis. Alas, these very buildings were converted into a municipal prison upon their confiscation in 1792, and the proud entry portal stood upright until the walls came down in 1940 (Fig. 1). In contrast the ancient church was swiftly demolished, but only after sympathetic officials quietly handed over the intact skeleton of Saint Vincent de Paul to the Congregation. Then on the other side of the Revolution, the secured corpse was prepared for a celebratory reinstallation in “New” Saint-Lazare on rue de Sèvres, which was awarded as compensation to the priests by Louis XVIII in 1817, at the vanguard of the Bourbon Restoration (1815–1830). This replacement motherhouse was in fact the former Hôtel de Lorges, an aristocratic hôtel particulier named for the last owner who had fled at the outbreak of revolution.

Fig. 2. Jacobs and Blanchard. Plan de Paris … Enceinte de Paris sous Louis Philippe 1er; engraved map, undated but executed in the July Monarchy of Louis-Philippe d’Orléans, 1830-1848. Photo: DePaul University Special Collections and Archives

The two sites provide the anchors for my analysis of Saint Vincent de Paul’s respective reliquary shrines: the vintage map indicates that “Old” Saint-Lazare is on the Right Bank, clear across the River Seine from “New” Saint-Lazare on the Left Bank (Fig. 2). And these properties were unrelated in respect to their past histories and by every other account, except for one striking historical fact that linked them together in the Restoration; and this connecting thread is illuminated through their sacred architecture: the classical, or Néogrec, façade of the Chapelle des Lazaristes on rue de Sèvres (Fig. 5) appears to reflect, if in a flatter and cheaper mode, and on a reduced scale, the portico of the grandiose church of Saint-Vincent-de-Paul (Fig. 3). Even after listing the other classical churches that went up around Paris at this time, it must be emphasized that these two alone were committed to the name and memory of Vincent de Paul. And their “partnering” came about because the basilica was positioned upon the highest hill of Old Saint-Lazare. That is, while the prison system was appropriating the buildings and grounds near the road (as we know), the internal wheatfields were parcelled and sold to developers—except for the crest of the hill, which was reserved as emplacement by the Crown of Louis XVIII for a parish church. This privileged structure became the showpiece of Jacques-Ignace Hittorff (1792–1867), the renowned professor of architecture at the École des Beaux-Arts, who took charge after his father-in-law Jean-Baptiste Lepère (1761–1844) had stepped aside. Hittorff’s work commenced in 1824, and the long-awaited dedication took place on October 21, 1844, in the monarchy of Louis-Philippe d’Orléans. The plan and grandeur of Hittorff’s Saint-Vincent-de-Paul were meant to imitate the Early Christian basilicas of Rome, above all San Paolo fuori le Mura. Luxuriously decorated besides on the façade and porch and throughout the interior, the programming was effectively based on the architect’s summary of 1838 (published 1842), although embellishments to the nave walls, high altar, apse, and windows were prolonged over several decades and into the Second Empire of Louis-Napoléon (Fig. 4). The décor was implemented by Hittorff’s chosen artists as a collective apology of his strong opinions on ancient polychromy, for he achieved notoriety in claiming, with defiance even, that the surfaces of Greek and Roman temples were covered with saturated encaustic paint, just as the walls of ancient churches were carpeted with vivid mosaic tile.

Fig. 3. Old Saint-Lazare. The parish church of Saint-Vincent-de-Paul, which was built by Jacques-Ignace Hittorff, beginning in 1824 and consecrated in 1844, view of the exterior and the street. Photo: DePaul University Special Collections and Archives

Fig. 4. Old Saint-Lazare. Interior view of the church of Saint-Vincent-de-Paul. Photo: J-M Drouet –

In now turning to the Chapelle des Lazaristes, I have identified Paul-Marie Gallois (1825–1889) as its architect from the sources in the motherhouse archives of New Saint-Lazare. He arrived in 1848 at age twenty-four, fresh out of the École des Beaux-Arts, having taken the First Class Prize there in 1847; and in looking ahead, he would be decorated as Chevalier in the Legion d’honneur (August 13, 1888) in the year before his death. Instead of visiting Italy, Gallois went to work; and his life-long career fast became the grands travaux for the chapelle and Hôtel de Lorges compound. In drawing from the scrupulous example set by Hittorff at Saint-Vincent-de-Paul, the Chapelle des Lazaristes similarly features a trabeated colonnade and second-story tribune. Moreover, in wielding polychromy to the extent of setting his elements ablaze in technicolor, Gallois offers a pristine case for Hittorff’s doctrines on Néogrec architecture—since his space even more closely actualized them than the grandstanding basilica did! Its richness may now be savored thanks to the recent campaigns of cleaning and conservation (1985–1992), which accompanied the installation of modern mechanical systems. However, in a departure from Hittorff’s obligation to equip a new parish church—in an equally new residential quartier—with splendid furnishings à l’époque (La Belle Époque!), the purpose of the Chapelle des Lazaristes was to spotlight the saint’s reliquary châsse, which marked the top note in the vanishing point of Gallois’s perspective alignment in the nave (Fig. 6).

Fig. 5. New Saint-Lazare. Vintage postcard of the rue de Sèvres showing the exterior façade of the Chapelle des Lazaristes, which was built by and decorated under Paul-Marie Gallois largely in the mid-1850s. Photo: DePaul University Special Collections and Archives

Fig. 6. New Saint-Lazare. Chapelle des Lazaristes, interior view photographed in 1984-1985 during renovations undertaken by the architects Alain M. Cluzet, Rémy de Sèze, and Yves Théry. Photo: Archives de la Maison-Mère, Congregation de la Mission, Paris

In other words, the dramatic framing of the shrine was the rationale behind all the grands travaux that proclaim Gallois’s allegiance to Hittorff. But far from designing his church from scratch, Gallois had to negotiate constants that were fixed in place: the reliquary casket itself, the extant church in which it was mounted, and the second (that is, replacement) high altar, which got underway soon after his arrival in 1848. First of all, the châsse bearing the saint’s corpse had been borne to New Saint-Lazare on April 25, 1830, in the ceremony of Solemn Translation, whence it was placed upon the altar table in the “primitive” Chapelle des Lazaristes; this had been raised by Philibert Vasserot (1773–1844) in haste over an eighteen-month period and was consecrated on November 1, 1827. Its only known plan is included on the Grand Atlas of Paris, which Vasserot himself had rendered, but the appearance of the interior was not recorded. Our information must therefore be stitched together from the primary sources, conservation reports, and communiqués over its consideration as a Monument Historique. Altogether, these texts reveal that Vasserot’s chapelle was small and had a single nave whose walls were articulated by blind arcades (arcatures) separated by pilasters, and that the ceiling was a ribbed barrel vault (en berceau). Was it intended to be provisional? Its rebuilding seemed inevitable—and the opportune moment came a half generation later with the election of a fiercely ambitious superior general. Jean-Baptiste Étienne (1801–1874) arrived at New Saint-Lazare in 1820 and became one of the first novices and ordinands since the Revolution; his rise in leadership was unstoppable for he was appointed to procurateur general while still in his twenties, in 1827.

Being elected superior general in 1843 allowed Étienne to unleash his own vision for the chapelle in anticipating the bicentennial of Saint Vincent de Paul’s death in 1860—that is, once the ecclesiatical realms got restabilized in both the July Monarchy of Louis-Philippe (1830–1848) and Second Empire of Louis-Napoléon (1852–1870), which succeeded the fall of the Bourbons in 1830. In moving forward beyond this lull period, the new superior general hired a bright light from the younger generation, Paul-Marie Gallois. As we know, Gallois arrived in 1848, but was initially occupied at the Hôtel de Lorges. He would then be “tested” on religious architecture two years later in designing a fine classical ædicule for the statue of the Virgin in May 1850 (still in situ in the private garden), and again from 1851 to 1854 in raising the tiny Chapel of the Passion, along with overseeing its décor, which extended the narthex of the chapelle into the corridor leading to the convent next door, whose configuration included Étienne’s private parloir. As part of his learning curve Gallois was sent to inspect the Vincentian seminary chapel in Amiens in October 1850. Soon afterwards Étienne handed him the reins at the Chapelle des Lazaristes!

II. The Reliquary Châsse: Jean-Baptiste-Claude Odiot père and Charles-Nicolas Odiot fils

Fig. 7. New Saint-Lazare. Jean-Baptiste Claude Odiot, père, and Charles-Nicolas Odiot, fils. The current reliquary châsse of Saint Vincent de Paul, crystal and solid silver, designed by J-B-C in 1817 and manufactured by C-N; it was placed upon the altar mensa in the “primitive” Chapelle des Lazaristes in April 1830, and re-installed in the mid-1850s upon the new high altar designed by Arthur Martin, S.J., in the renovated church. The corpus sanctum was fashioned from the skeletal remains of the body and skull, whose exposed face and hands are sealed with wax; the attire is authentic. Photo: Archives de la Maison-Mère, Congrégation de la Mission, Paris

As was stated above, the châsse of Saint Vincent de Paul was translated to New Saint-Lazare on April 25, 1830, through the winning stratagems of a younger Étienne; this public procession, which headed out from Notre Dame, took place once the remains had been reauthenticated by the royal surgeon. These were encased in wax and garbed in the saint’s own lovingly preserved vestments to create the corpus sanctum; and upon being deposited in the châsse, the effigy was displayed through the glass vitrine. The saint’s physical presence is amplified by the portrait statuette that stands in glory at the apex of the lid while the angels, which represent Religion, Faith, Hope, and Charity, are confirming his supernatural state of being (Fig. 7). One special feature is the crucifix of ebony and ivory placed on its breast. Long held to come from the deathbed of Louis XIII, whom Vincent de Paul had comforted in his final hours (in 1643), this relic was presented by Archbishop Hyacinthe-Louis de Quélen as one of several contributions from the Archdiocese of Paris. The dazzling châsse was designed by Jean-Baptiste-Claude Odiot (1763–1850), who drafted the large presentation esquisse in watercolor and grisaille against a blue field; it is dated 1817, and the cartouche is inscribed, “Corpus S. Vincentii A Paulo” (Collection Odiot). The piece was then manufactured by his son Charles-Nicolas (d. 1869) in 130 kilos of solid silver that cost 62,757 francs, and it took First Prize in the Exposition universelle of 1827.

Fig. 8. Old Saint-Lazare. Pierre-François Tardieu, Reliquary Châsse and Altarpiece Representing the Glorification. Image: Archives de la Maison-Mère, Congrégation de la Mission, Paris

Tardieu shows the châsse situated in the Saint Vincent de Paul Chapel at Old Saint-Lazare; this was not the high altar but one of the side chapels, located just left of it in the sanctuary (Fig. 8). The châsse was placed on the equally elegant Rococo mensa, which was carved of multi-colored marble; then mounted on the wall above was a monumental canvas representing the apotheosis of Vincent de Paul—the motif picked up by the Odiot—which was painted in a Late Baroque style by the Dominican artist, Frère Jean-André (1662–1753). The entirety was framed by a triumphal arch that sprang from the doubled Corinthian pilasters, chief among other forms of rinceaux and florid marginalia. The effect created by this colorful fusion of Late Baroque, Rococo, and classicizing strains (apropos of the mid-eighteenth century) was stunning and sumptuous. And if the ensemble would inspire some of Odiot’s ideas, to what extent did it influence Gallois in the chapelle of New Saint-Lazare, which called for a change of purpose because the reliquary was uniquely combined there with the high altar?

Viewing the two shrines side-by-side reveals that Étienne and his men steered clear of duplication and nostalgia. Notably, the counterpart to the glorified saint in Jean-André’s tableau is the solid silver likeness at the summit of Odiot’s châsse; this is his only three-dimensional portrait in the chapelle, which prompts admiration of the marble statuettes of saints on the high altar, just below. Étienne brought in the foremost expert in Medieval Christian art to design the high altar in what became the first, and defining, moment of his new-wave grands travaux in the chapelle. This was the remarkable, and overbooked, Jesuit priest Arthur Martin (1801–1856), whom Étienne nailed down in 1850, according to a dated esquisse. Gallois, meanwhile, was preparing to step in once the high altar/reliquary shrine was well underway. Indeed his first sacred works for Étienne were implemented in the year of Father Martin’s drawing (in positioning the statue of the Virgin in the garden and raising the Chapel of the Passion). Did Martin accept the job offer due to convenience? He likely was already residing at the Jesuit house of Saint-Ignace, which is just down the street at 35 rue de Sèvres, whose Neo-Gothic chapel he would design in 1855.

III. The High Altar: Père Arthur Martin, S.J. (1801–1856)

Arthur Martin ranks among the most gifted figures of the mid-century. In starting out as a young priest and published author at age thirty, Father Martin dedicated himself “entièrement à l’étude de l’archéolgie” according to the standard Jesuit bibliography, which he restricted to Early and Medieval Christianity in “la science théologique,” and not “par romantisme.” Martin became a prolific writer, artist-designer, and architect, and authority on restoring Gothic architecture; and we may single out his report of August 31, 1847, to the Ministre des Travaux Publics on the stained glass of La Sainte-Chapelle. Moreover, from the monumental in scale on down, nearly every type of artifact seized his eye and mind, and he deserves praise for taking a scientific approach to the industrial arts. His published landmarks are the volumes cowritten with Charles Cahier, for which he provided the ravishing plates: the monograph on the stained glass of Bourges Cathedral (1842), which earned him a gold medal from the Institut; and Nouveaux mélanges d’archéologie, d’histoire et de littérature sur le Moyen Age, which was begun in 1848 and eventually issued posthumously in four volumes (it is the book most familiar to today’s readers).

We learn also from the standard Jesuit bibliography that Father Martin designed “Plusieurs chapelles de Paris ont aussi été décorées sous sa direction; entre autres, celle de Sainte Geneviève-du-Mont, fait le plus grand honneur à son gout …” It may not be widely known that he created this brightly colored Neo-Gothic shrine, dated to circa 1854–1855, which is purely commemorative since the relics were burned in the Revolution after a conviction of treason. What a powerful contrast it makes, therefore, against the silvery high altar—neo-medieval also but in a different way—which Martin furnished for the bona fide reliquary of New Saint-Lazare! But it earned just a single line buried in his papers in the Jesuit archives. In now beginning coverage with the ending of the story, his high altar was inaugurated by the apostolic nuncio on the feast day of the Annunciation, March 25, 1857, and the plaque beside it mentions him by name: “Altare Maius Huius Ecclesiae, Dirigente P. Arthur Martin S.J. Erectum …” This citation, however, has not led to critical appreciation of Father Martin—all accolades are showered upon the Odiot—an injustice that I am about to set right.

It therefore took seven years to execute the masterpiece, which we know from counting backwards to the esquisse of 1850, mentioned above.

Fig. 9. New Saint-Lazare. Vintage photograph of the high altar of the Chapelle des Lazaristes, which was executed by the firm of Fontanelle, Sculpteur, after the design of Arthur Martin, S.J., marble, beg. 1850 and consecrated March 25, 1857. The gloriette of carved and gilded wood has since been removed to the on-site museum. Photo: Archives de la Maison-Mère

Fig. 10. New Saint-Lazare. Vintage photograph of the Chapelle des Lazaristes; interior view featuring the sanctuary prior to the removal in the 1980’s of the gloriette above the high altar, the choir stalls, and the iron grille. Photo: Archives de la Maison-Mère

Martin devised a theatrical neo-medieval retable that was set into Vasserot’s sanctuary, a hemicyle whose altar table was framed at each side by a column and pilaster (as is known from the plan, extant masonry, and documents). Moreover, Vasserot returned twenty years after his “official” departure to sign off on the Mémoire des ouvrages de Menuiserie of 1847, which refers to the oak stalls in the choir that were carved by the entrepreneur Bugniet. One more salvaged holdover was the French alabaster mensa costing two thousand francs; it was elevated about a foot by Gallois and served as a platform upon which Father Martin stacked three tiers that rise in a crescendo toward the ceiling to support the châsse at the pinnacle (Fig. 9). And these lower registers are filled with white marble figures: large statues of four evangelists and eight prophets who stand guard at either side of the châsse; fifteen statuettes perched in colonnaded niches that depict saints with attributes; and eighteen angels (Fig. 11). Moreover, the saint’s celestial sphere became accessible through the “hidden” stone staircases at either side, which allow visitors to approach and descend from the reliquary as never before. Father Martin’s objective, which was penned in the “Courte explication” kept in the motherhouse archives, was to revive medieval devotional practices in which pilgrims had passed beneath the saints’ relics at Saint-Denis. Mentioned also in this memo, along with examples that got published in Mélanges d’Archéologie, is the tradition of depicting apostles on reliquaries and tombs of saints, which was popularized in the twelfth century. This typology was not merely brought back to life but much expanded, with the help of Fontenelle, who was Martin’s contractor and agent. Fontanelle’s two lengthy and itemized Mémoires des Travaux de Sculpture et Marbrerie (dated September 1, 1858, and October 24, 1859), reveal that besides carving the forty-seven statues and statuettes his firm had made, transported, and installed everything else in all media: the columns and pilasters framing the sanctuary (which supplemented those from Vasserot), the staircases beside the altar, the tabernacle and canopied crucifix, the mosaic tile pavement on the top step (now hidden by carpeting), the fancy “Menuiserie” (referring to the gloriette), and the full complement of architectural garnitures.

Fig. 11. New Saint-Lazare. Chapelle des Lazaristes, side view of the high altar. Photo: Author

Another memo, “Statues de l’Autel de St. Vincent/Retable,” identifies each figure sequentially in two groupings according to the Gospel and Epistle sides; and they are all historical persons in keeping with Martin’s promotion of “la science théologique.” In addition to the Holy Family, he chose saints who lived in the Middle Ages on up through Vincent de Paul’s time—and like him, many had founded religious communities. This once-living chorus thereby testifies to the “humanity” of Saint Vincent de Paul. They include the group of the Virgin and Child, which is centered in the lowest register on axis with the tabernacle, Odiot’s standing portrait of the saint, and the face of Jesus in the gloriette; Jesus’s family members, consisting of Joseph, Anne, and Joachim, and John the Baptist; plus all-male figures such as Denis (the first French martyr), Benedict, Dominic, Bruno, Francis of Assisi, Philip Neri, Francis Xavier, and Vincent de Paul’s mentor and friend, Francis de Sales. This cavalcade reveals one more example of Martin’s lively imagination and the deep scholarly reserves he plumbed, and published, in Mélanges d’Archéologie. In addition to the medieval devotional practices he sought to revive, the mosaic-tile pavement of the sanctuary resuscitates the floors of ancient Italian churches. And the statuettes are near copies of relief panels carved on the flanks of Early Christian sarcophagi (Fig. 12). Martin enthusiastically sketched and published the specimens he studied in Provence especially, and looked forward to examining the Roman catacombs on what became his last journey in 1856. Father Martin departed for Italy once the high altar and several other projects were either finished or nearly so. But while in Ravenna he succumbed to apoplexy on November 24, 1856, and did not live to attend the dedication in March 1857.

Fig. 12. New Saint-Lazare. Plate from Charles Cahier, S.J., and Arthur Martin, S.J. Photo: DePaul University Library Special Collections

IV. Paul-Marie Gallois Expands and Decorates the Chapelle, Circa 1855 to 1864

Gallois, meanwhile, gathered his forces for staging the gleaming set piece to maximum effect and transforming Vasserot’s “primitive” chapelle into an exciting contemporary space. First of all, he duly highlighted the medieval scheme of Father Martin’s high altar and the adjacent choir; but instead of picking up on its silvery cream tonalities, which resonate also with Odiot’s châsse, Gallois had his decorators, who included frères-coadjuteurs, strike the most daring foils to them by covering the walls and their Néogrec embellishments with intensely polychromed color, as if shouting out Hittorff’s teachings. Moreover, the linchpin that unifies these competing artistic/historical styles is the triumphal arch, or gateway into the high altar, which was done by the painter-in-residence Frère François Carbonnier (Fig. 13). Did the end result not set the sterling standard for showing off the alliance des arts in Catholic architecture of the mid-nineteenth century?

Fig. 13. New Saint-Lazare. Contemporary photograph of the high altar of the Chapelle des Lazaristes, which features a close-up of the triumphal arch painted in grisaille on canvas by the frère-coadjuteur François Carbonnier, and installed in 1855. Photo: Courtesy of Erik Pronske, M.D.

In further acknowledging the neo-medieval statement of Martin’s high altar, one may step backwards several paces to behold how emphatic it appears in being framed, from the floor, by the graceful oak stalls that were positioned in the choir for the use of the Lazarists (and which were ordered by Vasserot in 1847) (Fig. 10). Gallois then created a border that closed and picturesquely set off this sacred and liturgical zone from the rest of the nave—which is reserved for the laity—with an ornate iron grille (since removed in the late 1980s). These artisinal travaux de serrurerie were fabricated in 1856 by the entrepreneur Deschars to imitate the cross of the Ordre de Saint-Lazare et de Notre-Dame du Mont-Carmel, whose history goes way back to the medieval origins of Old Saint-Lazare! Deschars was employed besides to install the wholly essential and functional serrurerie, as in the harnesses and braces, which secured the new masonry constructed by the entrepreneurs Beauvais and Roullie. For while maintaining the length of Vasserot’s nave, which terminates at the sanctuary, Gallois extended the footprint laterally, in 1855–1856, by punching through the blind arcades (arcatures) of the walls, thus making them arched openings into a proper side aisle at each flank. The pilasters of Vasserot’s arcuations were left standing to mark the bays, and in front of them Gallois built a nave colonnade consisting of Doric columns, which supports a trabeated entablature. Gallois used its upper edge as the baseline for raising a second-story tribune above the side aisles. And since his plan was thereby wider and higher than before, a soaring new ceiling went up in the magnificently coffered barrel vault; its base is pierced by arched apertures that align with the Doric columns and are rhythmically stretched high and taut across the line. Moreover, the new black and white tiles laid down in the aisles had to meet the grade level of the nave floor, whose pavement in large white blocks was retained. It certainly is a challenge to distinguish which portions of Vasserot’s fabrique had been demolished and which furnishings were repurposed, since the Mémoires des Travaux are preserved in various states of legibility, and some of them are all but indecipherable! In now inspecting the glorious classical decoration, the ornaments projecting from the plastered surfaces are molded from pierre plâtre, or carton pierre, and faux bois, and masked in a horror vacui of gilding and polychrome done in oil paint. Despite the outburst, everything is crisply controlled: the rosettes punctuating the coffers of the vault, the denticulation of the architrave, the beaded banding below the Doric capitals, the angels heads at the faux keystones of the arches at the base of the vault, and the rinceaux in the spandrels. Several motifs come straight from the châsse, in the ribbon of curvilinear foliage that rims the upper lid, and the acanthus frieze at the base; did Father Martin chime in with a few flourishes of his own?

V. Brother François Carbonnier Paints the Linchpin that Unifies the Space

A frère-coadjuteur, François Carbonnier (1787–1873), was the supreme painter-in-residence and Étienne’s very first protégé. He was born in Beauvais and baptized as Casimir; in Paris he studied with Jacques-Louis David and Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres, and joined David’s other pupils in painting the massive coronation picture Le Sacre de Napoléon, of 1806–1807 (Paris, Musée du Louvre). Then in the Salon of 1812 Carbonnier showed Virgile récitant l’Enéide au moment où il prononce:“Tu Marcellus eris … ”; it so impressed Caroline Bonaparte, the Emperor’s sister and Queen of Naples, that she hired him to execute her portrait (untraced). The most recent information we have on his technique comes from the handwritten report that M. Jean-Jacques Borgetto kindly shared with me after he had cleaned the canvases at New Saint-Lazare in 1998, which states Carbonnier painted in “la pure tradition classique.” He laid down a solid ground upon which thin coats of paint were applied after the preceding colors had dried, and transparent glazes were added to heighten luster. His masterpieces consist of eight monumental canvases representing the lives of Mary and Jesus, which are signed and dated between 1846 and 1864; but were they planned as a suite? They were mounted behind the choir stalls after the aisles were built but have since been taken upstairs to the tribune. However beautiful they may be in rephrasing strains from Raphael—whose cult was all the rage among Catholic artists—they hardly factor into the aesthetic regime of the centerpiece and are therefore set aside in favor of Carbonnier’s triumphal arch, which plays a pivotal role in this respect.

This is a wide horseshoe-shaped band painted in oils on canvas, en grisaille; it was attached to the plaster wall in July 1855 by the mason Beauvais and three helpers to look like a carved archivolt beneath the vault at its terminus, that is, just above the threshold into the sanctuary. Each blunt edge of the curve is supported by paired columns that both frame the centerpiece and meet the ending of the colonnade at a right angle, on its half of the nave. The painted archway is thereby implicated into the architectural setting and holds the perspective line of all the elements that are marching inwards from the straight-edged entablatures and the fillets lined up on the coffered vault. Carbonnier responded to the high altar, besides, in his subject matter and technique. The cascading figures that surround Vincent de Paul in the center and appear together with his virtues (Simplicity, Charity, and Humility) resemble high reliefs whose chiaroscuro pitches them against a neutral ground. These “sculptural” characters are grouped into narrative vignettes that, at right, depict the missions of Saint Louise de Marillac and the Daughters of Charity. And at the left, Carbonnier features the evangelization of the priests, most sensationally of John Gabriel Perboyre (1802–1840) and Francis Regis Clet (1748–1820), who had recently been martyred in China—and whose remains were brought to the chapelle, where they may be venerated in their own shrines in the side aisles.

Carbonnier’s triumphal arch therefore reads like a cross between two and three dimensions, and ties together elements that would otherwise look discordant: it serves as transition from sculpture to painting, and its deep gray tonalities are caught between the silvery coolness of the centerpiece and the warmth of saturated color on the entablature and vault. His work so effortlessly harmonizes pictorial oppositions that one may ask if their basic artistic/historical differences—between the neo-medieval and the Néogrec—have likewise been reconciled. Moreover, what of Gallois’s conversion of the “pagan hovel” described by Charles Rene de Montalembert into an impeccable Christian church? The two dilemmas are related—as are their resolutions, which reside in yet another “crossover” involving our ultra-Catholic champions of the Early Christian revival. This trend was activated by the rebuilding of San Paolo fuori le Mura following its disastrous fire of 1823, and it so profoundly altered both Hittorff and Father Martin that linking Classical Antiquity with Early Christianity occupied the heart of their work. Their enterprises in art and architecture and published books provide undeniable evidence that pagan traditions were hardly antithetical to Catholicism, but had been fluently carried over into the ancient Christian basilicas of Italy. Hittorff offered Saint-Vincent-de-Paul as his exemplum, which in fact followed the model of San Paolo (as was mentioned above). And in respect to Martin, one recurring theme in Mélanges d’Archéologie betrays him pondering the roots of his beloved Middle Ages in the pagan world; and in at least one passage he observes that the barbarians who invaded Gaul were the truer hostile forces. As if staking out two different posts on the same battlefield, they had generated valid and legitimate alternatives to the fashionable Gothic Revival! In now returning to Gallois’s chapelle, we may clearly recognize that the so-called conflict between the classical and the medieval was instead played out as an exercise in Christian modalities which sits tight on the arc of the Middle Ages, if in different time zones: in Father Martin’s evocations of the twelfth century in the high altar, and in Gallois’s “Late Antique” hall overflowing with motifs such as the rinceaux, which symbolize Celestial Paradise and bow down, as well, to the research of Father Martin!

VI. On the Alliance des Arts

The Chapelle des Lazaristes manifests a breathtaking unification of concept with design, which in France was called the travail d’ensemble (also the alliance des arts and un œuvre d’art total) and dominated architectural thinking of the mid-century (by way of the music dramas composed in Germany by Richard Wagner). And if Paul-Marie Gallois and his grands travaux have been brought to light in this article, the last words may be granted to Mme C. Di Matteo, Inspecteur Principal des Monuments Historiques of the Ministère de la Culture, who writes this assessment in the minutes (dated January 16, 1985) of the meeting convened on January 9, 1985, over the issue of nominating the chapelle among the Monuments Historiques de la Ville de Paris: “Dans son état actuel, la chapelle de la maison mère des Lazaristes frappe par la qualité de son architecture, la cohérence de son décor et son mobilier égralement conservé depuis sa création 1830.” (Gallois was unknown to them.) The campaigns of conservation began soon afterwards in direct result of the Ministry’s suggestions and through the auspices of Superior General Richard McMullen. The leadership of the Province of Paris shepherded everything through in three planning stages; and the classification of the chapelle in January 1993 represented the crowning moment, with all gratitude owed to “la douce ténacité” of Father Claude Lautissier, who was serving as Provincial of Paris (1983–1992), and is at present Archivist of the Province of France.

Brief Epilogue: Saint Vincent de Paul Church in Chicago, Illinois

Fig. 14. Saint Vincent de Paul Church, Chicago, Illinois. Photograph of the sanctuary that was used in the parish’s Centennial Booklet in 1976. The high altar designed by Augustine O’Callaghan was carved between 1903 and 1909 of white Carrara marble, and inlaid with mother-of-pearl and Venetian mosaic tile. Photo: DARM Memorial Archives, DePaul University Special Collections

In revisiting the other sacred monuments that were built or renovated in Paris in this period, we may wish to evaluate how their programmes stack up against the Chapelle des Lazaristes. But I prefer, first, to take a detour to raise this question: How did the more erudite interpretations of the historical revival in France reach the architects of the Gilded Age of American churches from circa 1870 to 1929? And why are their discourses far from intertwined? In offering a splendid example close to home, Saint Vincent de Paul Church in Chicago is found at the edge of the DePaul University campus and is administered by Vincentian priests from the Western Province of the Congregation in the United States. It was raised in 1895–1897, twenty years after the parish was founded to serve Irish and German families, by Egan and Prindeville of Chicago; Prindeville was a native of the city and James J. Egan (1839–1914) came from Cork, Ireland. He first studied at the Government School of Design, Queen’s College, Cork, then finished his education in England, which of course was inundated by its own waves of the Medieval Revival. Why would he not sail across the Channel and head to the continent, starting out from Paris, to absorb everything he could? After all, his church in Chicago knowingly combines Romanesque styles on the façade and in the nave with Gothic conventions in the tracery, lofty polychromed interior, and stained glass lancets and rosaces, which were ordered from Mayer & Co. of Munich (through its New York office). And like Gallois’s chapelle, its focal point is the multitiered high altar that may be similarly experienced through the open expanses of the nave (Fig. 14). It was carved between 1903 and 1909 of shiny Carrara marble, with inlays of mother-of-pearl and Venetian mosaic tile, according to the design of Augustine O’Callaghan, a sculptor who produced an earlier variation (in 1899) for the only other parish that had French associations, Notre Dame de Chicago. Was its general resemblance to Arthur Martin’s confection an uncanny coincidence? Or were decisions made to recollect Saint Vincent’s shrine in Paris for the benefit of the Vincentians and their parishioners—and those of Notre Dame de Chicago? Since American builders wished to impart the grandeur of European churches, along with their artistic/historical roots in the faith of their fathers, future investigation of the New World counterparts must raise fresh questions in respect to geographic, and political, dislocations. And it must also identify the mediating links—starting at the World’s Columbian Exposition of 1893—which fueled the transmission of knowledge, in preparation for crossing the Atlantic in search of answers at the source. And in thus ending my study at the edge of the docks, it is satisfying to pry open even more dilemmas than I have attempted to address in these pages!

Simone Zurawski, Ph.D., is associate professor in the department of history of art & architecture at DePaul University. A member of the board of the Vincentian Studies Institute, she is writing a book on the iconography of Saint Vincent de Paul with the foundlings in nineteenth-century French art and architecture.

This article is a preview of my forthcoming books on Old Saint-Lazare and the Chapelle des Lazaristes of New Saint-Lazare. In lieu of endnotes the principal sources are grouped thematically for the sake of simplicity, esp. since documents in the motherhouse archives may not be accessible. Please contact me if more detailed information is desired:

Old Saint-Lazare and the Original Shrine of Saint Vincent de Paul
Léon Bizard and Jane Chapon, Histoire de la Prison de Saint-Lazare, Du Moyen-Age á Nos Jours (Paris: E. De Boccard, Éditeur, 1925), esp. 1–98, from the earliest history in the Middle Ages up to its seizure in the Revolution and conversion into a prison. The monograph.
Simone Zurawski, “Saint-Lazare in the Ancien Régime: From Saint Vincent de Paul to the French Revolution,” in Vincentian Heritage. Papers from Vincentian Heritage Symposium, DePaul University … October 1992, 14 no. 1 (1993): 15–35. Also available online through the DePaul University Library: This preliminary study pub. a number of the primary sources that were taken from the motherhouse in 1792 and are now in Archives Nationales, Paris.
Jean Parrang, C.M., “Saint-Lazare,” Annales de la Congrégation de la Mission 70 (1905): 305–329; plus “Iconographie de Saint Vincent de Paul (Les Tableaux de la Canonisation, 1737),” Annales 102 (1937): 491–504 and 720–729. The whole run of this journal is available online through the DePaul Library (per the URL cited above). The project consists of the great canonization Tableaux and their reproductive engravings. And these additional points are documented in my forthcoming book: the identification of Frère Jean-André as painter of the apotheosis; the deluxe multi-colored marbles used to build the high altar, which may not be apparent in Tardieu’s black-and-white print; and the prohibition of statuary.
Archives de la Maison-Mère, Congrégation de la Mission, Paris. Cote C-37-1 dernier, Cahier “Epoque de Bonnet 1711–1735,” fol. 416. Letter of Superior General Jean Bonnet to a confrère in Rome, d. August 14, 1735, on the valuation of the gilt vermeil reliquary châsse at 35,000 livres.

The Site of Old-Saint-Lazare: The Church of Saint-Vincent-de-Paul
Michael Kiene and Simone Zurawski, The Basilica of St. Vincent de Paul. Architecture of the Catholic Renouveau in Paris (Chicago: DePaul University for the DePaul University Art Museum, 2010), exh. cat. & companion booklet. The importance of the site in the Bourbon Restoration and Catholic Renouveau is brought to light.
Michael Kiene, “Antique Polychromy Applied to Modern Art and Hittorff’s Saint Vincent de Paul in Paris, the Architectural Showpiece of the Renouveau Catholique,” Vincentian Heritage Journal: Vol. 32: Iss. 2, Article 5 (summer 2015), 32 pages (unpaginated). Author’s most recent study, which compiles extensive bibliography, and also addresses the Early Christian Revival and concept of the alliance des arts. Online only:

New Saint-Lazare: The Relics of Saint Vincent, Reestablishment and Superior General Étienne
Mandement de Monseigneur l’Archêveque de Paris pour la Translation solennelle du Corps de Saint Vincent de Paul (Paris: Adrien le Clere, 1830). Based on primary sources, this compendium records the handling of the corpse, its reauthentication by royal surgeons, and the festivities of the translation.
John E. Rybolt, C.M., The Vincentians. A General History of the Congregation of the Mission. Vol. 3, Revolution and Restoration (1789–1843) and Vol. 4, Expansions and Reactions (1843–1878) (Hyde Park NY: New City Press, 2013 and 2014, respectively). The author, and the next one, also document the conversion of Hôtel de Lorges into New Saint-Lazare, and discuss parallel narratives on the Daughters of Charity, who make up the female branch of the Vincentian Double Family; Étienne’s life and career are developed in chapters one and two, pp. 20–151.
Edward R. Udovic, C.M., Jean-Baptiste Étienne and the Vincentian Revival. Vincentian Studies Institute Monographs 2 (Chicago: Vincentian Studies Institute, 2001). Not an updated biography (of the 1881 monograph), but close analysis of Étienne as key player in the conflicts taking place in religious politics at home and abroad, above all, regarding the growing power of Ultramontanism.
Archives Nationales. F/19.7296. “Amiens. 1809–1904;” in Série, “Travaux exécutés dans les séminaires (classement par diocèse). Période concordataire.” This substantial (and complicated) Carton records important works undertaken at the seminary and its chapel, which were reclaimed under Napoléon in 1806: apud alii the presence of Procurateur General Étienne (as early as 1839), and arrival in 1849 of Aymar Verdier as the new architecte diocésane, who was succeeded by Eugène Viollet-le-Duc in 1852. Its plausible influence upon Gallois’s chapelle, along with prospective ties to Viollet-le-Duc, who collaborated with Father Arthur Martin, S.J., are reserved for my monograph; however, the two sites did not share any known artists in common.

New Saint-Lazare: The Architects Philibert Vasserot and Paul-Marie Gallois
Omitted from this article are discussions of the exterior, the décor of the side aisles and their painted windows, and the breakdowns of measurements and fees/expenses with few exceptions (which are included in-text). The sources in the Archives de la Maison-Mère, Congrégation de la Mission, track the works in the chapelle from 1826, when the State purchased the site at 93 rue de Sèvres (adjacent to the Hôtel de Lorges), up through its conservation of 1985–1992, and thence its classification as a Monument Historique in 1993. Barely alluded to herein, though, are the roles of numerous government agencies such as the Préfecture de la Seine and Ministère des Affaires Écclesiastiques, which regulated building and/or represented the Crown as conduit of royal support to the Congregation and to the Church in general (up to disestablishment in 1905), and these offices included bodies that issued permits; e.g., although New Saint-Lazare was awarded by Louis XVIII, it was and still is State-owned property (whereas in the Ancien Régime the Lazarists owned the motherhouse and largely did as they pleased). Moreover, this scenario is complicated by the changes in bureaucratic organization, nomenclature, and laws/ordinances that accompanied the shifts from one monarchy to another. These are the principal categories of the sources on architecture/decoration—the documents cited in-text and below in the notes are not repeated: honoraria of architects; Mémoires des Travaux submitted by entrepreneurs and filed under the architect of record (breakdowns of work, with measurements and costs)—some of which are scribbled down as memos; receipts; plans and drawings, which are grouped apart from pictorial prints and engravings; copies transcribed by Lazarist scholars of original sources and plans in Archives Nationales; Cartons of memoranda/effects of individual residents (not necessarily incorporated into the main archive); letters; scholarly but now-obscure publications drawn from the primary sources; documentation of the nomination process by the Ministère de la Culture; and drawings and reports from Alain M. Cluzet, Rémy de Séze, and Yves Théry, architectes, 37 rue Linné, Paris, who undertook the conservation, and which summarize the nineteeth-century travaux. Here follow the key studies on Vasserot and Gallois, and thence the decorators:
Pierre Coste, C.M., “Variétés. La Maison-Mère de la Congrégation de la Mission, Annales de la Congrégation de la Mission (also available online), 82 (1917): 954–983. The magisterial scholar identified the work of Vasserot (but not Gallois); his plans are in Archives Nationales and were evidently, if only in part, actualized on site.
Cécile Souchon, “Philibert Vasserot et les Atlas des Quartiers de Paris” ( This important project for the city was done in collaboration with J-S Bellanger; the impression owned by the Bibliothèque Historique de la Ville de Paris alone shows the plan of Vasserot’s chapelle.
Émile Bellier de la Chavignerie and Louis Auvray, Dictionnaire Général des Artistes de L’École Française … Tome 2 (Paris: Librairie Renouard, 1882–1885; also avail. online), 604, is the brief entry on Gallois, which is restricted to award-winning student work; moreover, I examined his Dossiers in the archives of the École des Beaux-Arts. Plus these entries: Edmond Augustin Delaire, Les Architectes élèves de L’École des Beaux-Arts … (Paris: Librairie de la Construction Moderne, 1907), 269, which identifies his teacher as Charles Vasserot, whom we now recognize as Philibert’s son; and Anne Dugast and Isabelle Parizet, and Michel Fleury, Dictionnaire par Noms d’architectes des constructions élévées à Paris au XIXe et XXe Siècles … Tome II (Paris: Service des Travaux Historiques de la Ville de Paris, beg. 1990), entry no. 2090. None of the authors knew of his travaux at New Saint-Lazare, although the latter two found him elsewhere, e.g., in 1854–1855 at the humble parish church of Saint-Martin-des-Marais, and on civic/public works projects undertaken in his role as Architecte de l’Assistance Publique et du Mont de Pieté de Paris (starting in 1855); Gallois also built the church in Vincent de Paul’s birthplace in Dax for the Lazarists—all of which await future discussion. Finally, regarding his induction as Chevalier, I examined his Dossier in the archives of the Légion d’honneur, Numéro d’Ordre des Matricules 38.138, whose docs. list even more of his works and achievements.

New Saint-Lazare: The Châsse of the Odiot Firm; The High Altar of Arthur Martin, S.J.
Jean-Marie Pinçon and Olivier Gaube du Gers, Odiot l’Orfèvre (Paris: Editions Sous Le Vent, 1990), esp. 168–170, which pub. the esquisse and the casket; moreover, in his meeting with me, M. Gaube du Gers, who at the time was Président of Odiot Orfèvre, shared insights on Charles Percier’s collaborations and showed me the esquisse, which belongs to the firm’s private collection. Quarrels over payment, which led to Odiot’s lawsuit against the archbishop, are omitted from discussion.
Charles Cahier, S.J., and Arthur Martin, S.J., Nouveaux Mélanges d’Archéologie, d’histoire et de littérature sur le Moyen Age. Vol. 3 (Paris: Firmin Didot, 1874–1877), 78–108, on “Sarcophages”; and 146–182, on “Châsses et Reliquaires.”
Salomon Reinach, Catalogue Illustré du Musée des Antiquités au Château de Saint-Germain-En-Laye. Tome I … (Paris: Musées Nationaux, 1926), esp. 76–84, on fragments that are similar to those pub. by Cahier and Martin, and also resemble the statuettes on the high altar of New Saint-Lazare.
Bibliothèque de la Compagnie de Jésus. Première Partie: Bibliographie Augustin et Aloys de Backer. Tome V (Bruxelles/Paris: Picard, 1894), 619–621, entry on Arthur Martin, with 18+ chronological itemizations; no. 18 cites his decoration of “many chapels” in Paris, with singular mention of Sainte-Geneviève-du-Mont.
Archives de la Compagnie de Jésus, Vanves. Carton Arthur Martin. The surviving papers, letters, contracts, misc. memoranda composed by confrères, and the carnet d’esquisse (which I found misplaced in the Carton Charles Cahier); Father Baylard signed a typed memo that is quoted in-text on his scientific approach to Christian archaeology, and from which information is taken also on his numerous awards; and the ms. of his unfinished Nécrologie, fol. 7, is the only mention I found on the high altar for the Lazarists—did he keep it close to his chest, and under the radar from superiors, to avoid being upbraided for exhausting himself with too much work?
Archives de la Maison-Mère, Congrégation de la Mission. Dossier “Maitre-Autel/ Sculptures. Marbrerie/Bronzes/Canons d’Autel” (datable to 1856–1859). This unfoliated collection holds the key documents, but not Martin’s esquisse: His letter to Étienne, d. January 8, 1856, sent from the Jesuit residence on 35 rue de Sèvres, on the “grande difficulté” he encounters in pub. the Mélanges, which is followed by the receipt for his honorarium in the amount of 1,000 francs, d. January 9, 1856, that Fontanelle signs on his behalf; the memos cited in-text on his explication of the program and identification of the statues; plus two separate Mémoires des Travaux ... pour le compte (breakdown of costs) from Fontanelle, 81 Boulevard Montparnasse, which itemize his firm’s execution, transport, and installation of works in bronze, sculpture and marble, paving, and woodworking (the gloriette), plus the Résumé and Récapitulation; they are all initially d. September 1, 1858, thence redated d. October 24/27, 1859, and altogether tally the grand total of 89,066.09 francs. In other words these sources post-date both Martin’s death on November 24, 1856 and consecration of the high altar on March 25, 1857.

New Saint-Lazare: The Lazarist Decorator Frère Carbonnier
The monograph-to-date on Frère François is Olivier Estournet, “Casimir Carbonnier: Peintre Beauvaisien (1787–1873),” in Mémoires de la Société Académique d’Archéologie, Sciences et Arts du Département de L’Oise. Tome XXV. Première Partie (Beauvais: Imprimerie Départementale de L’Oise, 1925), 1–52; cat. no. 54, 45, is the entry for the triumphal arch, which is neither signed nor dated; moreover, the lack of extant sources & drawings in the Archives de la Maison-Mère suggests they were kept, together with the artist’s other effects, in his private atelier, which were lost when the wing was rebuilt.
Émile Bellier de la Chavignerie and Louis Aulnay, Dictionnaire Général des Artistes de L’École Française … Tome 1 (Paris: Librairie Renuard, 1882–1885), 199, the entry on Carbonnier; also available online. One must ignore its counterpart in Oxford Art Online/The Benezit Dictionary of Artists, which repeats a false rumor of his leprosy (!).

Epilogue: Saint Vincent de Paul Church, Chicago, Illinois
Denis R. McNamara, with the Foreword by Duncan Stroik, Introduction by Thomas Gordon Smith, and Photographs by James Morris, Heavenly City: The Architectural Tradition of Catholic Chicago (Chicago: Archdiocese of Chicago, 2005), 22 f., on Saint Vincent’s Church; and 106 f., on Notre Dame de Chicago (which ill. but does not identify Augustine O’Callaghan as designer of the high altar); plus 102 f., on Our Lady of Sorrows Basilica, which ill. and names him as designer of the high altar.
St. Vincent de Paul. Centennial Booklet 1976. DeAndreis-Rosati Memorial Archives, DePaul University Library. Box 1 in the Cartons, “St. Vincent’s Church, Chicago, Illinois.”
United States Department of the Interior, National Park Service, 1979, Nomination for National Register of Historic Places; Form No. 10–300, for “Notre Dame de Chicago,” which mentions Augustine O’Callaghan as designer of the high altar in 1899. Internet Archive:

| The Second Theme of Architecture: Artistic Beauty

The Second Theme of Architecture: Artistic Beauty

From Aesthetics Vol. II. Trans. Rev. Brian McNeil and John F. Crosby

Detail of the lantern atop the Duomo in Florence, completed by Michelozzo in 1461. Photo: & Carla

The artistic beauty of buildings depends on very definite means: forms, proportions, material, color, and many other factors. Our special task here is to look at these in detail, but we wish to emphasize explicitly that it is not our intention to indicate rules for the application of these means, rules that would guarantee the artistic value of a building if they were observed. That is not the task of aesthetics, where the situation is completely different than in logic and in ethics. In logic Aristotle established rules for the syllogism, and a flawless conclusion is guaranteed if these are observed. In ethics one can lay down norms that guarantee the moral value of an action. This is not possible in aesthetics.

The beauty of a building, of a picture, of a statue, of a poem, or of a melody is grounded in the special inspiration of the artist. He is entrusted with a mystery that cannot be formulated in a norm in such a way that the artist’s only task would be to fulfill that norm. . . .

It may perhaps be possible to formulate some reasons for the aesthetic disvalue of a building. The failure to fulfill certain conditions may impair a work of art. But the avoidance of these mistakes does not guarantee artistic beauty . . .

It is sometimes asserted that a building is beautiful if it does full justice to the concrete reality that it serves and if it fulfills all the requirements that are demanded by this theme or are indispensable if this theme is to be realized. Those who make such a claim usually have purely practical purposes in mind and affirm that the value of a building depends on how perfect it is under the aspect of achieving this practical purpose. This theory reduces architecture to a mere object of civilization. At the same time, however, it maintains that civilizational perfection also grounds the artistic beauty. This functionalism, which found its chief representative in Le Corbusier, is mistaken on many counts.

The artistic beauty of a building is not in the least a consequence of its perfect functionality. Principles of a purely artistic kind are decisive for the aesthetic value of a building. What beauty an arch can possess, or a tower in its form and color, such as the campanile of the cathedral in Florence or the tower on Saint Mark’s Square in Venice! What could it mean to say that the unique beauty of the cupola of Santa Maria del Fiore in Florence is based on the perfect fulfillment of its practical purpose? All we wish to do here is to point out the absurdity of this theory, which confuses artistic beauty with purely technical perfection and reduces the various expressive possibilities of architecture—this world of greatness and beauty—to mere functionality, asserting that the aesthetic value of a building is determined by its functionality.

Saint Mark’s Square, Venice. Photo:

We cannot emphasize strongly enough that the fulfillment of these practical requirements has no influence on the second main theme, namely, beauty, or the artistic theme. Even if all the practical requirements are satisfied with the greatest perfection, the building can be deadly, ugly, or boring.

As long as we are speaking of the perfection of purely practical purposes, there is a very loose connection with artistic beauty. From the perspective of the practical requirements of daily life, a farmhouse in Tuscany, which is very beautiful thanks to its noble proportions, the material employed, its color, the visible nobility and the poetry of its inner spaces, is certainly not . . . built in such a way that it facilitates all the practical functions of everyday life, nor is it ideal from a hygienic point of view.

On the other hand, a modern building that fulfills all the practical requirements and is perfect with respect to civilization is usually a wretched construction from the artistic point of view. It almost always radiates an anonymous barrenness, a depressing prosaic character. It is true that it does not possess the triviality and pseudo-beauty of many houses from the second half of the nineteenth century, which are tasteless imitations of Gothic architecture. But its absolute barrenness, anonymity, and soullessness, and the lack of any charm whatever, form an antithesis to artistic beauty that is just as great as the trivial.

If a building serves spiritual purposes, there exists a deep connection between its real theme and its artistic beauty. This is presupposed for the sake of doing justice to the spiritual purpose. The design of the building must also do justice to the genius of the spiritual purpose. A church should have a specifically sacred character. It is not enough for it to be a beautiful hall that presents the external aspect of a splendid palace. An essential element of the artistic value of a church is the atmosphere of the sacred, of consecration, of greatness, and of seriousness, all achieved by means of artistic factors. In this case it is certainly correct to hold that the artistic beauty cannot be detached from the real spiritual theme of the church, and that in addition to general artistic conditions, the special character of the house of God must also be realized—but with artistic means.

In the case of a church, it is also meaningless to say: “Satisfy the requirements of the real spiritual theme, and then it is also artistically valuable.” This is because if one is to do justice to this theme, one must do so by means of artistic beauty. The general architectural beauty is presupposed; but we also need the artistic means by which the specifically sacred theme is realized. In the case of a church, the assertion “Satisfy the requirements of the real theme, and then the building is beautiful” would entail a vicious circle, because the real spiritual requirements are fulfilled only through the general artistic beauty and through the special artistic creation of the sacred atmosphere. It is only by means of artistic factors that a building can realize the true character of a church. The extent to which the artist himself is aware of this has no importance. He may be thinking only of the sacred theme and may wish to serve this theme alone, but if he is a true master builder and truly intends the church to be a sacred space, he will instinctively employ those artistic means that alone are able to realize this goal.

Where the spiritual purpose is much more indirectly linked to buildings than is the case with a church—for example, in a theater or a concert hall—its beauty is more independent of its spiritual purpose and is conditioned more strongly by the general bearers of beauty in architecture. Naturally, the beauty of a theater such as the theater of classical antiquity or the Teatro Olimpico of Palladio in Vicenza or the Cuvilliés Theater in the Residence in Munich implies a completely different task than the beauty of a residential house or a palace. A theater necessarily presents a different appearance than a ceremonial hall, thanks to the presence of many seats in one room, the box seats, the graduated staircases, etc. The practical purpose that as many visitors as possible should be able to see and hear what is happening on the stage dictates many tasks from the very outset. But the beauty does not depend on the immanent technical perfection with which these tasks are fulfilled, but on purely architectural factors. The expression of festivity that is essential to a theater must be realized. This requirement of the spiritual theme can be achieved only by means of artistic factors.

In the case of a residential house, the perfect execution of the purely practical living conditions certainly does not guarantee that it will possess artistic value, since a residence should not only serve practical needs. Rather its real theme entails being a worthy place for our intellectual and affective life: in a word, for our life as human beings. And this can be achieved only through the artistic beauty that elevates and nourishes the spirit. Architectural beauty also elevates the whole of our practical life and fills it with the poetry of life. But a residence must not only be architecturally successful, in general terms, and beautiful. It must also possess a tone that accords with the lifestyle of the person in question, from a simple, beautiful building to a palace.

In those buildings that serve purely practical purposes, in which the practical activities have been robbed of their poetry—buildings that are mechanized and depersonalized—technical perfection and pure functionality have nothing to do with artistic beauty. Railway stations and factories do not offer any artistic stimulus in their real theme. At most they can be built in such a way that they do not have an artistically negative effect. It is a very stupid argument to say that railway stations were uglier in the past because they were built not like railway stations, but like castles. Their ugliness and tastelessness were not based on the discrepancy between the purely pragmatic purpose of a railway station and the technical atmosphere of what went on there, on the one hand, and the castle-like architecture, on the other. The castles that were built at that period display the same tastelessness, which is a consequence of purely artistic, architectural mistakes.

The discrepancy between a purely technical purpose and an architecture that is suitable to a castle is certainly a mistake, but it is not this mistake that makes the building tasteless. Rather it is impossible to erect a beautiful building that corresponds to the sober, neutralized atmosphere of a railway station. If one wishes to achieve congruence between the practical purpose and the architectural character, then the building can at best avoid being ugly. But it is not desirable that it should emanate a completely neutral atmosphere. Independently of its purpose, it can have something monumental and noble, thanks to architectural factors alone. In any case, such a modest architectural value raises it above something that just emanates the world of a railway station.

This is even truer of factories and department stores. What happens in a railway station still has a relatively large amount of the poetry of life. How many great moments of human life take place there: the delight at reunion with someone, the painful farewell, the joyful expectancy at the start of a beautiful journey, the joy at arriving in a beautiful place that one does not know or that one longs to see again! Tolstoy has a fascinating description in his novel Anna Karenina of the atmosphere of a railway station and of a train travelling from Moscow to Petersburg.

In the past locomotives had a certain charm. The very act of traveling through many different regions, the whistling of the train, and the echo from the mountains had a certain poetry of life. This is lacking in a factory, a filling station, or a department store, where the neutral, depersonalized rhythm of life is much stronger. It is foolish to make an ideal of constructing buildings that emanate this barrenness and that therefore are an expression that corresponds to the purpose of the buildings. It is much more important that these buildings should still emanate a certain architectural nobility and should not have a negative impact on the city in its architectural beauty. It is absurd to believe that it is untruthful when such a building, instead of emanating this barrenness, possesses beauty (no doubt, a very modest beauty) simply on the basis of its form and proportions, its materials and its color.

The Fabrica de Tabacos, Seville. Photo:

One regrets most profoundly that the beautiful palace of the Fabrica de Tabacos in Seville now serves a commercial purpose; but it does not cease to be beautiful, since as an expression it does not correspond to what is now its practical purpose. It would certainly be inappropriate to erect such a building explicitly for a factory. And yet this example shows how independent architectural beauty is of congruence with the purely practical purpose. In the case of buildings that are newly erected for such purposes, one should not aim at an expression that corresponds to a completely different purpose; nor should one aim at a barren atmosphere that is appropriate to the purely neutral, depoeticized purpose. A modest, simple, but noble architecture is appropriate here, an architecture that in its expression and its atmosphere does justice to the fact that human beings work in these buildings: human beings who are destined objectively for a rich interpersonal and nonmechanized world full of the poetry of human life.

The Dimension of Reality in Architecture

We began by pointing out that architecture is clearly distinct from all the other arts in virtue of the fact that it belongs to the concrete world that surrounds us and to the full reality in which we live and move, whereas all the other arts are a world of their own and have their own kind of existence.

This very important element makes possible the close link between architecture and nature, a “marriage” analogous to the one formed by sound and word. At the same time, it has a dimension of delightfulness that the other arts lack. We see this clearly when we walk through a city like Florence or Siena, or stand in Saint Mark’s Square in Venice. The splendor, the nobility, the genuineness of the Palazzo Vecchio or of Orsanmichele in Florence shines forth from structures that are real—just as real as the hills of Fiesole and Monte Morello. They are parts of the world that really surrounds us and in which we live. This fact has an extraordinary ability to delight us. It signifies a new dimension of contact with this beauty. When we look at the Church of San Marco and the Palace of the Doges, we can scarcely grasp that what stands before us is reality. This irruption of beauty into the world in which we live is a tremendous gift, similar to the beauty of a great and significant landscape. Nature too has this dimension of delightfulness. Its bearers of beauty are real entities; trees, animals, brooks, and rocks belong to the full reality of the external world around us. The landscape, the composition of these entities, is likewise a part of this reality. We have already written2 about the role of the reality of the beautiful in nature and about the difference between a glorious chain of mountains and a conglomeration of clouds that looks like a mountain range. This applies to architecture as well.

Detail of the portico of the Basilica of Saint Mark, Venice. Photo: PA

One could object that while the reality of architecture is an important factor for the delight we receive from its beauty, this being delighted is something subjective in its importance for us. It is not a factor for its objective value. To this, we must reply that the new dimension of being delighted is not a purely subjective experience. Being delighted certainly presupposes a person; it unfolds in the spirit of a person. Nevertheless, it is not an arbitrary, subjective experience, but something that is objectively grounded. Secondly, the experience of being delighted also serves to shed light on the completely objective characteristic of architecture. The value quality of beauty is of course not dependent on it; a real building is in one sense not more beautiful than a sketch that is not realized. We see the sketch and apprehend the beauty of the building; we also regret that it was not erected as a building. Becoming real is the bearer of a high value, not only because of the artistic importance of this building for a square, a street, and the entire surrounding area, but also because of the full realization of this bearer of beauty. This full realization is an eminent value.

We mention the unique dimension of delightfulness in architecture, which it shares with nature, because it sheds a light on the high value that architecture possesses in the sphere of full reality. It is obvious that we do not refer here to the value that the fully realized work of art possesses over against the potential work of art, the opera that is staged over against the score, or the drama that is staged over against the drama that exists only in print. Rather we have in mind the fact that architecture is a part of the reality in which our real life takes place and to which we ourselves belong. This fact objectively distinguishes architecture from the other arts and gives it a special character. It gives architecture unique possibilities of having an impact, and it is the bearer of a value of its own. This does not indeed intensify the beauty of the architecture, but it is a definite value.

Part One of this article appeared in Sacred Architecture 29.

Dietrich von Hildebrand was born in 1889 in Florence, the son of Adolf von Hildebrand, an eminent German sculptor of the late nineteenth century. He grew up immersed in the art and beauty of Florence. He studied philosophy with Edmund Husserl and became an important figure in the world of early phenomenology. Given his upbringing in Florence and his training in phenomenology, he was predestined to do original work in aesthetics. Though Dietrich von Hildebrand is mainly known in the Catholic world for his religious writings, such as Transformation in Christ, and for his philosophical writings, such as Ethics, he has yet to be discovered as the important aesthetician that he is.

Rev. Brian McNeil, C.R.V. was born in Scotland in 1952. After studies at Cambridge, he entered the Canons Regular of Saint Augustine and was ordained to the priesthood in 1985. He has worked in parishes in Italy, Norway, and Germany, and is presently pastor of a large parish in Munich. He began translating for the English-language edition of the Vatican newspaper in the 1980s, and has translated sixty books and numerous articles.

John F. Crosby is a professor of philosophy at Franciscan University of Steubenville and is a Senior Fellow of the Dietrich von Hildebrand Project. He was a student of Dietrich von Hildebrand.

We present here a selection from his Aesthetics, which is about to appear in the newly formed press of the Hildebrand Project ( The Hildebrand Project exists to bring all of von Hildebrand’s works into English and into print, and above all to bring them into intellectual circulation.

1. Dietrich von Hildebrand, Aesthetics, vol. 2, chap. 6, abridged and edited, trans. Brian McNeil and John F. Crosby (Hildebrand Project, forthcoming 2016). The translation and publication of the Aesthetics was made possible through the generosity of Howard and Roberta Ahmanson together with Dana Gioia and the National Endowment for the Arts, the Cushman Foundation, and the Budnik Family Foundation.
2. Aesthetics, vol. 1, chap. 14.

| Renaissance Churches of Troyes and Their Stained Glass

Renaissance Churches of Troyes and Their Stained Glass

In the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, buildings carried great narrative themes, on the exterior by sculpture and on the interior by glass and wall painting. Allied to the art of the Gothic construction, the figural window dominated image-making for four centuries, emerging again in the nineteenth century with the revival of the Gothic building. We look back to these ensembles as moments when image, space, color, light, and materials fuse in a visual concord, seeing the power of glass to enable the designer to sculpt interior space through light. The three components of these buildings—architecture, stained glass, and sculpture—were forged into a single unified whole. Within each church, sculpted or painted images enunciated the creed of the makers while designating the hierarchy of space. In the ideal building campaign, windows were planned from the start and produced as each section of the building was nearing completion. Like the sculpture, they were part of the architectural ensemble, not added embellishment to merely decorate the building.1

For both its artistic brilliance and its intense production in almost all European countries, stained glass of the Renaissance constitutes a major epoch in the history of architectural decoration. During this time, cities assumed a larger role in economic and civic life, secular patronage of government officials grew substantially, and art was universally seen as a requirement of status, either as a personal possession or as a public statement of largess. Vying to attract such discriminating patrons, artists developed new modes of expression, most important being systems of perspective that evoke actual three-dimensional space. From the end of the fifteenth century to about 1550, and in the Lowlands well into the seventeenth century, leaded and painted windows dominated construction. Monasteries engaged in extensive programs for their cloisters, cathedrals added chapels and even new glazing, and the laity financed new or expanded parish churches. All strove for windows that spoke an artistic language of heightened drama and three-dimensional realism.

The previous era—that of the Gothic—had similarly developed systems of narrative shared in large-scale windows and small-scale works such as manuscripts. Both manuscript and window employed a medallion format dominated by the contrast of blue and red. Realistic recession in space and background setting were minimal; schematic allusion to a door or a ground line served as spatial contextualization. Artists silhouetted figures against uniform grounds, and gesture, not facial expression, defined narrative action. As Peter Breiger, an English art historian, eloquently phrased it, “If the illuminators used the same patterns and model books, it was not simply because they followed the example of the window designers, but because the geometric order establishing sequences and relations was the natural and logical as well as the aesthetically appropriate one to be used by artists, who were taught to visualize human and divine relations in terms of eternal validity, satisfying reason and faith and independent of time and space.”2

Fig. 1. Châlons-en-Champagne Cathedral, Death of the Virgin, 1509. Photo: Author

As Gothic architecture became more attenuated and open, the medallion window with its interplay of episodes was replaced by a sequential format reading like a book. Playing to a public with access to private imagery in illuminated prayer books, large volumetric figures in three-dimensional settings appeared. Economically and politically, the rise of a merchant class transformed artistic patronage. The age of great cathedrals was passed, and building concentrated on parish churches, many of them achieving impressive size. No longer were church buildings and their decoration dominated by ecclesiastical taste. Influential families added private chapels to already-established buildings to commemorate their own members. The church was the most important communal building of the village, the site of legal, social, and artistic—as well as religious—activities; these shared practices produced common architectural features. Even within cities boasting a cathedral and several churches built by the religious orders, parish churches were distributed through the area to serve the laity. Imagery was removed from symbolic representation and abstracted forms of the earlier years. What was important for the laity was a direct, emotional link to the present. No matter how complex a program might be in its full elaboration, the artists consistently touched the hearts and minds of the unsophisticated viewer with images that elicited empathy. The death of the Virgin (Fig. 1), for example, from the Cathedral of Châlons-en-Champagne (bay 38), is part of a window of the life of the Virgin installed in 1509. Tender details appear, such as the distress of the Apostles; Saint Peter wearing a priestly stole gives her Extreme Unction, another blesses with holy water, while another, aided by eyeglasses, reads comforting scripture. This was the image that the faithful all hoped for themselves when their lives came to a close.

The city of Troyes, the capital of the Province of Champagne, exemplifies this era.3 Its fairs and extensive trade with lands to the east (Germany) and north (Lowlands) made Troyes synonymous with mercantile prosperity. Spared the mortar shelling of the First World War and the bombing raids of the second, Troyes and its neighboring towns emerged with an extraordinary collection of intact buildings retaining their original glazing schema. Notable earlier buildings include the Cathedral of Saints Peter and Paul, whose construction extended over three centuries. Following a devastating fire in 1181 that destroyed the Romanesque building, the choir dates from 1200 to 1250 and the transept between 1215 and 1310; the nave, only completed in 1505, shows a remarkably coherent program of Renaissance windows in upper openings given by prominent citizens.

Perhaps even more significant is the collegial church of Saint-Urbain, which marked a watershed in France’s transition from the High Gothic to the Rayonnant style. Jacques Pantaleon of Troyes became pope in 1262, taking the name of Urban IV. One of his first acts was to endow a church on the site of his birthplace (his father’s cobbler’s shop). The plan rejected the High Gothic three-part elevation of arcade, triforium, and clerestory to focus on linking exterior and interior decorative and structural elements through lacy elaborations in glass and stone. An unprecedented amount of light illuminates the interior, facilitated by windows where uncolored, patterned glass frames bands of colorful narrative images.4 Extensive restorations were made in the mid-nineteenth century, but they respected the integrity of the building and original format of the windows. The glass painters Louis-Germain Vincent-Larcher and especially Edouard Didron based many of the new creations on extant glazing models and medieval manuscript illustrations.

Fig. 2. Sainte-Madeleine jubé and pulpit. Photo: Michel M. Raguin

The parish church of the Madeleine, begun about 1490, may stand as a model for the Troyes Renaissance aesthetic. Its magnificent choir screen (Fig. 2), constructed 1508–1517 and set in the interstices between the space for the laity and the clergy, provided a stage for readings, singing, and devotional focus. The architect-sculptor Jean Gailde left orders that he be buried under the screen with the inscription Ci gist Jehan Gualde, maître maçon, qui attend ici la resurrection sans crainte d’être écrasé (Here lies Jean Gailde, master mason, who awaits the resurrection without fear of being crushed).5 Burial within churches was a privilege reserved for the few; Gailde’s achievements had evidently earned sufficient respect that he not only had his place, but could leave a witty comment of the solidity of his screen—it would not fall, or “crush” him, before the Last Judgment when Christ would call him from the dead. A tour-de-force of engineering as well as beauty, its three arcades abut massive pillars to the north and south. In the center, the arcades terminate on two unsupported corbels. The suspension of these four points beneath the tribune is mirrored by the three pendant vaults of the interior. A precedent, arguably unknown to the architect, is the 1478–1488 fan vaulting of the Divinity School Library at Oxford.6 In Troyes the pendant vaults are steeply angled with trefoil molding defining the four major ribs of the vault. On the tribune Christ is suspended on the Cross, flanked by life-size statues of His mother and John the Evangelist. Reliefs above the three arches show Christ in the central quatrefoil, gesturing to two women on His right (the viewer’s left). Two men are placed in the quatrefoil on His left. The iconography may relate to Christ speaking to Mary and Martha, who receive Him in their home (Luke 10:38-42), a theme that would resonate with the dedication of the church to Mary Magdalene. Many of these choir screens (or jubés in French) were destroyed in later times, so the Madeleine’s is a most welcome vestige.

Fig. 3. Sainte-Madeleine, Creation. Photo: Michel M. Raguin

Through the opening in the screen, a visitor can perceive the deeply colored windows of the choir’s apse. Gold as well as red and blue appears to dominate the palette, resulting in compositions of great warmth. The windows exhibit a very modern system of continuous narration (the origin of the bandes dessinées that triumphed centuries later with the stories of Tintin and Asterix): Saint-Eloi, a gift of the goldsmiths of the city (bay 0), Genesis, Original Sin and Redemption (bay 1), Tree of Jesse (bay 2), Life of Saint Louis (bay 3), and Passion of Christ (bay 4). These compositions, especially those of the Creation, Tree of Jesse, and Passion, became models for a large number of other sites. The high demand for windows developed creative responses by the studios, among them not exactly a cartoon, but a model of the same scale. With such a model, the glazing studios could vary the placement of leadline and expand or contract compositions depending on the size of the window opening. Most celebrated may be the images of Genesis (Fig. 3). Starting from the bottom, God creates the sky, the waters, and the earth, separates the dry land from the waters, and then creates the stars. The second level shows the creation of the birds and fishes, followed by the animals, with careful detail to identify horse, lion, elephant, camel, pig, and snail. God then creates Adam from the earth and Eve from Adam’s rib.7 The flamboyant tracery in the upper quarter of the window (not shown) displays the birth and death of Christ, proclaiming His redemption of the world that God the Father created. The models enjoyed a long life, including Saint-Pierre-ès-Liens (bay 9) at Les Riceys, of 1525. In Les Riceys, images of God creating the earth, the stars, and the animals, (including horse, lion, elephant, cow, camel, pig, lizard, and snail) repeat the Madeleine’s format. The Creation (bay 40) in the cathedral of Châlons-en-Champagne, installed between 1506 and 1516, shows more variation, including the intimate detail of a solicitous God the Father. After the representation of Adam and Eve eating from the Tree of Knowledge, God then admonishes the guilty first couple; in a following scene He gives them a visibly furry cloak to keep them warm before the final image of a fiery angel expelling them from Paradise.

Fig. 4. Saint-Pantaléon, Troyes. Photo: Michel M. Raguin

Fig. 5. John, Mary, and Mary Magdalene, Saint-Pantaléon. Photo: Michel M. Raguin

Troyes built numerous parish churches dating from the early sixteenth century, including Saint-Jean-aux-Marché, Saint-Nizier, and Saint-Pantaléon. Saint-Pantaléon (Figs. 4 and 5) exemplifies the unified interior with its intersection of sculpture, architecture, and stained glass; most of it is painted in a neutral scale to let in greater amounts of light. Grisaille, neutral-colored paint on uncolored glass, accented by silver stain, was the preferred medium for the church’s windows. Glass painters developed highly sophisticated painting techniques to render the three-dimensionality that had become popular in panel painting. Techniques varied, but often stipple washes were applied in layers to give smooth transitions from light to dark. Dark line was used sparingly, often simply as an accent to strengthen the outline of the nose or ear. Sanguine, a russet color, was introduced to produce a reddish tone to lips or a cheek. Often, near life-size figures in volumetric rendering appeared as if a sculptural presence in the lancets of a window. Unlike figures in the small-scale medallions of the thirteenth century, these Renaissance actors utilize facial expression and three-dimensional presence. Saint-Pantaléon’s windows of the south aisle, Infancy and Early Miracles of Christ (bay 4), Passion (bay 6), and the Story of Daniel (bay 8) were executed between 1531 and 1546; all show dramatic narrative executed in warm browns highlighted by variegated yellow tints of the silver stain.

Emotional expressiveness was one of the criteria driving the increased importance of windows in grisaille, where the viewer’s attention would be drawn to line and not color. A striking window (bay 14) dated about 1530 appears midway in the south nave in Saint-Nizier, set above a door.8 A single subject is presented: the meeting of Joachim and Anna (parents of the Virgin Mary) at Jerusalem’s Golden Gate. The inscription records the image as a donation by husband and wife, Etienne and Jeanne Richier. The composition sets Joachim on the left and Anna on the right, divided by the stone mullion of the window. Behind Joachim we see the angelic annunciation to the exiled Joachim as he herds sheep.

Fig. 6. Saint-Nizier, Troyes, Entombment. Photo: Michel M. Raguin

Fig. 7. Saint-Jean-Baptiste, Chaource, Entombment Detail. Photo: Michel M. Raguin

The emotional impact is linked to the traditional sculpture in the region (Fig. 5). Renaissance Champagne is prized as a time of great ingenuity in the medium.9 Saint-Pantaléon has become a repository for more than sixty sixteenth-century statues gathered from now-closed religious edifices. Calvary groupings, Depositions, and Entombments of Christ were among the most popular subjects. The same elaborate multifigure groupings were standard representations in window narratives such as the Burial and Resurrection (bay 102) of 1522 in Saint-Nizier. See the detail of the Entombment (Fig. 6) with Nicodemus, the Virgin, Saint John, and Mary Magdalene with an unguent jar. The composition parallels that of the well-known eight-figure sculptural group of the Entombment (Fig. 7) in the church of Saint-Jean-Baptiste in Chaource, dated about 1515 and associated with a prolific artist responsible for many other works in the area, including a statue of Martha for Troyes’ church of the Madeleine.10 From a more dramatic (and presumably later) hand is a fragment in Saint-Pantaléon of a grouping possibly from an Entombment or Deposition, showing John the Evangelist, the Virgin Mary, and most probably Mary Magdalene (Fig. 5). The feeling of shared suffering is palpable. The sculpture and the stained-glass image of Joachim display the same oval facial type, with furrowed brows surrounded by undulating locks of hair. Such emotional directness has made Troyes Renaissance sculpture a prize acquisition for museums. Troyes is represented in the Metropolitan Museum of Art via a sculpture of Mary Magdalene (accession number 16.32.160) and an almost life-size statue of Saint Savina of Troyes (or Saint Syra) (accession number 17.190.750).

Even a casual visit to the region is aesthetically, historically, and spiritually rewarding. In this world of internet and digital images, the websites managed by the French Patrimonie provide a visual and textual introduction to this and other regions (

Virginia Raguin is distinguished professor of humanities at the College of the Holy Cross. Among her many books are Stained Glass: From Its Origins to the Present and Stained Glass: Radiant Art.

1. For broad overview, see Virginia Chieffo Raguin, Stained Glass from its Origins to the Present (New York: Harry Abrams, 2003) under title The History of Stained Glass (London: Thames and Hudson, 2003). A brief introduction is Virginia Chieffo Raguin, Stained Glass: Radiant Art (Los Angeles: The J Paul Getty Museum, 2013).
2. Peter Brieger, English Art 1216–1307 (Oxford: Clarenden Press, 1957), 95.
3. For references to history of the buildings and their glazing campaigns discussed in this article, see the extensive inventory published in the Corpus Vitrearum series Recensement des vitraux anciens de la France: vol. IV: Les Vitraux de Champagne–Ardenne (Paris: Editions de la Recherche Scientifique, 1992).
4. Michael Davis, “On the Threshold of the Flamboyant: The Second Campaign of Construction of Saint-Urbain, Troyes,” Speculum, LIX (1984): 847–884.
5. Jacqueline E. Jung, The Gothic Screen: Space, Sculpture and Community in the Cathedrals of France and Germany ca. 1200–1400 (Cambridge University Press, 2012), 198–200; Jacques Baudoin, La sculpture flamboyante en Champagne, Lorraine (Nonette, éditions CRÉER, 1990), 98–101. One should also note the tomb monument of Gabriel Favereau in Troyes’ Saint-Nizier. The inscription proclaims Favereau an honorable and scientific person, master mason of the church of Saint-Pierre (the cathedral), who died November 20, 1576. A nude figure is shown with a hammer in his hand.
6. Joan Evan, English Art 1307–1461 (Oxford: Clarenden Press, 1941; Hacker Books, 1981), 199–200, fig. 91.
7. The Genesis cycles in Champagne’s windows appear indebted to a manuscript tradition preserved in twenty-eight known fifteenth-century exemplars, many originating in Eastern France. See Lisa Fagin Davis, La Chronique Anonyme Universelle: Reading and Writing History in Fifteenth-Century France (London: Harvey Miller Publishers, 2014), 68–71, 152–161, 393, images on 393–401. In the text (see p. 159) an angel, not God, gives Adam and Eve a hair shirt to wear.
8. This expressive pathos continued into the twentieth century. A well-executed Art Deco-style fresco by Henri Marret, 1927, commemorates the soldiers of World War I. Behind Christ on the cross, who embraces a dying soldier in his arms, it lists the names of those who came from the parish. The Stations of the Cross are painted on the columns in the same style. Jacques Faraut and Anne Le Chevallier, Henri Marret (1878-1964), Aquarelles et gravures [catalog] (Pont-Aven: Musée de Pont-Aven, 2005)
9. Raymond Koechlin and Jean-J. Marquet de Vasselot, La sculpture à Troyes and dans la Champagne méridionale au seizième siècle: études sur a transition de l’art gothique à l’italianisme (Paris: A. Colin, 1900); Patrick Corbet and Pierre Sesmat, Corpus de la statuaire médiéval et renaissance de Champagne méridionale (Langres, Haute-Marne: S. Gueniot, 2001–2008); Donna Sadler, Stone, Flesh, Spirit: The Entombment of Christ in Late Medieval Burgundy and Champagne (Leiden: Brill, 2015).
10. Baudoin, La sculpture flamboyante en Champagne, Lorraine, 133–34.

| Forming the Imagination: Architectural Heritage and Church Downsizing in Chicago

Forming the Imagination: Architectural Heritage and Church Downsizing in Chicago

Holy Cross Monastery Church, Chicago. Photo:

Detail of the façade, Holy Cross Monastery Church. Photo:

In a 2010 TED lecture, musician David Byrne made the interesting and counterintuitive observation that musicians create music for particular spaces. Using examples of outdoor West African drum circles, New York clubs, and Gothic cathedrals, he noted that the types of music typically performed in these spaces happens to sound good in just those spaces. We might rephrase this and say that spaces come first, and musicians create music with these spaces in mind. Therefore architecture (or lack thereof) determines and sets boundaries to the creativity of artists. At the very least, we can say that the creative imagination of the musician and that of the architect (whether it be the Divine Architect of the West African savannah or that of homo faber) influence each other.

I would go further and venture a tentative thesis for this article. Architecture forms the imagination of those who inhabit the buildings produced. This being the case, architects have a serious responsibility. “What kind of persons do I hope to form?” must be answered whenever the shaper of space launches out on a new project. Since buildings are among the most public and enduring of art forms, this is a serious question indeed, for the architect may well be contributing to the aspirations and imaginations of many generations. It follows that sacred architecture would make the most important demands on the architect, since he will be forming the minds of worshippers with an eye toward revealed Truth. He or she must therefore be knowledgeable not only about acoustics and the load-bearing capacities of various materials. The architect must know something of human psychology and the ways in which buildings shape our understanding and imagination.

There is a gap between my opening example and my thesis, and at first consideration this gap might appear formidable. Music, after all, is very much a physical production, involving sound waves produced by human voices, plucked and bowed strings, vibrating brass and reed. By contrast, our modern understanding of “religion” usually relegates it to the realm of the nonmaterial or spiritual. It is one thing for stone and plaster to affect practical considerations regarding sound, and something else for it to effect an entire worldview. In the best of situations, of course, there is overlap between the arts and life. Few of us can think of music that does not have a kind of spirit to it, and the worship of God in the Catholic liturgy really does require us to have at hand the material elements of water, bread, and wine. Nevertheless, many assume that the liturgy is in essence separable from buildings, and perhaps even from vestments, thuribles, and veils.

An example: I recently attended a meeting of religious formators and superiors in the Archdiocese of Chicago. Like many American dioceses, we are facing shortfalls of personnel and of funds. Buildings are expensive to maintain. So they are typically among the first objects at risk when budget considerations arise. When parishioners resist the shuttering of their churches, it eases our consciences somewhat to attribute their attachment to a laudable but misplaced nostalgia. One participant illustrated this by asking if any of us religious priests and sisters had joined our communities because of a building. The nods and chuckles of most of those attending suggested that this comment found a receptive audience. The message? People and charism ought to come first. These will outlive the buildings that they happen to inhabit. So we have to be ready to abandon our buildings if need be.

In fact, of course, communities and buildings often enough seem to succeed or fail together. Many of the church renovations that followed the Second Vatican Council blurred the original imaginative visions of our buildings. Might not those whose aspirations and imaginations had been formed by the intelligible order of traditional churches have experienced those renovations as alienating and confusing? And might this confusion have contributed to the disaffection of many churchgoers? Confusion might be a necessary stage on the way to clarity, but if it becomes a permanent state, it no longer leads to truth. Sacred architecture’s role in guiding us into the truth is thwarted. The waning intelligibility of the building contributes to the malaise of a community at risk. Perhaps the changes came about because a community’s aspirations, altered by alien influences, were found to be at odds with the church’s architecture, which thus required alteration. In such a case, a failure would be systemic.

Let me offer a counterexample from personal experience. Cardinal Bernadin invited our Benedictine monastic community to Chicago in 1990, the last time the archdiocese closed a large numbers of churches. When our founders discovered the former Immaculate Conception parish church, they sensed immediately that this would be their home. How did they know this? Precisely because the building conformed most closely to their understanding of the community they hoped to become. They were looking for a church that could support the monastic liturgy, a church with a beautiful acoustic, with light, soaring height, and joyous color. The building itself stands as a shorthand statement about the community’s common aspirations.

By choosing this building, the monks were making a statement precisely about the charism and the people involved. Thus the charism and people did come first, in a sense, but the choice of a building was crucial in stabilizing the community. When I entered, was it because of the building? In some ways, the building said more about the community than did the words of individual brothers, and did so more convincingly.

The experience of repairing the damage the church suffered during the year it was closed has been something of an archaeological excavation. The deeper the strata, the profounder has been our experience of the architecture and of the liturgy that it supports and guides. As the liturgy was shaped by our restoration of the church, this in turn has shaped the way in which we relate to each other. This is so because we relate to one other, not only as brothers, but as sons of one Father and disciples of one Lord, Whose real presence is communicated sacramentally (and therefore in common) in the liturgy.


There is some plausibility in placing a primacy on persons rather than on objects. In fact, this is an oversimplification. “True friends,” wrote C.S. Lewis, “don’t spend time gazing into each other’s eyes . . . They face in the same direction—toward common projects, goals—above all, towards a common Lord.” In a slightly different vein, but to the same effect, are observations by the sociologist Mary Douglas. In her book Natural Symbols, she demonstrates that relaxed intimacy in community is often a product of shared, dense symbols rather than direct communication. Shared symbols allow the imagination to be at ease in the universe and with others. A universe of shared, dense symbols is a majestic universe that ennobles its inhabitants and has a place for everyone.

The breakdown of shared symbols brings certain opportunities, of course. For the talented (and for the ruthless), breaking free of the constraints of shared meaning offers the possibility for realizing personal goals. But the universe has, in this case, become at best a neutral, meaningless place. In a nonsymbolic universe, meaning tends to be supplied by adroit rhetoricians and clever maneuverers. What happens when a church building is denuded of its dense, symbolic language and reduced to a neutral “worship site?”

I suggested early on that genuine sacred architecture orients us toward Truth. Buildings operate as a shorthand statement about a community’s goals for itself and thus its self-understanding. They do so by pointing away from the community, by suggesting something “greater than” the community itself (what philosopher Paul Ricoeur called the “surplus of meaning”), and by guiding the aspirations of the community toward that something else. This “turning toward” a common Lord suggests one of the major areas of alienation between traditional architecture and the liturgical changes that followed the Council.

Until the middle of the twentieth century, liturgical orientation was toward the east. In fact, the very word “orientation” simply means “east-ing,” from the Latin oriens or “rising” of the sun. As the Son of Man was expected to return in the east, this common orientation, priest and congregation, made of the sun and the compass point a sign. In this and other ways, the whole cosmos became a dense network of references to God and His work of salvation. This orientation decided the direction the church faced, as well as the placement of many of its important furnishings.

Mass is celebrated ad orientem at the high altar with an icon of Christ the King above. Photo:

When altars were rotated to allow priests to celebrate “facing the people,” the architecture of many churches was profoundly “dis-oriented.” Symbolic furnishings like the tabernacle and pulpit that had referred to each other and to the overall orientation became displaced and their meaningful connections obscured. In Mary Douglas’s dense symbolic universe, you can touch the web of symbols anywhere and set the whole vibrating. When these connections are cut, meaning is impoverished and the full impact of symbols in reference to the majestic whole is missing.

It is noteworthy that the new stance, that of the priest and community facing each other, is analogous to the primacy of community over building. How?

The Utile and the Gratuitous

Few would maintain that the Church can and should do without buildings entirely. But the idea that religious aspirants do not join communities because of their buildings reduces architecture to a decidedly secondary status within our understanding of the Church. When architects themselves are formed by this notion, architecture appears to be in competition with the community. Buildings must decrease that the congregation can increase. Churches are reduced to the functional and cease to be intentionally formative signs.

When I suggested above that a church could be a shorthand manner of representing a community, I placed the building in the realm of signs. By contrast, the functional church aims to mute any suggestion of signification. It provides the backdrop for the community rather than serving as a signifier of the community’s common striving. Is this desirable? Is it even possible?

The great twentieth-century Catholic poet David Jones grappled with this question. Of particular interest is his 1955 essay Art and Sacrament.1 In it, he introduces a distinction between the “utile” and the “gratuitous.” His claim is that humankind is, by nature, a sign-making species. But to make something into a sign is to make it say more, to give it surplus meaning. When I bake a birthday cake, I employ a certain knowledge of chemistry, to be sure. But I do so not as an exercise in chemistry. Nor am I aiming to meet the nutritional needs of those who will consume it. Rather, the cake signifies and, with gratitude, recalls someone’s birth. By extension it signifies the very person whom we are celebrating. That “something more” in a birthday cake, the additional element that makes it a sign, is “gratuitous.” It is not primarily “utile,” as a stolen cake might be of utility to a starving person. The cake is a dense (if humble) and common symbol of the gift of a unique person.

To offer signs is to make a bid to our fellow human beings, to point something out to them and help them to see something about the world. We offer others the opportunity to behold and contemplate something outside of us, and to behold this alongside us. If C.S. Lewis is right, this is a bid for friendship. It is only through signs that we truly can build up community.

Interior of the Holy Cross Monastery Church. Photo:

This signifying (signum-faciens or “sign-making”) partakes of an order of freedom or “gratuitousness.” (We should note that “gratuitous” is etymologically related to “grace.”) The making of signs requires a gift of self, a tendering of meaning through the exercise of the various arts. In turn, the various arts will be most excellently exercised when artisans understand the sign-value of their work. The problem with the contemporary technocratic mindset and its obsession with efficiency is the reduction of our work to the merely “utile” or functional.

In this milieu, Catholic sacraments and sacramentals begin to appear as eccentric add-ons to an otherwise “secular” and materialistic world. If instead we human beings are sign-makers by nature, then all human artifacts, be they wood carvings, birthday cakes, or clarinets, point to a sacramental order of reality. It is the peculiar illness of our age to deny this and to reduce things to bare functionality. By doing so, the Catholic sacramental system seems suddenly out-of-step with purported “realism.”2

Whereas traditional church architecture extended the sacramental worldview outward, into the very cosmos, more recent trends have aimed at emphasizing the functional in order to focus attention on the community. Yet by turning the focus back on ourselves, we widen the rift between the material world and the spiritual world, between heaven and earth. In our persons, this rift unmoors our spirituality, which becomes personalized and isolating. This in turn allows the secular to seep its way into every unguarded nook of our consciousness. The former sentinels, our once common symbols, have abandoned their posts.

The good news is that Christ, who reconciles heaven and earth, points the way out of this alienation through the gratuitousness of the Incarnation. In Jones’s words, “He placed Himself in the order of signs.” He did this to become the Way to the Father: “He who has seen me has seen the Father (John 14:10).”3

Defeatism? Or Revivification?

An apparently clear-eyed (efficient) view of the expense of keeping up church buildings tends to see them as liabilities. It may well be the case that we cannot save all of our churches. But before drastic decisions are made, might it be possible to see in many of these beautiful buildings not a liability, but a vital partner in re-evangelization?

If our architecture has ceased to represent for us our common aspirations and hope, might it be possible to relearn the symbolic language that architecture used for so many centuries to shape the Church into a unity of mind, heart, and hope? The language is already inscribed in the buildings, though some of it may be obscured. Such a project would require more than the reading of textbooks on architectural symbols. Two related changes of heart seem to be required.

The first is a willingness to let previous generations point to our common goal, and to respond to their tender of friendship by turning, alongside them, in the same direction. This is most easily seen in a return to ad orientem celebrations (the rubrics of the Ordinary Form of the Roman Rite actually presuppose that the priest and congregation face the same direction). We must be willing to be taught, to be shown by our forebears what it was that they saw. We must therefore be willing to imagine that what they saw was real and not a mere historical accident that has vanished in our postmodern world.

But working with real persons as genuine members of community is often a messy, inefficient thing. This is all the more so when working with impoverished persons, whose lives often are caught in a complex web of constraining circumstances. But the burden is light when common symbols, taught to us by the divine Logos (John 1:1–4), invite us to be at ease with one another.

From the vantage point of a utile, functional universe, the poor are a kind of problem. It is tempting to divert resources from church buildings to programs intended to alleviate or even eliminate the problem that the poor embody (and prudence may require such a diversion of resources at times). But if this leaves us with an impoverished sense of our common goal—a goal shared with the poor, and not one that “they” are preventing us from achieving—then we have little that is truly humanizing and ennobling to offer. In a gratuitous, grace-filled universe, each person is a gift rather than a problem. In a church building that points us toward our common destiny, the Kingdom of God, we all stand side-by-side—rich and poor, male and female, lay and cleric—and turn together to Him Who is our Head and Way. No longer regarding one another according to the flesh (2 Cor 5:16), but in the dense, shared symbols of our Church, we behold Him, Who was not ashamed to call us all brethren, and Who presents us to the Father. “Here am I, and the children God has given me (Heb 2: 13)!”

Apse of the Holy Cross Monastery Church. Photo: Spring

Rev. Peter Funk, O.S.B. has been Prior of the Monastery of the Holy Cross, a contemplative Benedictine monastery in the Archdiocese of Chicago, since 2004.

1. Found in David Jones, Epoch and Artist (London: Faber and Faber, 1959).
2. A generation after Jones, the great Russian Orthodox theologian Alexander Schmemann similarly diagnosed the ills of the West as a denial of “continuity of sacrament with symbol.” See For the Life of the World (Crestwood, NY: St. Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1973) 140.
3. Pope Benedict XVI has a very similar notion to Jones’s, using instead the language of “image.” See The Spirit of the Liturgy (San Francisco: Ignatius, 2000), 54–55.

| The Architecture of the Simon Peter Memorial

The Architecture of the Simon Peter Memorial

Imagine what the Vatican and Rome would have looked like today if the popes, architects, and other masterminds of this architectural complex would have designed and built something to only commemorate the tragedy of Saint Peter’s death?

Hypothetically speaking, the obelisk may have remained in its original position on Nero’s Circus, perhaps covered in shards of glass to symbolize “brokenness” and a “call to reflection.” The exact spot where Saint Peter was martyred might become a fountain with the shape of an inverted cross (to be jarring rather than awesome) with the names of all the other Christian martyrs engraved in a metallic material surrounding the water source. From these names, red water would cascade down into a hole in the ground, as if the water carried their souls into an abyss of nothingness. Hypothetically, of course, the Vatican complex would have looked like a cemetery, but also a park so that future Christians could have utilized the uncontained “space” for recreation, lamentation, and “meditation.” The overall complex would perhaps have been a reconstruction of Nero’s Circus surrounded by reflective glass, as if the resulting glare was a part of the tragic experience of walking through the site at the time of the killings.

Over the centuries, architects who would have fallen out of fashion would have been fired by trend-seeking popes and the populus seeking newness for its own sake. The site would have become a new way to showcase the vogue architect’s latest and greatest reinvention of a glass box. The basilica that has inspired the architecture of countless churches might have become the headquarters of a religion very different than the one we know today.

Fortunately, the Vatican looks nothing like what was just described, and neither do many of the churches dedicated to martyrs (with the exception of some built in the twentieth century). Saint Peter’s today stands as a witness to how the Catholic Church has, throughout the ages, built architectural and urban complexes which, instead of inducing one to wallow in tragedy and self-pity, uplift the human person and direct our gaze towards eternal life, the City of God.

At its very simplest, “a martyr, or witness of Christ, is a person who . . . [is] so firmly convinced of the truths of the Christian religion, that he gladly suffers death rather than deny it.”1 But he who “gladly” accepts additionally does so with the conviction and security that there is something greater than this earthly life: life everlasting. Saint Peter’s martyrdom points us to heaven, and so everything built in this saint’s honor must also do the same; otherwise, we are stuck where Peter’s earthly life ended: bloody tragedy.

Saint Augustine of Hippo, one of the great fathers of the early Church, sets a scene for architects to wrap their heads around what heaven would look like by translating “hope in life everlasting” into the earthly built environment. When the Visigoths sacked Rome in AD 410, many pagan Romans interpreted it as a punishment from the old gods for adopting Christianity as the official religion. For Roman citizens, Christian and pagan alike, the fall of the most important city of the known world was a devastating experience—a sour tragedy. But there had to be hope. Augustine took this opportunity to urge the citizens of Rome to not put their faith in a worldly city, but rather in the City of God. Augustine differentiates the City of Man, based in sin and wrongdoing, from the City of God, founded by God and based in grace. More importantly, he emphasizes Christianity’s eschatological hope and formalizes (though the Book of Revelation had already set this foundation) the idea of the Church as a city en route to becoming the City of God: the New Jerusalem. Its citizens are all those saved by God and living in their resurrected bodies with God for all eternity in a state of eternal happiness and ecstasy.2 Hope in becoming a citizen of this City would trump the negative effects of earthly tragedies, including a brutal martyrdom, for hope views death as a stepping stone to eternal rest.

In the centuries to come, architects would strive to design and build this City of God on earth. While the most obvious example of this New Jerusalem made manifest on earth is the medieval monastery, the following paragraphs will focus on three elements (out of hundreds or thousands) of the architecture of the Vatican that provide a physical sign of this eschatological hope: the approach from the city, the piazza, and the obelisk.

Slow unveiling of Saint Peter’s Basilica and Piazza when approached from Borgo Santo Spirito. Photo: Author

For the pilgrim making a spiritual journey to Rome, the sequence of experiences to approach Saint Peter’s Basilica from the city was and still is crucial to the pilgrimage. Originally, pilgrims would have arrived from Ponte Sant’Angelo through the Borgo Nuovo with a vista that would have revealed a glimpse of the great façade of the basilica, to Piazza San Pietro with Bernini’s elliptical colonnaded space, which would have majestically embraced the pilgrims. This sequence relates to John’s description of the New Jerusalem in the Book of Revelation (Rev. 21:9–11):

One of the seven angels . . . came and said to me, “Come here. I will show you the bride, the wife of the lamb.” He took me in spirit to a great, high mountain and showed me the holy city Jerusalem coming down out of heaven from God. It gleamed with the splendor of God. Its radiance was like that of a precious stone, like jasper, clear as crystal.3

In a way, while pilgrims walked through the Borgo, the basilica said, “Come here, I will show you the tomb of Saint Peter,” as it slowly revealed itself in a very theatrical way by creating anticipation for that moment of revelation. Before the bulldozing of the Spina to make way for the present Via della Conciliazione, the end destination (the tomb of Saint Peter) was slowly and carefully revealed from the urban fabric through the piazza, narthex, nave, baldacchino, and finally, the tomb.4 Each stage revealed more and more about the Church and Saint Peter. This is an architectural and urban manifestation of eschatological hope: a small physical expression of the history of the City of God and how He has slowly revealed Himself to His people.5

The Borgo as shown in Nolli’s 1748 Plan of Rome. Image:

The piazza, secondly, serves as a stage for the Church. The tomb of Saint Peter grew over time to become a complex that could accommodate pilgrims venerating the saint’s resting place and at the same time provide space for celebrating Mass.6 Today the piazza alone hosts papal audiences, celebrations of Mass, canonizations of new saints, papal funeral processions, and newly elected popes’ greetings, among other events. In short, it becomes an urban amphitheater7 for the pilgrim City of God. The statues of saints crowning the elliptical portico remind us that they are fellow citizens of the same city and therefore participate in the same celebrations that take place in the piazza. These saints too are part of the “open arms of the Church” that the portico is famous for. One important note to add is the travertine is load bearing, which symbolizes long-term presence and structural soundness, and thus provides a sensation of “rock” in the same way that Petrus is “Rock.” The Church is a pilgrim vessel that will lead us to salvation, and so the physical expressions of this vessel (the piazza) must reflect that it is capable of withstanding earthly time and remain strong, true, and present until Christ returns.

Finally, the obelisk displays another sign of the Church’s enduring presence. This obelisk, which witnessed the martyrdom of early Christians on its previous site, was moved in the sixteenth century under the papacy of Sixtus V. Sixtus, through the engineering marvel used to move the obelisk under the direction of Domenico Fontana, was not only providing a visual landmark for pilgrim wayfinding but also making a statement about the Church Triumphant. The tyranny that had once persecuted Christians had been defeated and the Church stood—and stands today—strong. This obelisk—which had seen the brutal killing of Saint Peter and which before could have signified a deep wound carved into the “rock”—this same obelisk, through a complex, theatrical, and carefully designed piazza, would now become like the wound glowing in glory in imitation of Christ’s resurrected body. Bernini’s piazza does not become the trophy of the Vatican but rather builds on his predecessors to bind their own designs into a cohesive architectural and urban complex. All of a sudden, the eschatological hope embedded in the approach, piazza, obelisk, façade, dome, etc. is revealed and comes to fruition. The Catechism says about the resurrection: “Christ ‘will change our lowly body to be like his glorious body.’”8 And so we, as people made in the image and likeness of God, have the potential, in imitation of Christ, to change a lowly object, tragic circumstance, and “wounded” urban space to make it reflect something glorious.

The Egyptian obelisk that stands in the center of Saint Peter’s Square was brought to Rome in AD 37 and moved into its current location under the direction of Domenico Fontana in 1586. Image: betty

This mystique flows through the veins of the Vatican and reveals the whole architectural and urban complex as an architectural expression of the Mystical Body of Christ: the Church. The veins spread through the streets of Rome, through the old pilgrim routes, through the old papal procession route, piazzas, obelisks, stones, and ornaments. Every architect and every patron, in his endeavor to make his church grander than his neighbor’s, was also reminding pilgrims of what the City of God can feel like, to the point where the architecture and urbanism becomes sacramental. It is no coincidence that some people refer to Rome as the “Disneyland” for Catholics, because there is so much to remind us of the City of God that in the end, even if we visit as tourists, we are reminded that we too are pilgrims and the Church is, just like Augustine said, our pilgrim vessel that will lead us to the New Jerusalem.

So what would Saint Peter’s have looked like today if the Church had lost its eschatological hope? Rather than permanence and solidity, it would have expressed limited temporality (depending on the warranty of materials, like sealant for all the glass panels). The magnificent architectural and urban complex we know today would stand only as a memorial to remind us of the atrocities committed by Romans to early Christians. The architecture would honor their tragic deaths and not the Reason for which they gave their life. Pilgrims would be visiting the tomb of “Peter” and would wallow in tragic self-pity, no City of God to anticipate. Instead of an urban amphitheater, Piazza San Pietro would have become an urban cemetery. And instead of “Catholic Disneyland,” it would have been referred to as the Catholic version of the World Trade Center.

View of Saint Peter’s down the Via della Conciliazione, which was begun in 1936 under Benito Mussolini and completed in 1950. Photo: Che

Rodrigo Bollat Montenegro was born and raised in Guatemala City where he received his Licentiate of Architecture from the Universidad Francisco Marroquín. He later went on to the University of Notre Dame and obtained a Master of Architectural Design and Urbanism, concentrating in classical architecture and traditional urbanism. Rodrigo currently lives in New York City and works in the office of Ferguson & Shamamian Architects. He is also an instructor at the Institute of Classical Architecture and Art.

1. The Catholic Encyclopedia, s.v. “Martyr,” by Maurice Hassett, accessed May 25, 2016,
2. I highly recommend reading Chapter XXX of Book XXII of Saint Augustine’s City of God for a detailed description of the state of man in the City of God: the eschatological man.
3. Donald Senior, John J. Collins, and Mary Ann Getty, eds., The Catholic Study Bible, 2nd ed. (New York: Oxford University Press, 2006).
4. Via della Conciliazione reveals nearly everything all at once, removing the anticipation from the urban sequencing. However, approaching the piazza through Borgo Santo Spirito provides a historically similar experience to the Spina by revealing Michelangelo’s dome and a glimpse of Bernini’s colonnade.
5. See Books XI–XII of Saint Augustine’s City of God for the history of the City of God.
6. Richard Krautheimer, Rome: Profile of a City, 312–1308. (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2000), 86.
7. David Mayernik, “Urban Echoes: Listening to the Lessons of Rome,” The Classicist, no. 7 (2005–2007): 10–17.
8. Catechism of the Catholic Church, no. 999.

| Joseph Pieper and the Beautiful Uselessness of Church Buildings

Joseph Pieper and the Beautiful Uselessness of Church Buildings

The skyline of Münster, Germany (where Josef Pieper was born in 1904), shows many buildings that were rebuilt after World War II, including Saint Paul Cathedral and City Hall. Photo:

The concluding section of Josef Pieper’s essay “What Makes a Building a Church?” begins with his admission that his reflections “are, on a practical level, quite useless.”1 In fact, he gives only two concrete rules for the design of a church building: “first, a simple sheltering element, a separating wall, a boundary line,” and “second, the exclusive reservation of the structure, at least in principle, for purposes of worship.”2 The paucity of practical reflections about sacred architecture would make an article on Josef Pieper’s ideas about it impossible, were it not for his insistence on the deep unity between speculative and practical thought. This unity allows Pieper to develop theoretical principles for sacred architecture, while at the same time respecting and preserving room for human creativity, which expresses these principles in the concrete, visible world.

The human being, because of the kind of creature that he is, brings together the speculative and the practical. A human being, as both a material and spiritual being, is uniquely positioned in the created order to glorify God. Of spiritual beings, only a human being can sense material things, and of material beings, only a human being can know and love the good apart from what is material. As a result, only a human being can praise God through what is material, by rejoicing in the good of the material world and yet seeing that it points to a good beyond it. Only a human being can see through the goodness of the material world to the goodness of God, and only a human being can express rejoicing in God’s goodness through what is material. This proper rejoicing in the material is the sight of its beauty: seeing it as good simply because it is, which it is because its source is the source of all goodness. It is this theme, and Josef Pieper’s nuanced understanding of “good” and man’s relation to it, that shapes his ideas about beauty and the sacred, and so about church buildings.

Josef Pieper spent almost the entirety of his career in Münster, Germany, where he dedicated himself to teaching and to writing philosophy. While his thought is steeped in Thomism and Platonism, in the true spirit of philosophy as the pursuit of wisdom, he also engages any influence that leads to knowledge of the truth. He is perhaps best known in the United States for his book Leisure: The Basis of Culture, in part because this was the first of his works translated into English. This work, as well as his others, is deeply speculative and yet is rooted in and refers back to concrete experience. Above all, his experiences of the wars of the twentieth century and the destruction and ensuing rebuilding of Europe, coupled with the rise of the utilitarianism of fascism and communism and the despair of atheistic existentialism, lead him to emphasize, over and over again, in various ways and in the context of various topics, the fundamental—and gloriously useless—goodness of being, of which the church building is a sign.

The Good of Uselessness

The two specific prescriptions that Pieper gives for a church building follow from his reply to the question “What makes a building a church?” His answer is quite simple and straightforward: “A building becomes a church . . . through consecration.”3 It is the performance of the rite of consecration of a church, not its design, that transforms a building, no matter what it looks like, into a church. Consecration designates that the space within the church walls is space for something that is out of the ordinary: “A church, through a specific act of consecration, has been set apart from the realm of ordinary everyday life marked by considerations of work, wages, job security, usefulness, consumption, and generally by the active pursuit of practical purposes.”4

The “everyday,” from which the church building is set aside, is a way of living and seeing the world that is concerned with doing and making things—with putting food on the table and a roof over one’s head, with building roads and bridges and economies, with getting things done. It is the realm of the practical. In this realm, what is good is what is useful. A thing is useful if it leads to some good, but that thing is good if it is useful for some other good, which is useful for a still further good. In the everyday, we are constantly striving to advance from one good to the next. It is not a realm of rest, but rather one of work and effort, with one good after another always just out of reach, such that our concern and attention is focused only on finding the next useful thing to reach the next useful good.

That which is set apart from the everyday, on the other hand, has an “explicit ‘uselessness.’”5 This includes church buildings. While, in a world suffused with utilitarianism and pragmatism, in which “good” is taken to be identical to “useful,” the word “useless” sounds degrading, that it does so is an indication that we have forgotten the good that is beyond the useful and the practical realm. The role of the church building is to offer sensible reminders of this good that is useless.

The “explicit uselessness” that Pieper ascribes to church buildings is not the uselessness of not being good. Rather, it is the uselessness that derives from what is totally and fully good. This good is “useless” because it is not pursued for the sake of a further good. Its good does not depend on its usefulness. It simply is good.

Being is such a good. Being is not good because it is useful. Instead, it is good because it is created by God. That God creates and sustains being indicates that being is loved by God. Love, Pieper writes, is “saying, ‘It’s good that you exist; it’s good that you are in the world.’”6 God, in bringing Creation into existence and in sustaining its existence, is proclaiming that He desires that existence and He desires only what is good. As Genesis states, God “looked at everything He had made, and found it very good.”7

In giving human beings rationality, God shares with them the ability to do this divine activity of seeing that it is good to be. It is an activity that is at once both useless and fully meaningful. Whereas activities in the workaday world are always for the sake of something else and so derive their meaning from something else, seeing that it is good to be is for its own sake. It is meaningful in itself. In dwelling on the goodness of being, the human being comes to rest. He does not need to continue to work towards some other goal. Rather, he can simply remain in the activity of gazing on what is good. This rest is the activity of contemplation.

Contemplation, Pieper writes, is “a gaze inspired by love.”8 It is also man’s end and his happiness. In contemplation, the intellect dwells on the truth simply to know it, and the will rests in the possession of the good of knowing the truth. As such, contemplation is intensely active, but restfully so, since the goals of the rational activities of knowing and willing, the true and the good, are present and elicit rational activity for its own sake. Unlike practical, useful activities, which always pursue a good external to the activity itself, in contemplation, the good that is the goal of the activity is intrinsic to it. Contemplation is the restful activity of the human being seeing and loving what is good simply because it is good, with no reference to its use.

The Useless Meaningfulness of Beauty and Beautiful Churches

In contemplation, which is the loving gaze on the truth simply because it is good, the human being encounters beauty. Pieper, like Thomas Aquinas, rarely speaks explicitly about beauty, and yet beauty suffuses his whole work. His one, clear description of beauty occurs in his treatise on temperance, where he writes that beauty is the glow of the true and the good irradiating from every ordered state of being and not . . . immediate sensual appeal.”9 The perception of “the glow of the true and the good” simply is contemplation. This “glow” is the attractiveness of the true and the good to the human being. Being, under the aspects of true and good, beckons to the human being because he is made for them. His encounter with truth and goodness brings him to the restful activity for its own sake that is his end, fulfillment, and happiness.

Beauty, like happiness, is useless. It is not for the sake of something else. And yet, it is essential to a complete human life. The perception of beauty, which is the experience of resting in the good, reveals the meaningfulness of human life. It is this final good that gives meaning to all other activities that humans do, because they ultimately are directed towards this good. In the sight of beauty, the human being experiences, in some small way, a foreshadowing of his final rest, which is the fulfillment of his being and his activity in gazing on the goodness—and so the beauty—of God in the Beatific Vision.

The recognition that it is good to be, which is the sight of beauty, gives rise to festivity. At the center of being festive is the affirmation that it is good to be. When we see that it is good to be, and that our own existence is good and meaningful, we rejoice. In the midst of everyday busyness and prosaic concerns, however, it is easy to forget the goodness of reality that underlies all that is and so to lose sight of the importance of festivity. Amidst concerns about usefulness, we forget to contemplate and rejoice in the goodness of being; we do not see its beauty.

We must set aside, then, time and space for the feast. Setting aside time and space in which we are not concerned with work and the everyday allows for a disposition different from that of the “workaday” world. The festive disposition is one of receptivity—of being able to rest in the goodness of existence because it is given to us. We do not need to work to make it good. In the feast, we are reminded of the joyful meaning of human life that persists even when we return to the space and time of the everyday. The “uselessness” of the feast shows us the true usefulness of the everyday, such that we are aware of the goodness and meaning of all of human existence.

The most perfect, and most real, festival is the ritual praise of God: “There can be no more radical assent to the world than the praise of God, the lauding of the Creator of this same world. One cannot conceive a more intense, more unconditional affirmation of being.”10 The festival, as a material expression of the inner affirmation and joy of the goodness of being, then, is perfected in the liturgy. The physical, material action of the liturgy is an expression and outgrowth of the communal contemplation and rejoicing in the goodness of God that is the fulfillment and full actuality of the whole human being in communion with others. It is for this purpose that the church building is consecrated.

The Beauty of the Church Building: Silence

Human beings are the only creatures who are able to erect churches. Only human beings can set space and time aside to reserve it in a special and particular way, because only human beings, as rational animals, are both material and spiritual. Man lives in and among what is material and practical, and yet his gaze can penetrate the material and practical world to see and rejoice in the invisible reality that underlies it. It is at this intersection that the church building lies. As such, the church is specifically for human beings, and for the whole of the human being. As Pieper writes, “The edifice of a church . . . is ostensibly not meant to serve a restricted specialized segment of life (as are a hospital or a school, for example), but man as such, in his total being.”11

Interior of Saint Paul Cathedral, Münster. Photo: Hopkins

The design of a church, then, should take into account the totality of the human being, both his material and immaterial aspects, his intellect, his will, his passions, and his senses—and their direction to his final end that gives meaning to all of his aspects and activities. The human being is ultimately fulfilled in being related to and receiving reality as it truly is, the pinnacle of which is He Who is the source of all that is. It is this reception for which the church building is set aside and consecrated. While it is consecration and not its design that makes the church a church, given that the church is for the human being whose meaning and fulfillment lies in gazing on the beauty of God, it is fitting for the church building to be designed in such a way that it engages the whole of the human being in the contemplation of beauty and so prepares and points the whole human being to the contemplation of God.

Pieper writes that “the invisible aspect of festivity, the praise of the world which lies at a festival’s innermost core, can attain a physical form, can be made perceptible to the senses, only through the medium of the arts.”12 The arts, which on the one hand belong to the realm of making and so of the practical, on the other hand belong to the realm of the theoretical and contemplative, because the arts are for contemplation alone. Beautiful music is made to be heard; beautiful visual art is made to be seen. Art is for the gaze, the restful activity, of the senses, which engages also the gaze of the intellect, and so is for contemplation.

In this way, then, beautiful art, whether it is music, painting, or architecture, is “useless”— but in the most meaningful way possible. It is like “the first draught of wine from the jug [that] is not ‘used’, not consumed, but ‘wasted’ and poured out on the waves or the floor as an offering to the gods.”13 That is to say, it is not wasteful at all, but rather magnificently abundant. Beautiful art, as a material and therefore sensible being that makes evident its goodness in the way that it brings the whole human being into intense and restful activity for its own sake, is a readily apparent sign of the setting aside of space and time for something different from the business and bustle of the workaday world.

Funerary monument in Saint Paul Cathedral, Münster. Photo:

In so doing, it helps the perceiver to foster and deepen a disposition of receptivity to reality and joy in that reality. The eyes, when presented with something worth seeing, can rest in their activity. The ears, when presented with something worth hearing, can rest in their activity. And in that reception there must be a recognition, first of the goodness of the art because it engages the perceiver in activity that is fitting for him, but then also of the goodness of reality to which this experience points. Beautiful art opens the perceiver to rest in the reception of and joy in reality by moving him to receive what is before him.

This disposition of receptivity is one of silence. Silence is quite different from being quiet. Whereas being quiet is simply not making noise, silence is profound listening. When we listen, we listen for something; we maintain an attentive openness to whatever comes to greet us.

And this is the role of the church building. The church exists, Pieper writes, as a place for liturgical action. And it is especially for that most perfect of all liturgical actions: the Mass. This is no merely human action. It is human activity through which God’s activity transforms objective reality. The whole of the church building exists for the activity that occurs on the altar: God comes to meet man.

Therefore, church buildings should be designed for cultivating receptivity in man towards reality and God. They should be places of silence. The church building echoes, in a material way, the silence, receptivity, and joy through which the human being, in his intensely internal and yet communal participation in the liturgy, experiences the total meaningfulness of his life and of all of reality in the praise and glory of God. In the liturgy, it is God who comes to meet us, but we must be open and waiting to receive Him. A beautiful church prepares us for that reception by cultivating a material and intellectual silence through the restful activity of the senses, the intellect, and the will.

But so abundant and expansive is the beautiful glory of God that, amid its manifestations in the material sphere, there is a great deal of room for variation. As Pieper writes, “The underlying invisible reality that seeks such visible expression, however, can assume many faces.”14 A church building may be simple although not skimpy, or lavish but not ostentatious.15 Whether a church building be simple or lavish, ornate or ascetic, it must be designed and appointed as an expression of the affirmation of the goodness of being, and so of the beauty of being and of God. The design and construction of church buildings that inspires the human being to silence and so to receive reality and God Himself is, while useless, absolutely essential for the good of the human being. It is “a space where silence rules and true listening becomes possible, the awareness of that kind of reality by which our existence is sustained and ever again renewed and nourished.”16

Margaret I. Hughes is an Assistant Professor of Philosophy at the College of Mount Saint Vincent in Riverdale, New York. She received her Ph.D. in philosophy from Fordham University, where she wrote her dissertation on the philosophy of Josef Pieper and the role of the perception of beautiful art in moral formation.

Author’s Note: Many thanks to Our Lady Seat of Wisdom, Barry’s Bay, Ontario, for their hospitality as I wrote this paper.

1. Josef Pieper, “What Makes a Building a Church?” in In Search of the Sacred, trans. Lothar Krauth (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1991), 110.
2. Ibid., 114.
3. Ibid., 97.
4. Ibid., 100.
5. Josef Pieper, “The Sacred and Its Negation” in In Search of the Sacred, trans. Lothar Krauth (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1991), 43.
6. Josef Pieper, “Love” in Faith, Hope Love, trans. Richard and Clara Winston (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1997), 164.
7. Genesis 1:31.
8. Josef Pieper, Happiness and Contemplation, trans. Richard and Clara Winston (South Bend, IN: St. Augustine’s Press, 1998), 85.
9. Josef Pieper, “Temperance,” in The Four Cardinal Virtues, trans. Daniel F. Cogen (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1965), 203.
10. Josef Pieper, In Tune with the World: A Theory of Festivity, trans. Richard and Clara Winston (South Bend, IN: St. Augustine’s Press, 1999), 31.
11. “What Makes a Building a Church?” 92.
12. In Tune with the World, 52–3.
13. “The Sacred and Its Negation,” 43.
14. “What Makes a Building a Church?” 116.
15. Ibid., 116–117.
16. Ibid., 114–115.

| In Persona Christi Capitis

Editorial: In Persona Christi Capitis

“By the power of the sacrament of Orders, in the image of Christ, the eternal high Priest, they are consecrated to preach the Gospel and shepherd the faithful and to celebrate divine worship, so that they are true priests of the New Testament.”
—Lumen Gentium, 28

As buildings get more complex, owners hire individuals to assist them in working with the architect and contractor. These individuals, who often have a background in architecture or construction, are termed “owner’s representatives” because their role is to help make projects run more smoothly. So when a young pastor without construction experience undertakes a project, he might hire someone to advise him and to whom he can delegate some of the work. However, he may end up delegating away some decisions that he should not and therefore limit the quality of this sermon in stone.

Universities, corporations, and the government often have their own in-house building department due to the amount of construction that they do. My father had a wonderful career travelling the world and monitoring construction for the U.S. State Department. In the Church also some dioceses have a building department whose role is to assist the pastors and look out for the interests of the bishop, usually in minimizing construction errors and cost. Typically the diocesan staff is there to offer advice, to suggest alternative ways of building, and to monitor the work of architects and engineers. The difficulty comes when, in order to prove their worth, staffers go beyond their role and try to make aesthetic, liturgical, or construction decisions for the pastor or architect. When questioned they can always point to projects from the past, such as when Father Sarducci spent millions on Saint Mary’s and the diocese had to pay it off, or when Monsignor McGillicuddy built a hall at Saint Joe’s that is falling down. So the diocesan staffers help to monitor architectural decisions by priests and prevent them from making dumb mistakes. In extreme cases the department has a list of favorite architects, legal agreements, and standard fees that can not be challenged by the pastor or the architect. “This is how we always do it. Take it or leave it,” they say. Particularly painful for some is that after helping the parish cut costs the department charges the parish a fee.

It might surprise some bishops to learn that their building department has become all-powerful and that their priests live in fear of them. While some diocesan staffers tell me that their goal is to get out of the way so the pastor and architect can design a good building, others believe that when it comes to architecture the priest works for them. Does this make sense? Why are laity in the chancery determining who the architect is, how much the pastor can spend, and what the design looks like? Do the bishops know what is being decided in their name? If we consider that the purpose of architecture, whether churches, schools, parish halls, or rectories, is to serve the Church, we understand it as part of her sacred mission. Pastors are responsible for this sacred mission and presumably understand it better than most laypersons, even those with construction experience. On the other hand it is true that pastors may not have experience in the practical side of architecture, but that is what the architect is for.

So what can bishops do? First, trust your priests, who are the shepherds of the flock and entrusted with the salvation of souls. Give them the authority and encouragement to take on building projects for the glory of God and the service of man. Emphasize that architecture is integral to a sacramental faith and the ministry of the priest. Challenge the pastors to educate themselves in architecture and find ways to design, fundraise, and build a building that will best serve their flock. Second, get them to hire talented architects. Third, consider how the diocesan office can best serve the pastor in these expensive projects. With their experience the staff should help the pastor to understand the process of design and construction so that it goes more smoothly. They should respect the authority of the pastor as the leader and respect the role of the architect as directing the design. They should encourage both priest and architect to think in terms of durability and quality in regard to materials and methods of construction.

What if the bishop left it up to the pastor’s discretion whether or not to involve the diocesan experts? That might encourage the diocesan building department to provide services that pastors find worthwhile rather than just being a regulatory agency. To enable the pastor and his architect to do the finest job possible within the parish’s means is the goal. And as much as the diocesan office advises or recommends, in the end it is the shepherd who will be held responsible for spending the funds and constructing a building that will be there for decades to come.

Duncan G. Stroik is the editor of Sacred Architecture Journal.

| Ubi Amor, Ibi Oculus: The Role of Beauty in the New Evangelization

Ubi Amor, Ibi Oculus: The Role of Beauty in the New Evangelization

Bishop Conley preaches from the ambo in the new Saint Thomas Aquinas Church at the University of Nebraska. Photo:

I am a pastor, entrusted by God to be the shepherd of ninety thousand souls across the southern part of the state of Nebraska. Tonight, I’d like to speak to you from my experience as a pastor.

Many of you are native New Yorkers, or at least native to the East Coast. Before I begin, I should probably explain that Nebraska, where I live, is one of those big square states in the middle of the country which supplies a great deal of your food. If you’ve never visited, you should think about it. It really is a wonderful place.

It’s not surprising that I was asked to speak on beauty tonight. It seems that beauty is enjoying a particular moment of interest in Catholic circles right now. In the past few years, Father Robert Barron has written quite compellingly on beauty. In Catholic intellectual circles, there is renewed interest in the theology of aesthetics undertaken by Hans Urs von Balthasar and carried on by various theologians, particularly Pope Benedict XVI. And two years ago, in his apostolic exhortation Evangelii Gaudium, Pope Francis wrote about what he called the via pulchritudinis—the “way of beauty” in the mission of the New Evangelization.

Beauty is having a moment, I think, because beauty is particularly “well-suited” to respond to the challenges of our times. Tonight, I’d like to discuss the way in which the via pulchritudinis can respond to our times, serving a critical function in the New Evangelization of contemporary culture. I’d like to offer a few reflections on the challenges of contemporary culture, and then make three suggestions for the role of beauty in the work of the New Evangelization.

Last year, I was at a conference in Florida, and I lost my iPhone on a bus. I had it when I sat down, and when I checked for it next, it was gone.

Of course, my first thought about losing my phone was that I might have found a good excuse to upgrade to an iPhone 6!

It took five days before I could track my phone down, and it was eventually mailed to me by the kindly bus driver who recovered it.

I wasn’t on retreat when I lost my phone. I was living my ordinary life—just, suddenly, living it more quietly. My e-mails were piling up, but they weren’t buzzing in my pocket. I wasn’t getting texts or able to send them. If I wondered about something I didn’t know, I wasn’t able to look it up immediately.

Instead, I looked upwards, while many of the people around me were looking down at their screens. I had conversations with strangers to pass the time between appointments. When I reached into my pocket, I came upon my rosary before I came upon my device. And when it was time for Morning or Evening Prayer, I opened my breviary instead of opening my app.

Now don’t get me wrong. I am not a Luddite. I like my iPhone, and I was glad to get it back. I have two Facebook pages, I tweet, and I use iBreviary. My staff and family and friends are likely to receive texts from me at all hours. I appreciate the potential of our technology. But I also appreciate the consequences of an overly technocratic culture.

The Greek word for man is anthropos—which literally means “one who looks up”—an upwardly turning creature. Humans alone can look up to the stars in wonder. And if we aren’t careful, we will surrender something of our humanity when we replace looking up in wonder with looking down at our glowing screens.

When we aren’t careful, our technology can make us flat souled—very bored and very lonely. Statistical data has proven this. When we only encounter others through electronic media, we become callous about their humanity. When we watch programs of unspeakable violence in HD, we lose sight of the sacredness of human life. And when we’re hooked to our devices, we are unlikely to marvel at anything in the universe.

Our technology can also have the effect of making us shortsighted: hooked on instant gratification, bored without immediate stimulation, lonely for real connections instead of text messages and tweets and Facebook “likes.”

In Technopoly, Neil Postman says that overly technological cultures, “driven by the impulse to invent, have as their aim a grand reductionism in which human life must find its meaning in machinery and technique.”

This “grand reductionism”—it seems to me—is becoming increasingly more apparent. We focus too often on becoming good processors and producers, manipulators of data, rather on than on becoming good human beings—critical minds, and noble hearts—capable of appreciation, engagement, and thought—and hungry for adventure and romance.

“Grand reductionism”—and the loss of wonder and beauty—is a particular danger of our time. And the tendency towards reductionism applies even to American religious culture.

Once, President Obama said that the United States “is one of the most religious countries in the world—far more religious than most Western developed countries.” Demographers and sociologists would agree. Weekly and monthly church attendance is considerably higher in the United States than in many places. So is belief in divinity, in eternal life, and in universal moral norms.

But it is important to understand the substance of prevailing American religious beliefs.

Christian Smith is a sociologist at the University of Notre Dame. He’s conducted extensive research on the religious beliefs of young Americans from every major faith group. And he’s concluded that regardless of their religious affiliation, young Americans tend to subscribe to a faith he calls Moralistic Therapeutic Deism.

The dogma of Moralistic Therapeutic Deism is this: God exists and desires that people are good, nice, and fair to one another. God can be called upon to assure happiness and to resolve crises. Being good, nice, tolerant, and fair assures eternal salvation in heaven.

Moralistic Therapeutic Deism is the “grand reduction” of religious thought and practice to a set of sentimental and affirming principles, absent the presence of a transcendent, personal, and transformative God. It is a religious faith of mediocrity, of insularity, and of loneliness. It requires no greatness of soul. And it engenders no virtue, no charity, and no heroism.

Moralistic Therapeutic Deism prevails in our culture.

Think, for just a moment, about young people you know. Moralistic Therapeutic Deism probably describes the religious faith of most of them.

Christianity is not Moralistic Therapeutic Deism. Christianity is the faith of unmerited greatness—the faith of heroic virtue, unsurpassed hope, and unbounded charity. The Christian life elevates humanity in the great sanctifying process of theosis. By our very baptism, in fact, we are given the capacity to love precisely as God loves. And at the core of the Christian life is a transformative religious relationship with a living person—Jesus Christ.

The mission of the New Evangelization is to proclaim the living person of Jesus Christ to those for whom God is a benevolent, impersonal, and mostly impotent figure.

We have a tendency to respond to reduction with reduction. Religious minimalism fits well with our iconoclastic, puritan American heritage. And too often, we approach the New Evangelization from a technocratic perspective. We are in danger of reducing even our evangelical and catechetical efforts to the mere transmission of information, to technical processes honed by data analysis to produce a particular outcome.

Forming personal relationships cannot be reduced to metrics and algorithms. Instead forming personal relationships depends upon love. And love begins with an appreciation of the beloved’s beauty. Nine hundred years ago, Richard of Saint Victor wrote ubi amor, ibi oculos — “where there is love, there the eye is also.”

John Senior, my former teacher and godfather, in The Restoration of Christian Culture, explains the phrase this way—“the lover is the only one who really sees the truth about a person.”

Loving a person depends on seeing the profundity of their beauty. Senior says that “we can only love what we know because we have first touched, tasted, smelled, heard and seen.”

Love is the pathway to transformative and meaningful relationships with Jesus Christ. Knowing and loving Christ begins with seeing glimmers of divinity in the beautiful things of this world.

The Role of Beauty

Tonight, I’d like to suggest three ways in which beauty can bring souls into communion with Jesus Christ.

1. The first is the restoration of the beautiful to the world of art, architecture, and culture.

Lately, I have been reading the British philosopher Roger Scruton. Scruton is a fascinating thinker, and I suggest you look at his work. It is not without serious problems, but it also possesses very important insights into beauty, love, and the religious sense.

Scruton says that today, “beauty is assailed in two directions: by the cult of ugliness in the arts, and the cult of utility in everyday life.”

Saint Thomas Aquinas says that there are three elements to visual beauty: integrity, proportion, and light. Together, those elements make objects beautiful because they point to the integrity, proportionality, and light of reality—in fact, to the ordered and luminescent nature of God Himself. Beauty points to realities—transcendent and eternal realities—and moves our hearts to know them.

We are moved by a painting or a piece of music or a building when it transmits an internal unity in which a consistent whole is balanced and radiant. Even the depiction of sorrow or loss is beautiful when it reveals the profound meaning of suffering.

The Pietà by Michelangelo, 1499. Photo:

But the “cult of ugliness” in contemporary art is intentionally discordant, unbalanced, and dark. In fact, the metric of contemporary artistic value is too often the ability of a work to shock, to deconstruct, or to destroy.

Consider, for example, Marcel Duchamp’s famous Fountain—his submission of a graffiti-ed urinal to a 1917 art exhibition. The work means nothing. It is unbalanced. It offers no insight into existence. It leaves the viewer simply confused and a bit startled. And that seems to be the point. The piece is merely an incarnation of relativistic nihilism.

Today, schoolchildren are taught to view such pieces and to remember that “beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” As they get older, they’re given the idea that beauty hardly exists at all. But beauty is not in the eye of the beholder. Beauty is in the essence of the divine Creator and in the thing itself. And art can transform hearts—and transform culture—when it reflects a glimmer of divine beauty.

Fostering the vocation of artists is critical to the work of the New Evangelization because art forms souls. Beautiful art forms souls for truth and goodness. Ugliness forms souls for ugliness.

In 1999, Pope Saint John Paul II said that the Church must engage in dialogue with the world of art, because art can be a “bridge to religious experience.” He called for a holy alliance of artists, forming an “epiphany of beauty” in contemporary culture.

John Paul II wrote that artists “must labor without allowing themselves to be driven by the search for empty glory or the craving for cheap popularity, and still less by the calculation of some possible profit for themselves.”

Instead, he said, artists can “enrich the cultural heritage of each nation and of all humanity” by creating “a path to the inmost reality of man and of the world,” an “echo of the mystery of creation.”

We’re called to foster the formation of artists whose work transmits the reality of divine love through beauty.We need to ensure that religious institutes and parishes and families foster an appreciation for beauty in art—and foster artists capable of creating “echoes of the mystery.” We need to recognize the spiritual crisis undergirding much of contemporary art and then foster a renewal in creation of the beautiful.

I mentioned the cult of ugliness and the cult of utility. Utility is the driving force of the grand technocratic reduction. And this is manifestly apparent in much of contemporary architecture. The architectural maxim that “form follows function” is a way of saying that design only exists to facilitate production. Architecture is overwhelmed by technocracy. Oscar Wilde recognized the danger of this kind of thinking. “Put usefulness first, and you lose it,” he said. “Put beauty first, and what you do will be useful forever.”

The consequence of utilitarian architecture is borne out in souls, which are conditioned to believe even by the spaces in which they live and work that they exist for no more than production and profit. The Church has worked diligently to encourage Catholics to enter the public square proclaiming the faith. But we should also seriously encourage Catholics to consider the public square itself, and the impact of functionalist architecture on spiritual development. If nothing else, we ought to foster the preservation of buildings—churches, schools, homes—which speak to the soul about the transcendent dimension of ordinary life.

2. My second suggestion is the rekindling of the Christian imagination through literature.

The Russian playwright Anton Chekhov said that “the business of literature is not to answer questions, but to state them fairly.” I’m not certain that is true. Literature does raise questions, but it can also—in the witness of ideas or characters or stories—point us to the final answers, to the permanent things.

Good literature forms a worldview: it offers us insight into our families, our communities, and our selves. Great literature offers us insight into our relationship with God and the world.

I had dinner recently with a very good friend of mine—a former roommate, in fact. He converted to the faith shortly before I did. He was from Kansas City, and his father was the foreman of a bag factory. While we were in college, his father lost his job. My friend, Alan, went home for the summer, and saw that his father was struggling with his recent job loss. His father had never attended college or had any liberal arts education. Alan gave his father the dialogues of Plato. During that long summer, his father read them, slowly—often rereading chapters three or four times. Alan told me during that summer, he and his father had the most extraordinary conversations—about truth and hope and justice and love. A new sense of wonder was awakened in my friend’s father.

Literature opens our imaginations to wonder. Reading good books exposes the contemplative part of our humanity. Good books can spur in us a sense of justice and charity and generosity. They can expand our souls and inspire our hearts to strive for greatness.

We ought to begin forming Catholic book clubs and literary circles, comprised of ordinary, everyday Catholics, reading and reflecting on important ideas and beautiful stories. Literature forms imaginations and plants seeds of inquiry. And sharing ideas in dialogue allows them to germinate—to move hearts and minds to fruitful relationships with Christ and His Church.

3. My final point is about recovering a sense of wonder in the liturgy. Common worship—liturgy—is a place for formation in Christian wonder. We’ll conclude tonight with Compline—and the experience of common prayer, celebrated beautifully, is likely to stay with you far longer than anything I’ve said tonight.

In Modern Culture, probably his best book, Roger Scruton remarks that “enlightened people often mock the controversies surrounding the liturgy, and profess not to understand the desire for the old words, save for ‘aesthetic reasons.’ They are right to see a resemblance between aesthetic interest and the act of worship. But they are wrong in thinking this resemblance to be merely accidental. The quasi-aesthetic absorption in the holy words and gestures is a component in the redemptive process. In participating, the believer is effecting a change in his spiritual standing. The ceremony is not so much a means to this end, as a prefiguration of it. In the ritual the believer confronts God, and is purified by standing in God’s gaze.”

The absorption of holy words and gestures is a component of the redemptive process. Without our even knowing it, holy liturgy effects change in our hearts. Because good and holy liturgy opens our hearts, lifts up our hearts—sursum corda—as the Preface to the Roman Canon reads, to an experience of transcendent and ineffable mysteries.

Still in his Anglican years, Blessed John Henry Newman crafted seven letters to the editor of The Times of London in February of 1841, in response to an address given by a leading British politician, Sir Robert Peel. Under the curious title The Tamworth Reading Room, Newman gives us a unique a distillation of his Anglican thought on education, faith and reason, and the Church. Newman writes, in a rather startling fashion: “Man is not a reasoning animal; he is a seeing, feeling, contemplating, acting animal.” He goes on to say: “The heart is commonly reached, not through the reason, but through the imagination, by means of direct impressions, by the testimony of facts and events, by history, by description. Persons influence us, voices melt us, looks subdue us, deeds inflame us. Many a man will live and die upon a dogma: no man will be a martyr for a conclusion.”

We are more than the sum of our intellects. And the Incarnation, the liturgy, and the Lord Himself are mysteries. These mysteries are sometimes only encountered in modes that reach our senses—that draw us to a contemplation that is deeper and richer than cognition or mental prayer. God is mystery, and the liturgy is, among other things, an encounter with that mystery. Wonder is the only response.

This is why we speak of beauty as something “transcendent.” Every instance of real beauty points beyond itself, toward the infinite perfection of God. He invested this world with many forms of captivating beauty so that created things would lead us to contemplate the transcendent glory of the Creator.

We can think of beauty as a kind of language, through which God speaks to our hearts and souls. He is always speaking in this way—to all of us, believers and nonbelievers alike.

Fostering beauty in the liturgy fosters souls who encounter divine mysteries with an attitude of wonder.


G.K. Chesterton once said that in every age, God gives us the saints that we need. That’s true. In every age, God also gives a pathway by which to bring the world to Jesus Christ.

Today, Pope Francis says that the pathway to Christ is the via pulchritudinis. Beauty responds to the flat-souled, reductive culture in which we live. Pope Benedict wrote often that beauty is an arrow that wounds—by that, he meant that it penetrates hearts which reason or virtue might never touch.

If we are serious about transforming culture for Jesus Christ, beauty has a role to play. Of course, after this lecture, we might all look at our phones for a moment, and when we go home, we might turn on the television. But we need to create space for beauty. We need to foster its cultivation. Beauty will move us to contemplation, and contemplation to Jesus Christ. Beauty will move us to the incarnate Love of God.

Dostoevsky wrote that “beauty will save the world.” It might. But only if we foster beauty, and then invite others to the experience, in order that they might experience the harrowing and transcendent beauty of the Most Blessed Trinity.

This talk was given March 14, 2015, in New York City as part of “The Art of the Beautiful” lecture series sponsored by the Thomistic Institute and the Catholic Artists Society.

The Most Reverend James D. Conley was ordained a priest for the Diocese of Wichita in 1985. He was ordained in 2008 to the episcopacy and served as auxiliary bishop of Denver until his appointment as bishop of the Diocese of Lincoln by Pope Benedict XVI in 2012.

| Modern Marriage

Modern Marriage

Saint John’s Abbey Church in Collegeville, Minnesota, was completed in 1961. Photo: Anderson

A building passes a certain threshold when entering its fifties. Whether or not it has aged gracefully after half a century, its presence has been so long as to have gathered both admirers and detractors. And it should hope for a significantly large number of the former, because it is also at this age that a building begins to exhibit needs for repair and upkeep, and if it is fortunate enough to have such a tribe, it will be loved.

Such is the case with Saint John’s Abbey Church in Collegeville, Minnesota, by Marcel Breuer, which is now fifty-six years old. In what can best be described as a biography of this mid-century modern icon, Professor Victoria Young tells the story of the conception, birth, and childhood of the Abbey Church and proceeds to establish for the building a place of prominence not only in the Modern Movement (which it deserves) but in the history and development of Catholic sacred architecture. Her book Saint John’s Abbey Church, Marcel Breuer and the Creation of a Modern Sacred Space, published in 2014, came a year in advance of a 2015 Getty Foundation grant in the amount of $150,000 as part of the foundation’s Keeping it Modern initiative, given to “assist the abbey in drawing a comprehensive plan for the restoration, preservation and maintenance/upkeep” of the church. It should also be noted that Saint John’s Abbey and Saint John’s University, among others, were financial sponsors of Professor Young’s work.

The book, both well written and researched, is most intriguing in the telling of the building’s conception through the marriage (one might also say, “co-branding”) of the Modern Movement (via the Bauhaus in Weimar) and the Liturgical Movement (via Maria Laach in the Rhineland). This conception, occurring during the post-war and pre-conciliar moment, saw both at the apices of their idealism and enthusiasm, and reflects Peter Blake’s sentiment of the midcentury zeitgeist that it must have felt “marvelous to be alive when utopia was young.”

While Professor Young makes a convincing argument for the importance of the Abbey Church in the history of the Modern Movement, and certainly as one of Breuer’s master works, she is less convincing and less thorough in her argument for the church’s importance in the broader expanse of Catholic sacred architecture. Young uses the term “spiritual axis” to describe a “processional way based on monasticism, liturgical reform, and modern design” (p. 67), and yet there is little indication of this application in the building other than the linear arrangement of entry, baptismal font, and altar: an arrangement not at all novel to the modern period. Most conspicuously absent in Young’s telling of the story of the Abbey Church is the context of church building in the United States at the time, and in particular of that going on in nearby Minneapolis and Saint Paul—most notably the work of E.L. Masqueray. Built in the first decade of the twentieth century, the Co-Cathedrals of Saint Paul and Saint Mary (the latter the first basilica in the United States) by Masqueray were significant works not only for the Upper Midwest, but for the United States as a whole. An article in the Fall 1910 edition of American Architect magazine, which included drawings of both cathedrals, noted that “the two Catholic Cathedrals will be . . . when completed, noteworthy achievements in church building for any period; in extent and splendor they promise to surpass anything yet attempted in ecclesiastic work in the United States.” This accolade is very much at odds with what the Abbey would contend in the last paragraph of the invitation letter to architects for the Abbey Church: “Our age and our country have thus far produced so little truly significant religious architecture” (p. 32).

Perhaps the most illustrative aspect of the book, however, is its subtitle. “Marcel Breuer and the Creation of a Modern Sacred Space” informs the reader at the outset that the story is one of a building and its architect. It is also about “modern sacred space,” a term of art which should not be confused with religious architecture, as it refers generally to space which is often only self-referentially “sacred.”

The monks of Saint John’s saw in modern architecture a vehicle for change (a Bauhaus credo is “start from zero”) and an opportunity to communicate the immanence of God at the expense of transcendence. Unfortunately they carried along also the baggage of the modern enterprise as a whole—a project that had no room for God. Sadly, neither does the building.

George Joseph Martin is a Visiting Associate Professor of Architecture at Mississippi State University and former Director of the Graduate Concentration in Cultural and Sacred Studies in The School of Architecture & Planning at The Catholic University of America in Washington, D.C.

| Expressions of the Sacred

Expressions of the Sacred

A short time ago I visited a Carmelite Monastery, and during my conversation with one of the nuns in the speakroom she mentioned that she had just completed Father Lang’s book Signs of the Holy One. Before I could inquire what she thought of the work, she continued with how the book filled her mind with solid and enduring ideas. Liturgical conversations today often include references to the scholarly and informative studies provided by the Oratorian Father Uwe Michael Lang. His Signs of the Holy One: Liturgy, Ritual and Expression of the Sacred deserves a studied reading to further enrich present day discussions of the sacred liturgy.

The book itself brings together five lectures from various conferences and seminars with a short excursus among them. In his introduction, Father Lang summarized his thesis, which is developed throughout the book with the acknowledgement “of how important . . . nonlinguistic or symbolic expressions are for the celebration of the Paschal Mystery” and how he is “convinced that they are more significant than language itself.” Overall, Lang provides a valid critique of easily accepted ideas on ritual studies, notions of the sacred, architecture, art, and music—a critique that places the action of Christ in the celebration of the sacred liturgy as the starting point for an evaluation of these ideas and not vice versa.

As Father Lang develops each chapter, he culls from a variety of significant sources and studies pertinent data to identify the popular or current thought on the topic. Often, as the author notes, the current thought reveals a departure from a received theological understanding of the sacred liturgy and places the ideas on ritual, architecture, art, and music above the celebration of the sacred liturgy. The corrective that Father Lang employs in each of these topic areas is to re-regard the data collected and provide guidance for a rereading of the data according to principles found in magisterial and papal sources on the sacred liturgy.

There are two chapters in Father Lang’s book that I found especially successful: chapter 3, “Sacred Architecture: Crisis and Renewal,” and chapter 5, “Sacred Music: Between Theological Millstones.” In chapter 3, the author identifies several significant contemporary church buildings and asks of each of them if they are visible signs of the sacred. More importantly, he raises the question of whether or not these same church buildings originated in form from the requirements for the celebration of the sacred liturgy. It is not an uncommon experience today for churchgoers to be bewildered by the style and shape of their place of worship and perhaps not be so much aware of how these same buildings limit access to the fullness of the Mysteries celebrated within them. After a careful presentation of current thought and practice on the topic, Father Lang delivers four universally understood principles to take the current status of church architecture and restore its sacred dimension and theological foundations. At the root of his principles is the determination that “an architecture that is not ready, or even refuses, to let itself be formed by the Church’s liturgy does not work as a church building, as the historical styles of Christianity do.”

In chapter 5, Father Lang gives a succinct presentation of sacred music in the reform of the rites since the Council—an overview of liturgy and music which concludes with remarks on Pope Benedict XVI and sacred music. In these sections of the chapter, the author is clear that church music has a definite purpose related to the celebration of the sacred liturgy and—with some historical consistency—has been regulated to insure that it corresponds to the event and action of the Mysteries of Christ. Frankly, Father Lang laments, “Church music is not in good shape—not everywhere, not in every parish or community, but on balance and in every corner of the Catholic world.” As part of the recovery of sacred music as a sign of the Holy One, Father Lang offers three practical suggestions that aptly address current thought and practice: the serious need to critique often-employed forms of music that are not suited to the action of the liturgy and to instead use music that is, especially from the tradition; the selective use of instruments which lead to the sacred; and the actually singing of the propers, the music and texts intended for the celebration.

Father Lang’s book Signs of the Holy One not only heightens awareness of the many and varied languages that speak of the Mysteries of Christ in the celebration of the sacred liturgy, but also raises the equally compelling point that these languages, to insure their authenticity and integrity, require a grammar that originates in the Mystery the liturgy celebrates.

Father Dennis Gill, ordained a priest May 21, 1983, for the Archdiocese of Philadelphia, is currently the Rector and Pastor of the Cathedral Basilica of Saints Peter and Paul and the Director of the Office for Divine Worship. He lectures on the Sacred Liturgy throughout the country and recently published the book, Music in Catholic Liturgy: A Pastoral and Theological Companion to Sing to the Lord. He is currently working on a book, Ars Celebrandi: An Artful and Careful Celebration of the Eucharist, for Hillenbrand Books.

| De-Altaring at Cambridge?

De-Altaring at Cambridge?

King’s College Chapel 1515–2015: Art, Music and Religion in Cambridge, a large-bound, brilliantly illustrated history coedited by Jean Michael Massing and Nicolette Zeeman, is a clearly written and sharply organized work that offers much for the interested reader.1 It is perhaps best suited for alumni of or visitors to Cambridge University, and herein lies a basic problem with the text. It seeks evidently to be more than a coffee table tome for cocktail party consumption, but it fails to meet the standards of academic rigor one expects from a serious scholarly study. It falls, as a result, in a sort of uncomfortable terra media that leaves the more-than-casual reader ultimately unfulfilled.

For the popular audience it provides ample rewards. The chapters are divided among a range of interesting topics, with vivid descriptions of historical developments and with the contemporary artistic events—primarily choral—staged in the chapel ably documented and rightly celebrated. Each chapter provides a wealth of detail and attractive photography or still paintings of historic images of King Henry VI’s magnificent collegiate chapel.

However, when we remind ourselves of the ambitious subtitle of the work—Art, Music and Religion in Cambridge—we realize its superficiality. As a work for a scholarly audience, it falls seriously short. This is so because although it touches on important issues raised by the chapel, it does not explore them in nearly enough depth. It starts out promisingly enough, noting that King’s College Chapel is a barometer of the wider culture’s views of religion.2 However, one wishes for a deeper investigation of this exceptionally interesting and important point about so iconic a college chapel.

Sorely lacking, for example, is a sufficiently detailed treatment of the renovation of the chapel resulting from the real estate magnate A.E. Allnatt’s gift in 1961 of an exceedingly large Rubens painting, Adoration of the Magi, and its positioning immediately behind the altar. With its ambitious title, one expects a rigorous treatment of this development and how it indeed serves to reflect ambient changes in the relationship between religion and wider culture. Yet the reader fails to learn in this book that the prime movers in the 1960s seeking to change the chapel were self-described radical theologians of modernist liturgical reform (Alec Vidler and Victor de Waal). It was they who drove the Fellows to accept the exceptionally large Rubens painting and demanded that it be positioned behind the altar. Nor does the reader learn that the radicals’ desire was rejected by the architects commissioned to update the chapel, who voiced a grave concern about the large art piece’s negative impact on liturgical and architectural meaning. Nor do we learn that the architects were overruled by the radicals and a new architect was retained—a designer of country houses and inner city housing projects—who stripped the altar of its primacy by raising behind it this ill-fitting painting of stupendous proportions, and who did so without even retaining so simple and traditional a symbol as a single altar cross (a cross was later supplied). The overshadowed altar, in turn, was reduced in length to match the dimensions of the real estate mogul’s massive benefaction, and the altar was fitted with a modernist frontal featuring a complex pattern of modern octagons. Nor is there amplified in sufficient detail the strident architectural resistance to the radicals’ designs. We do not learn, for example, that classically trained architects bemoaned how the altar became, in the words of architectural critics Robert Plowright and Bryan Little, “an embalmed art gallery . . . diminished in stature, in mystery, in reverence, and transformed into a picture gallery . . . with celebrity art replac[ing] spiritual symbolism, and architectural meaning replaced by interior design.”3

Were these points explored in greater depth, the reader would be reminded of an interesting continuity between reformers in the Anglican tradition in the twentieth century and the Protestant reformers of the sixteenth. As Fincham and Tyacke document, de-altaring was central to many Protestant reformers.4 And here, in the 1960s, we see a kind of recapitulation of the de-altaring of sacred space—not through iconoclasm as such but through a museumification of sacred place. By overshadowing the altar rather than complementing it, the prodigious Rubens piece transforms a sacred canopy into something far different. Though itself a powerful religious image, the Rubens piece and its location distract from the altar, decentering it and thus, in a curious way, mirroring radical Protestant reform. As a result, the chapel is transformed into a kind of show piece, a secular salon for the idle gawking of beautiful forms and vivid color.

In all, the book is a welcome addition for all seeking a reference source on the highlights of the chapel’s history and a resource of attractive images of the changes in the chapel’s grandeur across the centuries. Buy it, therefore, for a grandson who graduates from Cambridge, or as a momento of a lovely vacation near the Cam. Just do not expect anything like a serious academic treatment.

Joseph Prud’homme is Director of the Institute for Religion, Politics and Culture and Associate Professor of Political Science at Washington College in Chestertown, Maryland.

1. Jean Michael Massing and Nicolette Zeeman, King’s College Chapel, 1515-2015: Art, Music and Religion in Cambridge (London: Harvey Miller), 2014.
2. King’s College Chapel, 11.
3. Quoted in Graham Chainey, “The East End of King’s Chapel,” Proceedings of the Cambridge Antiquarian Society Antiquarian Society 83 (1994), 162.
4. See Kenneth Fincham and Nicholas Tyacke, Altars Restored: The Changing Face of English Religious Worship, 1547–c. 1700 (Oxford: Oxford University Press), 2007.

| A Companion on the Way

A Companion on the Way

This valuable reference companion is a worthwhile addition to any theological library, institutional or personal. Comprised of twenty-two chapters and concluded by a sizeable glossary of useful terms and personalities, this latest addition to the T&T Clark label provides both serious academics and the casual reader with smart analyses and overviews of major themes in liturgy. Of special note is the plethora of well-researched endnotes and rich bibliographical listings which can, among other things, serve as illuminating guides for further research. This feature is especially true in the essays by J. Leachman on cultural periods and by A. Chadwick on the missal of Trent.

As the editor has admitted elsewhere, the title itself is somewhat misleading in that the work only addresses themes and topics that pertain to Western liturgy and (except for a concluding chapter) Roman liturgy. This perimeter then sets the current work apart from other established reference works that treat a broader spectrum of Christian worship, such as The Handbook for Liturgical Studies, Vols. 1–5, edited by the late Anscar Chupungco (who penned two chapters of the present work), and The Church at Prayer, Vols. 1–4, edited by the late Aime Martimort. It further distinguishes itself as a promoter of—or at least sympathetic toward—what is termed the Reform of the Reform Movement. Truly, not every contributor would adopt such an approach toward current liturgical debates and indeed might even reject outright any attempt to reform the reform, but overall this companion has as a defining feature a more critical eye toward post-conciliar liturgical reforms.

Of great import is the opening chapter by David Fagerberg wherein he presents a foundational system of liturgical theology providing the reader with a comprehensive understanding of the more specific topics found in the subsequent chapters. A wonderful wordsmith, Fagerberg discusses with clarity two methods of doing liturgical theology and urges us to consider a third method, the genesis of which is the scholarship of A. Schmemann.

Readers of Sacred Architecture will be particularly interested in the chapter on Catholic architecture by Thomas Gordon Smith. As a leader in shaping the University of Notre Dame’s architecture program toward a Neo-Classicist approach, Professor Smith unsurprisingly invokes the timeless lessons of Vitruvius as reliable guides that safeguard church architecture against those elements foreign to the Church and her liturgies while simultaneously encouraging laudable elements of every time and culture worthy of emulation.

The editor, Alcuin Reid, a monk of the Monastère Saint-Benoît in France, contributes five chapters, the last of which explains the post-Vatican II history of the uses antiquior or what is today termed the Extraordinary Form of the Mass. This fascinating read details forgotten or little-known events and personalities, and with insightful quotes situates the recent history and current reality of the uses antiquior in the broader life of the Church. It is worth noting that one great doubt held by critics of the 2007 motu proprio, Summorum pontificum, is whether the Extraordinary Form is capable of expressing an ecclesiology presented by the council fathers. This concern arises time and again within both heated debates and fraternal discussions about the intersection of liturgical forms and the implied ecclesiology expressed by those forms. This matter seems not to have been addressed with any thoroughness in the volume at hand. It quite possibly could have been addressed had all those invited to contribute to this compendium accepted. With admirable honesty the editor laments in the introduction over those named invitees who for whatever reason declined to contribute. Proven liturgical scholars in their own right, surely their essays would have brought important considerations to the fore. But we will never know.

Clearly this volume is situated within the context of a post-Summorum pontificum world. As such its value as a reference work is quite evident, and it further distinguishes itself from those volumes listed above. This is not to say that some sort of competition exists between these reference works that have decades between them, but rather that those earlier volumes would never conceive of Pope Benedict’s 2007 motu proprio allowing for a tremendously broader permission for the uses antiquior. But such is the reality of the current liturgical landscape, and the T&T Clark Companion readily grapples with that very reality and in turn assists us, the readers, in understanding the ramifications and fruits of such a declaration.

Eucharistic Adoration at the high altar of the Monastèrie Saint-Benoît in France. Photo:

Michael Wurtz, C.S.C. is a priest of the Congregation of Holy Cross and a doctoral candidate in Sacred Liturgy at the Pontifical Athaneum Sant’Anselmo, Rome.

| Ultima Cena

Editorial: Ultima Cena

“The Church has need especially of those who can do this [communicate the message] on the literary and figurative level, using the endless possibilities of images and their symbolic force. Christ Himself made extensive use of images in His preaching, fully in keeping with His willingness to become, in the Incarnation, the icon of the unseen God.” —Letter of His Holiness Pope John Paul II to Artists

When I hire an accountant I do not expect him to act like an artist, so why then do I hire an artist and expect him to act like an accountant? Today, if we are to support a new Renaissance in sacred art we need to better understand the charism of the artist. We respect artists for their creativity and technique developed over long years of study and practice. The artist’s drive for excellence is all consuming and often leaves little time for developing the practical skills necessary for the business world.

In fact, one of the most noted artists of all time was also notorious for being a terrible businessman. He could not follow directions, fulfill deadlines, or even finish projects. Yet the world would be far poorer had he not lived and attempted to create art. Commissioned by the Augustinians in Florence, his early project for an altarpiece of the Adoration of the Magi resulted in an unfinished canvas. He left us four unfinished commissions and only eleven completed works, and yet this artist is credited with beginning the High Renaissance in Italy.

When he painted an altarpiece for the Confraternity of the Immaculate Conception in Milan, he did not follow the agreement’s description of an Immaculate Conception with God the Father. Ten years later the painting was still not finished, he argued about payment, and the painting was sold to another buyer, never to be installed in a church.

His fresco on the wall of a Dominican refectory was innovative in its portrayal of a beardless Christ and twelve animated apostles. He seems to have combined the institution of the Eucharist with the betrayal of Judas in one image. In his lifetime he was lauded as maestro, yet he had difficulty holding down a job. Brilliant in his use of perspective, with detailed knowledge of human proportions, he is said to have discovered the laws of complementary colors. He began work on the largest equestrian statue in history, but the horse was melted down. Perhaps his greatest love was architecture, where he focused on the design of centralized churches, geometric solids, defensive walls, and war machines. Yet none were built and he remains, albeit influential, a “paper architect.”

If you want to understand artists of today you need to learn more about this artist who is considered the quintessential Renaissance Man. First, forget all that you learned from Dan Brown and instead read Ross King’s carefully researched and wonderfully written book entitled Leonardo and the Last Supper. In it we learn that at the same time Leonardo was commissioned to paint the Last Supper, another artist was commissioned to paint a Crucifixion on the opposite wall of the refectory. And it turns out that not all artists were poor businessmen like the genius from Vinci. As his contract stipulated, Giovanni Donato da Montorfano finished his Crucifixion one year later “on budget on time,” collected his fee, and went on to the next project. Meanwhile, three years later, with many other projects distracting him from the Last Supper, Leonardo’s scaffolding was still there and he was collecting a yearly stipend from Il Moro. The Crucifixion by Montorfano is a fine work, but overshadowed by the masterpiece that was neither on budget nor on time.

Leonardo’s patrons were not always happy with the artistic liberties he took, such as changing the Immaculate Conception into a Madonna and Child sitting with Saints Elizabeth and John the Baptist in a landscape (now known as the Virgin of the Rocks). Later generations, however, are in awe of Leonardo’s portrayals of nature and the human person. In spite of the untested methods of fresco painting and the resulting delamination of the pigment from the wall, The Last Supper remains the most famous and imitated painting in the world.

Leonardo had no business partners, accountants, legal advisers, or marketing people to assist him in meeting deadlines, fulfilling contracts, or collecting fees. Yet his creative abilities and inquisitive mind left us with some of the most inspiring works that have ever been made. He did not leave us with a lot of art, but what he left us with is excellent.

The Church needs artists. They make manifest the mysteries of the Incarnation, the Passion, and our salvation. We need to support artists, to commission them to do great works, and to give them freedom to innovate. We also need patience, because great art takes blood, sweat, and tears . . . and an artistic temperament!

Duncan G. Stroik is the editor of Sacred Architecture Journal.

| Trophies and Orphans: The Use of Spolia Columns in Ancient Churches

Trophies and Orphans: The Use of Spolia Columns in Ancient Churches

Fig. 1: Rome, Santa Maria in Trastevere, north colonnade. Drawing by David Valinsky.

Motley rows of reused column shafts, capitals, and bases were among the most conspicuous features of medieval church interiors in Rome and south Italy for over a thousand years, from the time of their first appearance under Constantine the Great (d. 337) until the end of the Middle Ages. They are the focus of Maria Fabricius Hansen’s recently translated guidebook The Spolia Churches of Rome, which includes entries on eleven churches ranging in date from the fourth century (Santa Costanza) to the thirteenth (San Lorenzo fuori le Mura).1 Hansen avers that these colonnades expressed the “new world view” of Christian builders as well as a new aesthetic. In their rejection of classical norms and regularity, colonnades made of spolia “produced a particularly attractive architectonic and spatial effect and evinced a complex and pleasing temporality.”2 Hansen’s argument assumes a viewer who knew that the components of the colonnades were pre-Christian (or at least pre-Constantinian) and that they belonged originally to an older style of architecture, in which colonnades were not so diverse but displayed order and uniformity. A fourth-century Roman might have been such a viewer, but one of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries most likely was not, as Rome presented a very different frame of reference in the later Middle Ages. By the twelfth century nearly all colonnades were various and irregular, and nearly all classical counterexamples had collapsed.3 Whether or not they represented a “new world view,” the fourth- and fifth-century colonnades created a “new normal” that later church builders reproduced. The novelty of the earliest colonnades quickly became routine and then canonical.

“Spoliate colonnade” is almost an oxymoron, as “colonnade” denotes a suite of identical units while spolia are individual pieces chosen separately. Many refuse subordination to the whole and stand out for their size, quality, design, material, color, condition, or some other factor that draws the viewer to them alone (fig. 1). By standing out, spolia challenge the integrity of the colonnade and make it seem more like an elaborate work of jewelry, in which individual gems compete for attention with one another and with their setting. To understand the workings of the spoliate colonnade we must first say something about spolia.

For the sake of argument, I propose that in the European and Mediterranean Middle Ages, spolia were either trophies or orphans. The analogy with orphans is inspired by Siri Sande’s evocative comparison of the spoliate colonnades in Constantinian basilicas with an Old Testament passage that was cited by Saint Jerome in the fourth century to illustrate how Christians might safely make use of the writings of pagans. The biblical passage concerns what we would today call prisoners of war:

If thou go out to fight against thy enemies, and the Lord thy God deliver them into thy hand, and thou lead them away captives, and seest in the number of the captives a beautiful woman, and lovest her, and wilt have her to wife, thou shalt bring her into thy house: and she shall shave her hair, and pare her nails, and shall put off the raiment, wherein she was taken: and shall remain in thy house, and mourn for her father and mother one month: and after that thou shalt go in unto her, and shalt sleep with her, and she shall be thy wife.4

Sande wrote: “This is a good metaphor for material spolia. The many columns in the Constantinian basilicas stand, shorn of their original identity, like the female prisoners in a stranger’s house. They are not allowed to remind the spectator of their past.”5

Fig. 2: Rome, San Nicola in Carcere, four columns of the north colonnade. Photo: Dale Kinney

Fig. 3: Rome, Santa Sabina, south colonnade. Photo: Dale Kinney

The image of despoiled and kidnapped beauties is even more apt for twelfth-century colonnades like those in San Nicola in Carcere, which contain shafts of five different stones, five different kinds of capitals, and modern bases that disguise the irregular heights at which the shafts meet the pavement (fig. 2).6 There is something brave about the way these shafts rise to their new assignment, and also something lonely. The assemblage of heterogeneous units is like a foster family. Most spoliate colonnades in Rome are like this. Occasionally, as in the fifth-century church of Santa Sabina, the spolia come from a single source and thus recreate the unity of their original installation (fig. 3). They appear like a natural family but are alien to their context, because fifth-century Roman sculptors were incapable of producing fluted shafts and fine Corinthian capitals (fig. 4). Born in the second century, the shafts, capitals, and bases were adopted into a new construction in the fifth.7 We do not know what building was destroyed to make them available. Like human orphans they are survivors of catastrophe, possibly the products of tragedy, in any case bereft of their proper context. Their natural environment might have been still in existence but too impaired to be functional. They were taken to a new home.

Fig. 4: Rome, Santa Sabina, Corinthian capital. Photo:

Fig. 5: Rome, San Lorenzo fuori le Mura, east basilica, trophy capital in north colonnade. Photo: Dale Kinney

My sense of “trophy” is informed by the work of Antje Krug, whose article “Spolia as Trophies” traces a continuous line from the dark origin of spolia as “blood trophies” or war booty to trophy artifacts acquired by gift or commerce as evidence of wealth and political stature, and finally to antiquities admired as exempla from a model past.8 She dates the last transition to the Carolingian period. Ultimately, in my view, the three modes of spolia coexisted. Blood trophies were still taken in the Middle Ages—as they are to this day—and trophy artifacts were still acquired by real and would-be potentates. “Antiquity” became one of the features that qualified an artifact as a trophy, along with material value, craftsmanship, and pedigree.9 Two capitals in the lower colonnades of the sixth-century basilica of San Lorenzo fuori le Mura are definitive examples of trophy artifacts (fig. 5).10 Displaying images of battlefield trophies (the armor of the vanquished, hung on a pole) on their four faces and of four Victories at the corners, they represent all three aspects of the trophy-spolium: the blood trophy in their imagery; the trophy artifact in their exceptional condition, craftsmanship, and possibly also their provenance, which is lost to us; and antiquity in both workmanship and the obviously non-Christian iconography. The battle trophy had been appropriated by Christians as early as the second century as a covert symbol of the crucifix, and martyrs’ bodies were also sometimes called “trophies” (tropaea), so it is likely that the capitals were deliberately placed near the altar in allusion to the Eucharist and the body of Saint Lawrence, which is enshrined in the church.11 Their susceptibility to Christian interpretation only added to the value of these trophy artifacts, as in reuse they could function as symbols of the superior moral virtue of their new Christian owners over the pagans who originally produced them.

“Orphan” is a situational category; it describes the condition of a spolium at the time of its acquisition, not the motive or intention in acquiring it. “Trophy,” as used here, is also situational, although the word implies an intention to convey triumph or superiority, as in the example just discussed. The motives for using spolia in art and architecture have been debated for many decades. In a foundational article published nearly fifty years ago, Arnold Esch proposed five motivations for using spolia in medieval Italy: convenience, profanation or exorcism, interpretation christiana, political legitimation, and aesthetic beguilement.12 More recent studies have refined and expanded this list; for example, Bente Kiilerich listed nine lenses through which spolia have been interpreted by modern art historians: ideology, magic, exorcism, appropriation, citation, nostalgia, memory, triumphalism, and historical awareness.13 Robert Coates-Stephens observed that all or most such categories are indistinguishable from the motives for using new materials and thus are not explanatory of spolia per se. On the basis of his reading of the few late antique texts that refer to spolia, Coates-Stephens identified four headings under which spolia were perceived in that era: spoils of war, religious triumphalism, despoiling the dead (i.e., the reuse of material from tombs), and aesthetic conservatism.14 It is striking that there is so little overt overlap between his categories and Kiilerich’s. If his represent the views of the early users of spolia, hers reflect the interpretive devices of our own day. We must use both, because contemporary testimonies do not account for all of the spoliate monuments and objects we want to explain.

Coates-Stephens’s example of spolia as spoils of war is a strange episode in the history of the Sasanian Emperor Khosrau I, who conquered the Christian city of Antioch in AD 540. Before burning the city he had his troops strip it of everything down to the marble revetment of its houses, in order to adorn a new city near Ctesiphon where he resettled Antioch’s captive population. This story was not only remembered but continued to be embellished for centuries. In the tenth-century version of al-Tabari,

[Khosrau] . . . gave orders that a plan should be made for him of the city of Antioch, exactly to scale, with the number of its houses, streets, and everything contained within it, and [he gave] orders that a [new city] should be built for him exactly like Antioch but situated at the side of [Ctesiphon] . . . He thereupon had the inhabitants of Antioch transported and settled in the new city; when they entered the city’s gate, the denizens of each house went to the new house so exactly resembling their former one in Antioch that it was as if they had never left the city.15

Fig. 6: Venice, San Marco, detail of west façade, with spolia taken from Constantinople. Photo: Dale Kinney

The story of Khosrau sheds some light on the best-known Western example of spolia as spoils of war, the decoration of San Marco in Venice after the Crusader pillaging of Constantinople in 1204 (fig. 6). The dozens of columns affixed to San Marco’s west façade do not recreate the Constantinopolitan palaces they came from, but in a more general way they capture the splendor of Constantinople as a whole, which is thus transferred to Venice just as Antioch was taken to Persia. These Venetian spolia have been naturalized, however: the shafts, capitals, and bases were so carefully chosen that they seem to have been made for their new environment.16 Other spolia at San Marco do not blend in and thereby announce their status as trophies, especially the ancient bronze horses that were displayed in the center of the west façade and the porphyry figures of Roman tetrarchs pasted onto the wall of the treasury (fig. 7).17

Fig. 7: Venice, San Marco, tetrach reliefs from Constantinople. Photo: Dale Kinney

Fig. 8: Cordoba, Great Mosque, completed in 987, interior view. Photo: Wikimedia Commons

Examples of Coates-Stephens’s second category, religious triumphalism, are often ambiguous. The columns holding up the Umayyad Mosque in Cordoba must have come from buildings erected for Christians (fig. 8). Does that make them signs of religious triumph, or were they just useful orphans, recruited to do a new job? Barry Flood has objected to what he perceives as an overreliance on religious triumphalism to explain Christian spolia in Islamic contexts.18 His test case is a number of marble table tops that decorate the walls of Islamic buildings in Syria, which since the 1920s have been interpreted as Christian altars taken as trophies by Muslim armies during their campaigns to recapture territory from the Crusaders. Confirmation of this theory seems to be found in a somewhat later description of a table top in one of the foundations of the fierce anti-Crusader Nur al-Din (1146–1174):

They show in [this] madrasa an altar on which the Christians used to sacrifice, of royal transparent marble, a stone of exquisite beauty . . . We are told that Nūr al-Dīn had it brought from Apamea in 1149. The stone bears a Greek inscription . . . which [indicates a date] 3,000 years . . . before Nūr al-Dīn . . . They tell that Nūr al-Dīn used to stuff the professors with sweets with which this basin of marble was filled.19

The irreverent use of the table to feed overprivileged professors indicates that its Christian association was part of its meaning as a spolium, but Flood argues that this was only part of the meaning. The other attributes singled out in the description—the beauty of the stone and the table’s supposed great age—were equally important. A reductive description of the table as a trophy of Muslim triumph misses the aesthetic and the historicist elements of its appeal.

Fig. 9: Rome, Saint Peter’s, detail of Dionysiac column from the Shrine of Saint Peter, now in the niche of Saint Helena. Photo: Deutsches Archäologisches Institut

It may be that religious triumphalism has also been overemphasized in the case of the spoliate colonnades. Colonnades—or porticos in Latin—were ubiquitous in ancient Rome, lining streets, surrounding fora, supporting civil buildings like basilicas, and adorning recreational ones like theaters. If they were also employed in religious buildings, that did not make them essentially religious; they were cultural objects. Even the blatantly Dionysiac imagery of the “corkscrew” columns that adorned the shrine of Saint Peter, gifts of Constantine, did not cause the precious columns to be viewed as pagan, at least as far as we can tell from surviving sources (fig. 9). A medieval legend, probably born in the twelfth century, claimed that they came from the Temple of Solomon in Jerusalem.20 This could be a different kind of religious triumphalism—Christianity over Judaism—but in my view a better fit is “translation” (translatio), denoting the supersession of one political power—or in this case, one center of religion—by another: Jerusalem superseded by Rome. Whatever the intention, it is clear that in the twelfth century these very special columns were still viewed as trophy artifacts, as they were in the fourth.

By contrast the columns in Saint Peter’s four colonnades seem to have been orphans, pieces rescued from ruin or abandonment. Abandonment was not infrequent in the ancient marble industry. Some elements barely made it out of the quarry; others were damaged in transit or survived the transport only to be deemed surplus. Items that arrived broken were repaired, if possible, in the marble yards at Portus, the second-century harbor where they were unloaded for shipment up the Tiber to Rome.21 Builders with no access to new imports could have made use of these “seconds.” Blocks that made it upriver to Rome were stored on a stretch of the left bank known since the Middle Ages as the “Marmorata” because of the quantities of marble that were found there. A nineteenth-century excavation of the area uncovered over one thousand large blocks and columns and “tens of thousands of sawn [marble] plaques.”22 Although the finds were carted away to repair ancient churches in Rome and elsewhere, Clayton Fant has argued that much of the stone left at the Marmorata had been repeatedly passed over by ancient and later builders as inadequate.23 Unwanted orphans.

Aftermarket orphans were produced by demolition and decay. A fourth-century inventory of such columns is preserved in a recently published papyrus fragment found in Oxyrhynchus, Egypt.24 The person who compiled the inventory noted precisely the location of each shaft, its dimensions, surface treatment (fluted or not), position (standing or not), the presence of capitals and bases, and whether they were of “foreign” stone. Once inventoried, the columns could have been collected and used by the municipal government to repair public buildings, or sold to what we might call a developer for reuse in the private sphere, or stored until they were needed.25 Warehouses of such recuperated ornament certainly existed in Rome. It seems likely that some Constantinian colonnades were assembled from the contents of such warehouses or, as argued by Lex Bosman with regard to Saint Peter’s, from sites like the Marmorata. Observing that some of the granite shafts that survive from Saint Peter’s colonnades have horizontal striations, Bosman concluded that the discolorations were produced while the shafts lay unclaimed on the ground after being shipped from Egypt.26 In other words, for the fourth-century builders these shafts were surplus goods or imperfect “seconds,” orphans available for adoption rather than trophies.

Fig. 10: Rome, medieval house above the Market of Trajan, second century AD. Photo: Dale Kinney

In the Middle Ages the situation was different. The industrial and governmental organization of late antiquity had broken down. The built landscape of Rome was largely privatized, and ruins like the first-century Forum of Caesar were occupied by medieval dwellings and gardens.27 Broken columns littered the landscape and were sometimes reused as uprights in the walls of the medieval houses (fig. 10). From the tenth through the fourteenth centuries, Rome was pieced together from such classical debris, with more of it under the surface, buried by the rising ground level. A market for antique building materials was served by mining abandoned public sites on the periphery, like the Baths of Diocletian and Caracalla, as well as private properties in the center of town. The market supplied the twelfth- and thirteenth-century boom in new churches, whose patchwork colonnades are composed of recuperated orphans. Sometimes orphans turned out to be trophies, like the red granite column shaft in the left colonnade of Santa Maria in Aracoeli that bears the inscription A CVBICVLO AVGVSTORVM (“from the chamber of the emperors”; fig. 11).28 “A cubiculo” was the title of the emperor’s head chamberlain, and the inscription must have been carved in the third century—but thirteenth-century Romans did not know that. They understood the phrase to mean something like “from Augustus’s chamber” and associated it with a legend that Santa Maria in Aracoeli stood on the site of an altar erected by the first-century emperor Augustus to the “son of God.” The builders of the basilica repurposed the shaft to serve as a material proof that Augustus vowed his altar on this site.

Fig. 11: Rome, Santa Maria in Aracoeli, completed in the thirteenth century, inscribed granite column in north colonnade. Photo: Dale Kinney

Just as orphans could be trophies, so most trophy-spolia were orphans; the categories are not mutually exclusive. One describes the conditions in which the elements of spoliate colonnades were found and chosen for adoption; the other indicates the special value that attached to some of them. Medieval Roman church colonnades comprised one or the other, and almost always both.

Dale Kinney earned her Ph.D. in 1975 with a dissertation on Santa Maria in Trastevere (Rome), which led to her long engagement with spolia. She retired as Professor of History of Art at Bryn Mawr College (1972-2010), where she also served as Dean of the Graduate School of Arts and Sciences (2000-08).

This essay was written originally for the Preston Thomas Memorial Symposium SPOLIA at Cornell University in 2014. I am grateful to Professor Aleksander Mergold for including me in this exceptionally stimulating event.


1. Maria Fabricius Hansen, The Spolia Churches of Rome: Recycling Antiquity in the Middle Ages, trans. Barbara J. Haveland (Aarhus: Aarhus University Press, 2015).
2. Hansen, Spolia Churches of Rome, 26.
3. Dale Kinney, “Spolia as Signifiers in Twelfth-Century Rome,” in Spolia in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages: Ideology, Aesthetics and Artistic Practice (Hortus atrium medievalism 17 [2011]): 151–66, esp. 155–58.
4. Deuteronomy 21:10-13 (Douay–Rheims Bible),
5. Siri Sande, “The Arch of Constantine—Who Saw What?” in Patrons and Viewers in Late Antiquity, ed. Stine Birk and Birte Poulsen (Aarhus: Aarhus University Press, 2012), 277–90, at 288.
6. Hansen, Spolia Churches of Rome, 186–93; for more precise information on the spolia see Patrizio Pensabene, Roma su Roma. Reimpiego architettonico, recupero dell’antico e trasformazioni urbane tra il III e il XIII secolo. (Vatican City: Pontificio Istituto di Archeologia Cristiana, 2015), 559-560.
7. Hansen, Spolia Churches of Rome, 194–205 (erroneously dating the spolia to the late third century); Pensabene, 252-253.
8. Antje Krug, “Spolien als Trophäen,” in Spolien im Umkreis der Macht. Akten der Tagung in Toledo vom 21. bis 22. September 2006, ed. Thomas G. Schattner and Fernando Valdés Fernández (Mainz am Rhein: Philipp von Zabern, 2009), 33–44.
9. On spolia as antiquities see Bente Kiilerich, “Antiquus et modernus: Spolia in Medieval Art—Western, Byzantine and Islamic,” in Medioevo: il tempo degli antichi. Atti del Convegno internazionale di studi Parma, 24–28 settembre 2003, ed. Arturo Carlo Quintavalle (Milan: Electa, 2006), 135–45, at 135–36.
10. Hansen, Spolia Churches of Rome, 149–59, again misdating the capitals too late; Pensabene, 609.
11. Giovanna Tedeschi Grisanti, “Tropaeum gloriae: considerazioni su una coppia di capitelli figurati di S. Lorenzo fuori le mura a Roma,” Rendiconti della Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei s. 9, 3 (1992): 1–15.
12. Arnold Esch, “Spolien. Zur Wiederverwendung antiker Baustücke und Skulpturen im mittelalterlichen Italien,” Archiv für Kulturgeschichte 51 (1969): 1–64.
13. Bente Kiilerich, “Making Sense of the Spolia in the Little Metropolis in Athens,” Arte medieval, n.s., 4, 2 (2005): 95–114, at 104.
14. Robert Coates-Stephens, “Attitudes to Spolia in Some Late Antique Texts,” in Theory and Practice in Late Antique Archaeology, ed. Luke Lavan and William Bowden (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2003), 341–58.
15. The History of al-Ţabarī, vol. 5. The Sāsānids, the Byzantines, the Lakhmids, and Yemen, trans. C. E. Bosworth. (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1999), 157-158; Coates-Stephens, 345.
16. Michael Jacoff, The Horses of San Marco and the Quadriga of the Lord (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993), 8.
17. Jacoff, Horses of San Marco, 8–11.
18. Finbarr B. Flood, “The Medieval Trophy as an Art Historical Trope: Coptic and Byzantine ‘Altars’ in Islamic Contexts,” Muqarnas 18 (2001): 41–72.
19. Flood, “The Medieval Trophy,” 52.
20. Dale Kinney, “Spolia,” in St. Peter’s in the Vatican, ed. W. Tronzo (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 16–47, at 22–23, 29–30, 35–36.
21. J. Clayton Fant, “Rome’s Marble Yards,” Journal of Roman Archaeology 14 (2001): 167–97.
22. Fant, “Rome’s Marble Yards,” 187–88.
23. Fant, “Rome’s Marble Yards,” 190–94.
24. Arietta Papaconstantinou, “A Fourth-Century Inventory of Columns and the Late Roman Building Industry,” in Papyrological Texts in Honor of Roger S. Bagnall, ed. Rodney Ast, Hélène Cuvigny, Todd M. Hickey, and Julia Lougovaya (Durham, NC: American Society of Papyrologists, 2013) 215–30.
25. Papaconstantinou, “A Fourth-Century Inventory,” 225–27.
26. Lex Bosman, The Power of Tradition: Spolia in the Architecture of St. Peter’s in the Vatican (Hilversum: Uitgeverij Verloren, 2004) 39–43; Pensabene, 136-139.
27. Kinney, “Spolia as Signifiers,” 155–58.
28. Hansen, Spolia Churches of Rome, 66–67. Hansen follows the common view that the inscription is medieval, but I think this is epigraphically impossible. See Dale Kinney, “Making Mute Stones Speak: Reading Columns in S. Nicola in Carcere and S. Maria in Aracoeli,” in Architectural Studies in Memory of Richard Krautheimer, ed. Cecil L. Striker (Mainz am Rhein: Philipp von Zabern, 1996), 83–86; Pensabene, 658-660.

| The Two Themes of Architecture

The Two Themes of Architecture

From Aesthetics Vol. II. Trans. Rev. Brian McNeil and John F. Crosby

Dietrich von Hildebrand, 1939. Photo: George Baltus

Architecture occupies a unique position in art. Unlike the other arts, it does not have only one theme, namely, beauty. Like nature, it has two themes. Its first theme, the practical theme, is the creation of a dwelling place that protects the human being against bad weather, etc., for the whole of his private life. This practical theme extends further to the creation of places for public life and divine worship.

The second theme of architecture is the beauty of the outside of buildings and of the inner rooms. The fact that architecture has two themes, a practical and an artistic theme, gives it a completely unique place among the arts.

Unlike all the other arts, the architectural works of art (residential homes, palaces, churches, etc.) belong to the same reality as we ourselves and the nature that surrounds us—for example, rocks, trees, and animals. Architecture is a part of the real world in which we move. Unlike all the other arts, it is not a world of its own. In the case of architecture, we do not enquire about the artwork’s specific kind of reality, as we do with a literary work, a piece of music, an opera, a painting, a relief, or a statue. Architecture belongs to the sphere of reality in which our life takes place, that is, to the reality of the external world that surrounds us.

Another characteristic of architecture is its polarity of outer and inner: first, the external architecture, the face of a building; and secondly, the internal architecture, the face of the internal rooms in which we find ourselves, whether a hall, a small room, a large room, or the interior of a church. The other arts lack this polarity.

Finally, architecture has the basic function of creating human space and thereby creating a presupposition for all the other arts.

The Significance of Human Space

Much could be said about the exceptional importance of space in nature. What we have in mind, of course, is not the statements of natural scientists about space in nature, nor even a purely philosophical analysis of space. We are thinking of space in its primal significance for our life, of the beauty of three-dimensional space as such, of the phenomenon of being encompassed by it, of the splendor that a wide vista can have, of the grandeur of the sky that arches above our heads.

Human space, in the sense of the term “human” that we are applying here to architectural space, is self-contained. It separates us from the vast, unlimited space in nature. It encompasses us and protects us in a special way. This human space is the interior space of architecture, which has qualities that differ from those of free space in nature.

A view of the Marienplatz, Munich’s main square since 1158, with the new City Hall and the Frauenkirche to the west. Photo: Wolf

The feeling of space in this human space is a new experience. The delight that one experiences on walking around in the noble space of a beautiful church is something all its own. It is incredible what great and ample beauty an enclosed space can possess as such. Examples are the interiors of Hagia Sophia or of San Marco in Venice, or the interiors of Santa Croce in Florence, of Sant’Ambrogio in Milan, or of the cathedral in Chartres. We are surprised by the aesthetic values that the human space is capable of displaying. It can, as such, possess not only a distinguished breadth and greatness and a stirring nobility, but also the beauty of a delightful intimacy.

Santa Croce, Florence, begun in the thirteenth century. Photo:

Through its human space, architecture also creates the basis for the unfolding of the other arts, as Bernhard Sattler has very aptly noted. Through the creation of its human space, interior architecture is not only a basis for sculpture, but stands in a close mutual relationship with it. This also applies to exterior architecture, as Bernhard Sattler observed: “Architecture is then complemented by sculpture, for which architecture creates the substructure, the pedestal, the background, and the framing.”

Painting too presupposes architecture for the walls that it requires, for the correct light, and many other factors. This applies both to frescoes and to paintings on a canvas or a wooden tablet. Bergmann rightly says that one cannot hang up pictures in a primeval forest. Pictures necessarily presuppose human space. Even the performance of music, that is to say, its full realization, demands a corresponding space if only for acoustical reasons, whether it be the intimate space in a house for chamber music, a hall for concerts, or the theater for operas and music dramas.

The relationship is at its loosest between literature and architecture, with the exception of dramas. It is of course possible to read a poem or a novel even in the open air. Even the great tragedies were not performed in an enclosed space in classical antiquity, but under the open sky. However, the construction of the classical theater is a tremendous architectural achievement, yielding an emphatically architectural space that is called for by the performance of the drama. The stage is a self-contained world, and the theaters of antiquity also display a great architectural beauty.

The relationship that architecture has to music and literature is naturally very different from the relationship to the visual arts of sculpture and painting. One must not exaggerate the extent to which architecture is presupposed in each individual instance. One can give concerts in a loggia and even in a garden; but music and literature are at home in human space, and they come fully into their own in a cultural world, indeed, in a world that is formed by architecture.2

Sculpture on the Royal Portal of Chartres Cathedral, France. Photo:

The First Theme of Architecture: The Practical and the Spiritual Purpose

The “practical” theme in architecture refers first of all to the real purpose that is in one sense the raison d’être of the construction of a building. The second theme is beauty. Although beauty is fully thematic in architecture, it must never be the exclusive theme. The architecture must also have a purpose, namely, a real theme. Within the real theme or purpose, we must distinguish two types: a purely practical and a spiritual purpose.

We have already pointed to the first purpose: the protection of the human person, providing him with a shelter in which his daily life takes place. Here we have in mind first of all the space required for external life. This applies to the simplest houses that often consist of one single room, as well as to those houses in which specific rooms are available for all the activities of life. Like all the objects of civilization, the practical theme, which belongs to the sphere of civilization, can be developed and perfected from many different perspectives, such as hygiene, comfort, heating, or cooling. In the same way, a factory has a purely practical, civilizational purpose that can be improved in various ways, such as rapid ventilation or a sufficient number of exits, especially for emergency situations like explosions and fires. One of these practical considerations is economy of space. Railway stations, airports, banks, administrative buildings, schools, and shops of every kind likewise have a purely practical purpose.

But the same buildings can simultaneously serve a spiritual purpose. For example, a residential home is not a mere shelter over a human being’s head. It contains not only rooms in which one sleeps, cooks, eats, and so on, but also rooms in which one lives with one’s family, in which many cultural events take place, in which the human being thinks, has conversations with other people, reads beautiful books, has profound experiences—in short, rooms in which he spends a great part of his truly human, affective, and intellectual life.

A residential home is also meant to serve this cultural or spiritual purpose, which is not so indispensable but is nevertheless something much higher. The home should be structured in such a way that it takes account of the demands made by these higher purposes. The question whether a space is structured in such a way that it provides an adequate setting for the life of a human being as a spiritual person is very important within the real theme of architecture. The practical and spiritual requirements vary in kind, and the realization of the one does not guarantee the realization of the other.

Many buildings primarily serve a purely spiritual purpose. This is true above all of churches. It is indeed true that some technical requirements exist here too: lighting, a good acoustic, ensuring safety in emergencies, etc. But it is clear that these are completely subordinate considerations. The unequivocal purpose is the creation of a space for divine worship with a sacred atmosphere that helps us to recollect ourselves and fills us with reverence.

Profane buildings with a cultural purpose are theaters, concert halls, and ceremonial halls, galleries, museums, etc. In all these buildings, the technical requirements are merely something that is unavoidable on the practical level. They do not belong to the purpose for which the building is erected.

On the other hand, their artistic beauty is always fully thematic, unlike a philosophical work such as a dialogue by Plato, where the great beauty is not thematic. One would misunderstand one of his dialogues and fail to do justice to it if one regarded the beauty of its style as thematic; for its theme is truth, and its beauty is primarily the metaphysical beauty of truth. The beauty of the style consists first and foremost in being the adequate form for the great truth-content of the work. This applies all the more to The Confessions of Saint Augustine, and in a unique manner to sacred scripture. These writings have only one theme, and their beauty is the emanation of the truth or of revelation, the emanation of the holy. Architecture and nature possess two equal themes. Since one of these is beauty, it is completely appropriate, and indeed necessary, to experience their beauty as fully thematic and to be filled by its great seriousness and its profound utterance when we look at architecture and nature.

In the case of the purely practical requirements and purposes, it is especially important to bear in mind that until the beginning of the nineteenth century and the triumph of the machine, culture had not yet been strangled by civilization. The expression of the spirit, the gift of giving form in such a way that was not practically indispensable, penetrated all the practical spheres of life up to that time. A knife should not only cut well; it should also possess a noble form. A chair should not only be comfortable and solid; it should also be beautiful—in fact, it should sooner be a little less comfortable than be sober and prosaic. Practical life as a whole possessed an organic character and was therefore united to a special poetry of life.3 Related to this was the penetration of life by culture.

But as the practical life of the human being was robbed of its organic character and was mechanized and thereby depersonalized, so too the poetry of practical life was lost. The practical requirements in residential homes became a prosaic matter that was radically detached from the affective and intellectual life that we lead as persons. Railway stations, factories, airports, filling stations, and department stores were built to serve technical, neutral purposes. . . . In all these buildings, it is clear that there is no link between practical requirements and the spiritual requirements of the human being. The latter are neutralized in such a way that they no longer offer any artistic stimulus for the architectural shaping of these buildings and rooms. The building itself becomes an object of technology.

Many architectural tasks have disappeared as a result of the mechanization and depoeticization of practical life that go hand in hand with the triumph of the machine. The buildings for watering horses and the pools in small towns where women did their washing are no longer needed today. It suffices to recall the Porta delle Fonti in San Gimignano, with its architecture and its setting, to see the architectural expression of the poetry of life that existed in this activity. It is obvious that this development has far-reaching consequences for architecture. Buildings where the poetry of life unfolds alongside their practical purpose clearly make very different demands on architectural design than buildings with a completely neutral, lifeless, practical purpose.

The relationship between the two purposes is important for all buildings that have both a practical and a spiritual purpose. In residential homes that serve more or less the whole of human life, practical requirements are also completely thematic. Although the spiritual requirements are higher and ultimately more important, the practical requirements belong likewise to the raison d’être of this kind of building. In one sense, indeed, they are in fact more urgent and more indispensable.

The situation is completely different in those buildings that clearly have a purely spiritual purpose but, like everything on earth, must also fulfill certain practical requirements thanks to our nature as human beings who consist of body and soul. This can be seen most clearly in the case of churches. Their purpose is not only spiritual, but religious and supernatural. Divine worship is celebrated in them, and the holy sacrifice of the Mass is offered. Nevertheless, one must do justice to certain practical requirements. For example, the ventilation must be as good as possible, and there must be a sufficient number of exits in case of fire. These practical requirements do not belong to the purpose, and they are not the reason why the church is built. They are only general presuppositions for every building in which a large number of people come together. However, some general presuppositions or perspectives lie closer to the special theme of a building—for example, the requirement that as far as possible, all the members of the audience in a theater should have a clear view of the stage.

Part Two of this article will appear in Sacred Architecture 30.

Dietrich von Hildebrand was born in 1889 in Florence, the son of Adolf von Hildebrand, an eminent German sculptor of the late nineteenth century. He grew up immersed in the art and beauty of Florence. He studied philosophy with Edmund Husserl and became an important figure in the world of early phenomenology. Given his upbringing in Florence and his training in phenomenology, he was predestined to do original work in aesthetics. Though Dietrich von Hildebrand is mainly known in the Catholic world for his religious writings, such as Transformation in Christ, and for his philosophical writings, such as Ethics, he has yet to be discovered as the important aesthetician that he is.

Rev. Brian McNeil, C.R.V. was born in Scotland in 1952. After studies at Cambridge, he entered the Canons Regular of Saint Augustine and was ordained to the priesthood in 1985. He has worked in parishes in Italy, Norway, and Germany, and is presently pastor of a large parish in Munich. He began translating for the English-language edition of the Vatican newspaper in the 1980s, and has translated sixty books and numerous articles.

John F. Crosby is a professor of philosophy at Franciscan University of Steubenville and is a Senior Fellow of the Dietrich von Hildebrand Project. He was a student of Dietrich von Hildebrand.

We present here a selection from his Aesthetics, which is about to appear in the newly formed press of the Hildebrand Project ( The Hildebrand Project exists to bring all of von Hildebrand’s works into English and into print, and above all to bring them into intellectual circulation.


1. Dietrich von Hildebrand, Aesthetics, vol. 2, chap. 6, abridged and edited, trans. Brian McNeil and John F. Crosby (Hildebrand Project, forthcoming 2016). The translation and publication of the Aesthetics was made possible through the generosity of Howard and Roberta Ahmanson together with Dana Gioia and the National Endowment for the Arts, the Cushman Foundation, and the Budnik Family Foundation.
2. We should note that the garden, too, is a human space, unlike an anonymous piece of nature and even less like a primeval forest.
3. See Aesthetics, vol. 1, chap. 15.

| The Interplay of Ritual and Art: The Dome Mosaic in the Neonian Baptistery of Ravenna

The Interplay of Ritual and Art: The Dome Mosaic in the Neonian Baptistery of Ravenna

If the decoration of the Neonian Baptistery is read as a stage-setting carefully designed by its patron to complement the baptismal ritual during its enactment, its meaning reveals itself.1

Annabel Jane Wharton’s article quoted here assumed a double perspective: first on the building itself as a ritual space and second as an explication of its broader social context. I would like to develop the first of those perspectives in more detail because I believe that a greater appreciation of the theological beliefs that inspired the liturgical enactment will make clear the raison d’être for certain compositional elements. When those to be initiated entered Bishop Neon’s baptistery late on Easter night, they encountered both a ritual and a visual program that were meant to reinforce the meaning of the experience that they were about to undergo.2 In conclusion, I would like to reflect upon what this interplay of art and ritual might say to us today.

Exterior of the Neonian baptistery. Photo:

Plan of the Neonian baptistery, showing the entrance in the west and the former entry from the south. Photo:

The exterior of the structure is an octagon of unprepossessing reddish brick, with one upper window on each of the eight sides and, originally, two ground-level doors.3 The octagon is characteristic of Italian baptisteries of this period and is related to the concepts of regeneration and rebirth, since eight is a symbol of eschatological fulfillment: the “perfect” number seven plus one more. But it was on the interior of the building, where the actual rites of initiation unfolded, that both expense and creativity were lavished.

The accessibility of this interior during the course of the year is unknown. Although at this historical period in the West most adult Baptisms seem to have been conducted at Easter, some Baptisms did occur at other times, especially at Epiphany. Yet the civic pride of the Ravennates in their status as an imperial and later royal capital also makes plausible a more general access to the building, as a tourist attraction if nothing else. And so we can presume that Bishop Neon and his collaborators would pay attention not just to the overall impression that the interior would create but also to the smaller details of the scenes portrayed zone-by-zone up to the cupola that in his day rose approximately twenty meters overhead.

Yet entry into the baptistery to experience the sacramental rites was a once-in-a-lifetime event. The initiates entered in the dark of night, into a building lit by oil lamps and a bit crowded with well-dressed clergy. How much time they had to look at the decorations in the baptistery is not clear. For example, how long did they have to wait for their turn in the font and for the other rituals? Moreover, what they were experiencing below was intensely multisensory. What was going on in the space overhead was admittedly dynamic and entrancing, but I suspect that they probably had time to grasp only the major theme and not the smaller, though significant, details.

That theme seems to be a straightforward statement that what happened to Jesus at His Baptism is now happening to the initiates.4 I believe that in the dome especially, the details of the biblical event have been altered by adding details relevant to the ritual being enacted below, in order to reinforce that identification for the initiates.

A necessary word of caution: the center of the roundel was restored at some point,5 and so we cannot be certain how closely what we see now approximates what the initiates saw in the fifth century. Yet, given the care shown for this structure in use for sixteen centuries, the assumption of at least overall continuity in the portrayal is plausible.

To be specific, as the liturgy unfolded, the initiates entered from the south.6 They might then have turned first to the west in order to renounce sin and the devil and then turned east to accept Christ, the immediate prelude to entering the font for the actual water bath. The turn to the east would have meant that from that moment, if they looked overhead, they would be properly positioned to see the event depicted in the dome.7

The mosaic-covered dome of the Neonian baptistery. Photo: OP

Their immediate impression would have been of three figures in the middle of the overall composition forming a triangle: John the Baptist, Jesus, and the Spirit represented as a dove—with a smaller figure of the personified Jordan to the right side. Two of these characters are acting: the Baptist is pouring water over Jesus’s head from a bowl, and the Spirit, with wings outstretched, is descending. Jesus in the middle is the recipient of both activities.

Yet there are three differences from the Gospel accounts of the event.8

First, given the traditional Jewish concern for modesty as an expression of reverence for the body being somehow made in the divine image,9 it is highly unlikely that Jesus was publicly naked during His Baptism in the Jordan. Yet the figure of Jesus here is clearly unclothed, even with the modesty provided by the rippling waters. But the initiates were soon going to be naked in the waters of the font. This detail seems a clear adaptation of the biblical text to emphasize the unity between the experience of Jesus and that of the initiates.

Second, there is no indication in the roundel of one of the most significant components in the Gospel accounts, the voice of the Father hailing Jesus as beloved Son. The initiates were familiar with the story since they had probably for years been attending the first half of the Eucharist on Sundays and festivals—the portion which consisted of readings, singing, and preaching.10 Yet, when they looked up, that part of the story was missing.

In the ritual that they were about to experience, there would be no such voice. They would stand deep in the waters of the font, possibly with a deacon or deaconess behind them. The bishop would question them three times about their belief in each of the Persons of the Trinity, and then three times they were drenched with water.

The most striking difference from the Gospel accounts, though, is not in something omitted but in something present: the highly decorated and outsized staff that the Baptist is holding in his left hand. Although Christian iconography has consistently portrayed John as holding some sort of staff, the presence of this particular version of the staff is, I believe, the key to understanding the rest of the iconography in this portrayal.

Detail of the dome mosaic showing John the Baptist, Jesus, the Holy Spirit in the form of a dove, and a smaller figure of the personified Jordan River. Photo:

As the initiates stood below looking up, they could not fail to notice the staff. In Zone 4 immediately below,11 the increasingly dynamic parade of apostles proffering crowns is moving on both sides in the same direction as the initiates’ gaze. That parade ends in an acanthus divider—a detail that has been the source of much puzzled discussion.12 What that divider does, though, is lift the eye up to the next zone and to the base of the staff that the Baptist is holding and that indeed bisects the dome.

The staff’s visual centrality is reinforced by the divergent contours of the riverbank and the river waters that (impossibly) converge at its base, creating two different perspectives within the curvature of the dome. Moreover, the two figures of Jesus and the Baptist jointly frame the staff and the cross that tops it.

Like the crosses displayed on the thrones lower down in Zone 3, the cross itself is not Greek but Latin, the shape typical of Ravennate art—most notably in the apse of Sant’Apollinare in Classe. And just like the apse cross, it is a crux gemmata.13

A staff surmounted by a cross of some kind had been a familiar public display for Romans for well over a century, since Constantine the Great had won the Battle of the Milvian Bridge in AD 312 by having the labarum carried before his troops. Having the staff as well as the cross set with jewels is also found on the obverse of a gold solidus of the emperor Marcian14 (a contemporary of Bishop Neon), where winged Victory is carrying one very similar to the one portrayed in the dome.

Why would the Baptist be represented as carrying a staff of some kind? Perhaps because he is portrayed in the Synoptic Gospels as a desert preacher. That it should often be reminiscent of a shepherd’s crook is perhaps attributable to the account in the first chapter of the Gospel of John, where John the Baptist functions as Jesus’s forerunner by pointing Him out to His own disciples as the Lamb of God. That it should be shaped like a cross is perhaps attributable to Christians seeing John not just as the forerunner for Jesus’s career as an itinerant preacher with a band of disciples, but as the forerunner of Jesus’s Passion and death at the hands of unjust political authorities.

To put a bejeweled staff topped by a cross in the hand of John during Jesus’s Baptism, though, is clearly anachronistic and most strikingly reveals how the compositional elements in the dome mosaic are shaped not only by the biblical narratives but by an instructional program aimed primarily at the initiates below.

Although I agree with Wharton when she asserts that, through most of this series of initiation events, the bishop is to be identified with Christ,15 I suggest that the presence of this sort of staff in the hand of John is meant to make us identify the bishop’s role during the actual water bath not with Jesus but with the Baptist—thereby enabling the initiates to identify not the bishop but themselves more clearly with Jesus.

The oldest identifying regalia for a bishop was the cloth pallium draped over his outer garment, of which there are several examples in Ravennate art.16 Yet the crosier was also coming into use as another episcopal sign during this period.17 Although over time the standard shape for a crosier in the West was the shepherd’s crook, the very name for this object reveals the possibility of a cruciform shape. The Good Shepherd figure in the nearby Mausoleum of Galla Placidia carries just such a cruciform crook.

The Good Shepherd mosaic in the Mausoleum of Galla Placida with a cruciform shepherd’s crook. Photo: OP

A stronger argument for the identification of the figure of the Baptist with the bishop is the gesture of pouring from a bowl that is held in John’s right hand. His outsized right arm is immediately noticeable because it cuts across the strong meridian defined by the staff. The bowl also stands out from a distance both because its silver color contrasts with the gold background and because it is placed midway between the descending Spirit and the halo surrounding Jesus’s head.

We must be especially careful not to presume the universality of any Christian liturgical practice at this period. During Baptisms bishops could pour water from their hand. The use of a bowl, though, would allow the bishop himself to perform the core ritual action with a generous amount of water while still keeping his best clothes dry for the other parts of the service.

Another possibility—and the one possibly represented in the dome of the Arian Baptistery—was for the bishop to place his hand on the heads of the initiates and literally dunk them under the water. (The meaning of the Greek verb baptizein is “to dip.”) In some places, though, it was the deacon(ess) who performed the action. In the Lateran Baptistery the deacon(ess) instead could place the initiate under the water flowing from the mouth of one of the silver stags surrounding the pool. However the initiates were baptized, the action was still prompted by their favorable response each time to the bishop’s three questions.

But why would Bishop Neon and his collaborators have created in the center of the overall composition not some simple cruciform staff such as appears in the Mausoleum of Galla Placidia but instead such a large crux gemmata with its decorated staff? I believe that their choice was made upon deliberate theological grounds.18

The archetypal images for the meaning of Baptism are complex in the Christian scriptures. Two dominant ones are those of Baptism as an experience of cleansing and forgiveness (1 Peter 3) and as a rebirth in the Spirit (John 3).

Yet another part of the tradition interpreted the descent into the water as reenacting the descent of the crucified Jesus into His grave, from which He would rise to new and glorious life (Romans 6). Both aspects of that experience for the initiates are contained in the crux gemmata: the cross equaling death, and the jewels evoking restored and glorious life. And so the presence of this kind of cross-topped staff in the hand of the Baptist functions as the link for a whole complex of images with which the initiates would have been familiar from their years of listening to the scriptures proclaimed in the Eucharist.19

Yet I believe that there is one additional instructional layer within the composition. The uplifted hand of the Baptist creates a second and smaller triangle at the apex of the first one. In this second triangle, three objects interconnect: the dove, the bowl, and the cross; and all of them, I believe, are used figuratively.

The dove is a symbol for the Spirit, the bowl is a metonymy for the water, and the cross is a metonymy not just for Jesus’s death but, more concretely, for His outpoured Blood. Behind this triangular interconnection lies 1 John 5:5–9, especially the assertion that “there are three witnesses: the Spirit, the water, and the blood, and all three of them agree.”20

The import of emphasizing the connection of the three witnesses becomes clear when we recall that the rites of Christian initiation taking shape in Northern Italy at this time consisted of three major moments: a water bath in which the Spirit gave cleansing, rebirth, and resurrection; a hand laying and/or anointing where the initiates were sealed in the Spirit; and the Eucharistic meal where the initiates sacramentally consumed Jesus’s Body and Blood for the first time.

On Easter night itself, it would have been difficult for the initiates to notice this set of compositional details in the baptistery, nor would they in fact have already participated in the sacred meal. Yet Easter Week in Milan (a dominant member of the liturgical orbit in which Ravenna lay), for example, was for the newly initiated a time of daily celebration and further reflective instruction. I find it easy to picture good Bishop Neon leading his white-robed new Christians on a tour of the baptistery and reflecting with them step-by-step on what had happened to them there—only now in the light of a bright spring day. Pointing up, he unfolds again for them how what was portrayed above had actually been reenacted below—only now they could notice all the details and understand more deeply the mystery.

A brief look at the portrayal of the same scene in the dome of the Arian Baptistery will reinforce my point that these portrayals are shaped not simply by the biblical narrative but by theological and instructional concerns. A word of caution, though: Catholics and Arians usually employed the same gestures and words in their rituals of initiation but gave them different interpretations.21

In Catholic belief the three Persons of the Trinity are equally divine and so the separate, threefold immersions emphasized their equality. In Arian belief the Father was utterly divine; Jesus was a “lesser” divinity, and likewise the Spirit. And so the triple immersions emphasized their separateness. Arians would have understood the event of Jesus’s Baptism as a sort of adoption in which the Spirit empowers the human Jesus to be the sort of divine Son.22

The dome of the Arian baptistery, Ravenna. Photo: arianbaptistery,

And so in the Arian portrayal, the only real dynamism is the Spirit’s activity in regard to Jesus. Not the staff but Jesus assumes the central position. In fact, His navel is at the apex of the dome. He is situated within a slightly skewed triangle composed of the Spirit, the Baptist, and a much larger personification of the Jordan—the only graphic portrayal of a set of relationships in the dome.

Although the figure of the Baptist is elevated on the riverbank, his role is diminished: he has become less an actor and more a static flanking figure whose body mirrors in its curvature the posture of the Jordan figure.23 His head lacks a halo, and his staff has been reduced to a walking stick that mirrors the reed held in the Jordan’s hand. Moreover, his hand simply rests upon the side of Jesus’s head.24

What is unique and striking in this portrayal, though, is the elongated isosceles triangle of what seems to be water (impossibly) pouring from the Spirit’s beak upon the haloed head of Jesus. Here is visually portrayed the statement in John, chapter 3, that each Christian would be “born (again) through water and the Spirit.” Just as in the Neonian Baptistery, the crucial detail of the portrayal is symbolic; here, though, the theme is different. What is being reinforced for the initiates below is that the water cascading over their heads was also the Spirit at work in their adoption as God’s sons and daughters.25

Compared to the Orthodox portrayal, this scene is remarkably simpler in its compositional elements and in its instructional message. Gone are any references to Baptism as a share in Jesus’s death and rising and to the unity of Spirit, water, and Blood. Gone as well is any significant parallelism between John the Baptist and the bishop. All that is left is the Arian emphasis upon Baptism as adoption.

The Arian bishop’s reflective tour during Easter Week must have been much shorter and less informative for his initiates.

What might these architectural and, at times, highly elaborate decorative endeavors of our ancestors some sixteen centuries ago say to us today?

First, Baptism was important, not just theoretically but practically. With imperial and royal patronage available, early bishops chose to invest not only in splendid churches that would have frequent and even daily use but also in baptisteries that were used much more infrequently. Bathhouse technology was a commonplace in the ancient world; using it to construct a building used infrequently was a bold expenditure—and spending even more on square meters of internal mosaic and other decorative work verged on the profligate.

Second, verbal instruction was only one mode of shaping newcomers into Christians. Sacramental rituals that were vivid and multisensory—and that were enacted in spaces equally vivid and multisensory—were a crucial component as well.

Third, these early bishops were even bold enough to take liberties with biblical details if they thought such a change would reinforce the core message for those under instruction. The goal was not historical accuracy in our terms but a unified experience of narrative, art, and ritual that would impress upon new Christians how they had been remade and reborn in Christ’s image.

Fourth, are we doing as good a job? The post-Vatican II liturgical reform in this country has led not to splendid baptisteries but to some magnificent fonts in the main worship space. Two of the most notable are those in the new Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels in Los Angeles and in the renovated Cathedral of Saint James in Seattle. Both are prominent and so constructed that they allow for immersion Baptism for both adults and children. Moreover, the location of these fonts at the entrance to the nave is intended to symbolically underline Baptism as the definitive entrance into the Church both as a building and as a people. There was clearly a desire as well for maximum visibility for the whole congregation.

Yet other than symbolic shape and position, noble materials, and flowing water, neither is marked by any particular iconography that explains and reinforces the meaning of the central sacramental event. So far in this country, Catholic churches seem to have found a way to bring Baptism out of the corner chapel or alcove and into the main worship space, but the price has been an artistic and instructional impoverishment.

Our ancestors could segregate Baptism in a separate structure because their congregations had a large number of people who had been baptized after childhood. For many, if not most, members of a fifth-century congregation, what went on in Christian initiation would have been a matter of personal experience. In most places in contemporary America, that proportion would be a definite minority. It is therefore understandable why the service should be moved into the church building itself and should unfold in public. Yet we do not seem as yet to have found the way for art and ritual to interact more fruitfully in our day.

Michael H. Marchal recently retired after a long career teaching literature and philosophy in high school and college. His last two books have focused on the RCIA: the award-winning The Spirit At Work and Towards the Table.


1. Annabel Jane Wharton, “Ritual and Reconstructed Meaning: The Neonian Baptistery in Ravenna,” The Art Bulletin 69, no. 3 (September 1987): 369.
2. Ibid., 362 et seq.
3. I rely upon the work of Spiro K. Kostof, The Orthodox Baptistery of Ravenna (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1965).
4. The orthodox belief was that the divinity of Jesus was revealed at His Baptism. At Baptism Christians were adopted as God’s sons and daughters in and through Jesus. Arians regarded the event of Jesus’s Baptism more as His adoption as God’s Son. Christians at Baptism were therefore adopted like Him.
5. Kostof’s figures 42 A & B (Kostof, The Orthodox Baptistery of Ravenna) show the extent of the restoration. He regards the bowl as an addition of the restorers because it is portrayed nowhere else. I prefer to think the Ravennates would have been more conservative.
6. Wharton, “Ritual and Reconstructed Meaning,” 362.
7. We know from Ambrose’s De Mysteriis that those to be initiated turned to the east. The turn to the west is hypothetical. The Arian Baptistery’s portrayal seems to be reversed. (See below, n. 25.)
8. The Gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke are collectively referred to as the Synoptic Gospels because of their similar approaches to the narration of Jesus’s ministry. Each emphasizes different details of this event. The Gospel of John takes a different narrative approach and does not even describe this event. For a description of the event’s portrayal in early Christian art, see Robin M. Jensen, Baptismal Imagery in Early Christianity: Ritual, Visual, and Theological Dimensions (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Publishing Group, 2012), esp. 12–16.
9. See 2 Maccabees 4 for the story of how the Jews a century and a half before Christ had objected to the establishment of a gymnasium in Jerusalem itself during the Hellenistic Period, since athletes of the period competed unclothed.
10. The Western Church’s focusing solely upon the visit of the Magi to Bethlehem during the January 6 festival came later. In Neon’s time the festival also included the Baptism of Jesus and the wedding at Cana. Neon’s predecessor, Peter Chrysologus, preached primarily on the Baptism.
11. Wharton refers to the apostles’ procession as lying in Zone 2, counting down. I prefer Kostof, who labels it as Zone 4, counting up. It is also important to note that the apostles in the Arian baptistery are portrayed statically.
12. Ittai Weinryb, “A Tale of Two Baptisteries: Royal and Ecclesiastical Patronage in Ravenna,” Assaph: Studies in Art History, no. 7 (2002): esp. 46 et seq. (Available on
13. The central dome of the Mausoleum of Galla Placidia from the same century has a Latin cross even though a Greek one would be more proportionate. The cross in Sant’Apollinare in Classe dates from the following century.
14. Several excellent representations can be found online.
15. Wharton, “Ritual and Reconstructed Meaning,” 365.
16. Examples in Ravenna are the pallia worn by Saint Apollinaris in Sant’Apollinare in Classe and Bishop Maximianus in San Vitale, both churches dating from the sixth century.
17. Catholic Encyclopedia, s.v. “Crosier,” Patrick Morrisroe, accessed February 2016, Bishop Maximianus in the sanctuary mosaic in San Vitale from the next century is portrayed as holding a large Latin cross. Whether that object should be interpreted as some version of a crosier or as an example of the blessing crosses that Byzantine bishops still use I have as yet been unable to determine.
18. Emanuela Penni Iacco, L’arianesio nei mosaici di Ravenna (Ravenna: Longo Editore, 2011), 66–68.
19. Davide Longhi, Signigicato Simbolice e Committenza dei Mosaici Tardoantiche di Ravenna, (Trieste, Italia: Libellula Edizioni, 2012), 72–74. He asserts that the divinity of Jesus is revealed in the crux gemmata and His humanity in His nudity. I think that approach restricts the interpretation of the crux too narrowly.
20. The translation here is from Alexander Jones, ed., The Jerusalem Bible (Garden City, New York: Doubleday, 1966). The Greek is very compressed and therefore difficult to translate.
21. Maurice F. Wiles, “Triple and Single Immersion: Baptism in the Arian Controversy,” Studia Patristica 30 (1995), 346–9.
22. For a brief survey of the controversy, see Joseph T. Lienhard, S.J., “The ‘Arian’ Controversy: Some Categories Reconsidered,” Theological Studies, 48 (1987), 415–37.
23. The interpretation of the emotion being expressed by the figure has varied. I prefer to see it as astonishment, following the reference in Psalm 114 to the river being in amazement at the approach of Joshua and the Ark. For a discussion of what the Jordan did and did not do, see Jensen, Baptismal Imagery in Early Christianity, 12–13 (above, n. 8).
24. In the smaller triangles—defined on the one side by Jesus, John the Baptist, and the Spirit, and on the other by Jesus, the Jordan figure, and the Spirit—the only active character is the Spirit. John’s hand clearly is not in the act of dipping Jesus’s head under the water.
25. Wharton, “Ritual and Reconstructed Meaning,” 370. As Wharton points out, the orientation of the scene in the Arian Baptistery is the reverse of the Neonian. If the ritual unfolded according to the same choreography in both structures, the initiate looking up would be looking at the scene in the dome upside down. But we cannot be certain what the actual orientation of the initiate in the pool was. More interesting is the lack of dynamism in the portrayal of the apostles in the Arian Baptistery. Other than Peter and Paul flanking the elaborate throne, there is no sense of directional movement. Unlike the acanthus cluster in the Neonian Baptistery, which leads the eye up into the roundel, the throne in the Arian Baptistery is upside down in relation to the scene in the roundel!

| Neugotik: Brick Gothic in Germany, England, and the United States

Neugotik: Brick Gothic in Germany, England, and the United States

Gottfried Semper wrote in 1846: “The impression made on the masses by a building is partly founded on reminiscences.”1 This certainly holds true for the Gothic, a style that for the masses has always evoked the awe of Christian grandeur and mysticism, if only in its soaring interiors and steeples.

By extension, Semper’s words also apply to many intellectuals and architects of the nineteenth century, for whom the Gothic style of architecture conjured up the learning of the cloister, an orderly ahistorical world view, and a Christian sensibility not linked to a pagan past but to one that had toppled it.

The original desire to naturally build in forms of Opus Francigenum, later called Gothic, came about first in the early twelfth century in north central France. The new style then quickly spread throughout northern Europe and elsewhere in the course of the thirteenth through seventeenth centuries. Other styles followed, but none were as tenacious and emotionally fulfilling for European Christianity as Opus Francigenum. The classical world appeared too pagan. The Renaissance was a yearning for a better past, but without a Christian soul. The Baroque and Rococo were theatrical, but lacked heart. The Gothic was both ornamental and complex yet emotional and intellectually satisfying. The Gothic had both soul for the emotions and heart for the faithful. The style in its various poses continues.

By the mid-eighteenth century, industrialization began not only to change the economic conditions and landscape of northern Europe but also to lay siege to its intellectual traditions. Solutions were sought in many venues. None seemed more sound and popular than the Gothic of the thirteenth to fifteenth centuries. Yet the Gothic as it stood was old, often a patchwork of surviving structures in city centers or newly assessed rural, out-of-the-way locales steeped in lore and wishes that were seen as romantic—a reminder of a better, preindustrial devotion and a wayfinding instrument of pure form that would lead to true light through a tunnel of an ever more quickly changing world.

Adoption of medieval Gothic elements began in England around 1720 in new, almost exclusively secular construction. Horace Walpole’s Strawberry Hill (after 1749) was a conflation of Gothic elements, as was the English-inspired Nauener Tor in Potsdam from 1755, commissioned by Frederick the Great, who was an admirer of English secular use of the Gothic style for its allusion to the past. Consequently, Gotisches Haus in Wörlitz near Dessau was begun in 1773 and completed in 1813. Built mostly of brick, the Gotisches Haus has a façade inspired by the Gothic church of Santa Maria Dell’Oro in Venice with a new, Gothic-inspired interior.

Church of the Holy John the Baptist at the Tschesmensker Palace, Saint Petersburg, Russia, 1780. Photo:

Among the first sacred structures was the Neugotik (New Gothic) Tschesmensker Church in Saint Petersburg, Russia, from 1780. (The full name is Church of the Holy John the Baptist at the Tschesmensker Palace). Its architect, Georg Friedrich Veldten (1730–1801), court architect to Catherine the Great, did not revive a Gothic style, but seems to have thought Gothic as idiosyncratic as the exotic Turks whose defeat it commemorates. And therefore, it is not a Revival building.

A few years later, again in Wörlitz, Fürst Leopold Friedrich Franz von Anhalt-Dessau, who had traveled extensively in England and there admired Tudor-Gothic, had his architect, Baurat Hesekiel, convert Saint Peter’s Church (built about 1196–1201) into a Neugotik showpiece between 1804 and 1809. The Neugotik for church building was on its way.

Exterior, Friedrichswerdersche Church in Berlin by Friedrich Schinkel, 1830. Photo: friedricheswerdersche kirche,

Interior, Friedrichswerdersche Church. Photo:

The greatest German architect of the time, the great master of Neo-Classical architecture Karl Friedrich Schinkel (1781–1841) also designed the Neugotik Friedrichswerdersche Church (1821–1830) in Berlin. His building expressed its Gothic forms in exposed brick. This was the first new church built with exposed brick since the Middle Ages. With its design and exposed brick, Schinkel’s Friedrichswerdersche Church influenced sacred architecture for several generations and paved a clear path all the way to the Bauhaus and beyond, especially in the United States.

Early in his life, Schinkel had recognized a connection between Gothic and nature. For him Gothic represented true belief, subject only to nature’s rules. Because it was not subject to human desires, nature appeared to be free. For Schinkel, nature and Gothic were one. In classical architecture, he saw order and necessity; in Gothic, he saw the natural and freedom.2

A year after Schinkel’s groundbreaking Friedrichswerdersche Church, the Mariahilfkirche in Munich broke ground. Designed by Joseph Daniel Ohlmüller and Georg Friedrich Ziebland, the Mariahilfkirche is now seen as the preeminent Neugotik church in southern Germany. It is built of unglazed bricks, inside and out.

The Mariahilfkirche in Munich, interior destroyed during World War II. Photo:

At the behest of King Ludwig I of Bavaria, Ohlmüller had cleaned the Dom (cathedral) in Bamberg of its 1660s Baroque encrustation and returned it into something akin to its Ottonian-Romanesque original. The Dom in Bamberg became a model of what to do, but it was an Ottonian-Romanesque pile with not enough hints of Gothic to be a noteworthy model for Neugotik. For his commission of a parish church in Munich, Ohlmüller could not rely on local surviving Gothic churches, all of which had been altered or even replaced during the previous century’s go-for-Baroque mania. By placing his new parish church outside the traditional medieval market core of the city center, he took on city planning, leaving an open field around a building that looked like it had always been there. Ohlmüller created a rural pilgrimage site, a Romantic idyll, within an urban setting. He also could not find any one pure Gothic model, so he conflated several fine medieval examples of Gothic into one. His newly minted, three-aisled German hall church received a west façade in the style of French cathedrals, a ninety-three-meter-tall steeple modeled after the Minster in Freiburg, and a nave with ribbed vaulting of a type found in Saint Martin in Landshut. Bricks were the Neugotik’s building material of choice, light colored limestone or ochre terra-cotta its ornamentation. For lack of stone, brick had been the Gothic building material of choice in northern Germany, from Saint Petersburg along the Baltic to the North Sea into the Netherlands. This Gothic was called Backsteingotik (Brick Gothic), and most importantly, it had not fallen as hard under the French spell as the great central German cathedrals and churches of quarried ashlar had. With the completion of Mariahilfkirche, the Neugotik was established in both north and south Germany.

In England, too, there had been an urge championed by Augustus Welby Northmore Pugin (1812–1852) and others to revive the Gothic and Roman Catholicism for both ecclesiastical and political reasons. But with abundant stone available, the Neo-Gothic or Gothic Revival of England followed local traditions relegating clay to tiles and ornamentation, not to bricks for building.

Actual standing church buildings in northern Germany from the thirteenth to fifteenth centuries inspired Germany’s Neugotik. The medieval buildings were bound to specific cultural and political attitudes that were closely related to a stern Catholicism, more akin to Lutheran Protestantism than to Italian-minded Catholicism. As pre-Lutheran Catholic churches, and as symbols of a great past that could be interpreted as enhancers of the present, Backsteingotik became a convenient and original model for Neugotik.

Neugotik was also a symbol of a religious cause, had emotional appeal, was steeped in antiquarianism in the face of industrialization, and was seen as an opportunity for significant artistic expression. Possibly most importantly, Gothic architecture and artistic expression was a bedrock of the larger phenomenon called Romanticism that in Germany and central Europe led to an architecture called Historicism. The appearance of Neugotik also occurred at a time when standing medieval monuments were first being investigated archaeologically and cleansed of their historic barnacles, the add-ons of various ages that were considered by a later generation not authentic to the original intent and function of the building.

This urge to cleanse was, of course, in part a reaction to the humiliations suffered by most Europeans east of the Rhine River at the hands of the French under Napoleon. Germans and other national groups sought out culturally significant elements—be they architecture or art—in their own national language spheres. Gothic built in brick, though French in origin, was a variant distinctly non-French and thus suited to German spiritual needs and political wants.

Neugotik was as much theology as politics. It was anti-industrial and proemotional. It was antirationalist, antiscientific, and probelief. Conversion to Roman Catholicism was a tipping point for many Romantic artists, poets, writers, and architects, who for a generation or two had been indifferent or disbelievers. Before their conversion they had lauded democracy and the French Revolution, praised Napoleon, despised Roman Catholicism, and despised its adherents.

At the height of Napoleonic persecution, in 1809, six students at the Vienna Academy coalesced into an artistic cooperative calling itself the Lukasbund (the Brotherhood of Saint Luke), in honor of the patron saint of medieval guilds of painters. Within a year, four of them had moved to Rome, where they lived communally in the abandoned monastery of San Isidoro. Mostly Lutheran and Jewish, they all converted to Roman Catholicism to reflect their belief and conviction in every thought and every activity. Called the Nazarener-Brüderschaft, a mocking reference to the popular image of the bearded and long-haired man from Nazareth, the Nazarener hoped to return art to its spiritual origins by embodying values of late medieval and early Renaissance practices.

By the 1820s, the Nazarener had established themselves as masters and then directors of the art academy in Munich, Frankfurt am Main, and Düsseldorf, where their painting style and techniques became the rule. They also introduced medieval and Renaissance techniques of fresco painting to nineteenth century Germany and Europe. Quickly their style and name became the byword for thought and art in German churches, civic buildings, and public and private art collections. By the 1840s, the Nazarener style and conviction had become Germany’s.

Among the first fresco paintings in Germany were those that were commissioned by King Ludwig I in 1846 for the Dom in Speyer from the artist Johann von Schraudolph (1808–1879). In the Cologne Cathedral, Franz Mayer of Munich introduced a type of painted stained-glass window called the Munich style. The Nazarene style of painting was joined at the hip with Neugotik and became the most popular and widespread style not only in Germany but also across Europe, England, and the United States.

Almost thirty years after the Nazarene-Brüderschaft ideals were first nurtured and cultivated in Rome and then harvested in Germany, they rooted in England with the germination of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood.

Also profoundly influencing England were the writings of the German Friedrich Schlegel (Karl Wilhelm Friedrich von Schlegel, born in 1772 in Hanover into a Lutheran pastor’s family and died in 1829), whose ideas on religious art and architecture were beginning to be known in the 1830s. In the 1790s, Schlegel was an atheist, a radical, and an individualist. In 1802, praising Napoleon, he arrived in Paris, and there in 1804, he published about Gothic architecture in his magazine Europe. Four years later, in 1808, in Cologne with his wife, he converted to the Roman Catholic Church, moved to Vienna as imperial court secretary, and surrounded himself with monks and pious men of society while writing fiery proclamations against Napoleon. It was in Vienna and Budapest that Schlegel and others projected Austria as the spiritual leader of a new Germany, drawing her strength and inspiration from a romanticized view of medieval Catholic past.3 German Romanticism was in full flower and Neugotik was its architecture.

In England, Neugotik was known as the Gothic Revival, and its style was driven by an international Catholic surge for art and architecture that had first sprouted in England as non-Catholic, then found its soul in Rome, and was then harvested in Germany before taking root in England as the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood.

By the mid-nineteenth century, immigrants from both England and Germany had brought Gothic Revival and Neugotik, respectively, to the United States. First along the East Coast and then ever more inland, the two strains of Gothic struggled for dominance. Whatever the calling, Gothic Revival or New Gothic, both had their ardent supporters. In the United States, countless small, Deutsche Evangelische Lutheranische Kirche (Ger