But I’m in a car, not on a bike, and once I get behind
the wheel again I have to push on to my modern Catholic parish,
usually one built after the Second Vatican Council. Vatican II
brought a new approach to the liturgy, and zealous clergy teamed
up with trendy architects to establish a new Catholic style. They
also wanted to make a political statement. Worship and churches
were to be more “people centered.” The result is an architecture
which can only be called the tee-pee style of church architecture.
The Catholic cathedral in Liverpool is even called Paddy’s Wigwam.
Built from modern
materials of glass, steel and concrete, these churches were designed
to follow the new dogmas of egalitarianism
and liturgical folksiness. Hierarchical ideas were anathema and
a shallow form of democracy ruled the day. Church architects followed
Frank Lloyd Wright’s brutal rule of modern architecture — “form
follows function” — and to facilitate the new understanding of
the liturgy, built round churches with an altar at the centre and
the people gathered around. Suddenly it did not matter if a church
was beautiful or not. It didn’t matter if it expressed the glory
of God. It didn’t matter if it was an effort to reveal the transcendent
beauty of worship. What mattered was, “Is it liturgically (and
politically) correct?”
Unloved churches
On my weekends exploring England I come across these
round churches. Often they are plopped down like some huge concrete
excrement in a mellow suburb of gracious Victorian houses fronted
by rose beds and manicured lawns. Other times they appear in modest
inner city housing developments, and you have trouble distinguishing
between the church and the multi-level parking lot.
I have asked numerous
priests and people if they like our own cathedral, a monstrous sprawl
of concrete that squats in
a suburb of Bristol. Not one has said he loves it. The most positive
response I get is from priests who say, “It works well liturgically.” That
is fine, but it is not the same thing as loving a building. How
can one love a building that is merely functional? Can one love
a parking garage?
I have tried to
love these modern churches because I dislike the tendency among church
people to be whining antiquarians.
I don’t believe in a golden age of religion, art, or architecture.
I believe a man is most often right in what he affirms and wrong
in what he denies. I have therefore made a real effort to be open-minded.
I have tried to discover the hidden greatness of our modern tee
pee churches. In the end I have failed and turned my energies instead
to asking why exactly I dislike such churches. Why do they not
lift the spirits? Why do we not find them beautiful? Why do they
fail to reflect Christian theology and spirituality?
Perhaps the answer
is that the teepee churches do not actually fulfil their function.
If they are supposed only to provide
a place for the people of God to gather around the altar, they
fulfil their function admirably. But perhaps part of their function
is to be beautiful as well. Isn’t a church more than a meeting
hall? Shouldn’t a church lift the mind and heart to God? Shouldn’t
a Christian building reflect the great Christian mystery and point
beyond itself to the mystery of the Incarnation? In other words,
perhaps I dislike round churches not because they are functional,
but because they are not functional enough.
The past’s answer
The answer
may be found by looking to the past rather than to mid-twentieth
century architectural manuals. I wonder how
many church architects are actually well versed in the history
of ecclesiastical architecture. The buildings they design indicate
a complete ignorance — perhaps even a wilful ignorance — of this
aspect of the great tradition. If I am right in this suspicion,
are they not guilty of architectural iconoclasm? They may not pull
down the old houses of prayer (though they often do), but their
deliberate ignorance of the tradition indicates a similarly iconoclastic
mentality.
They
pretend that the idea that a church should be the gathering place
for the people of God is somehow novel. But the tradition of Christian
architecture has always promoted the communal worship of the people
of God. The Christian tradition of architecture was developed from
the Old Testament model of the Tabernacle and the Temple, and if
we believe the Scriptures were given by inspiration of God, is
it too far-fetched to imagine that the Old Testament actually provides
a basic model for Christian architecture?
The book of Exodus
gives detailed instructions for the construction of the Tabernacle,
and Solomon’s temple was structured
on the same basic plan. No one expects Christian churches to be
Disney-esque reproductions of Solomon’s Temple, but the basic principles
laid down in the design of the Tabernacle and Temple should inform
Christian architecture.
The basic plan of
the Tabernacle and the Temple was that of an outer courtyard for
the gathering of the people, an
inner courtyard for the initiates, and the holy of holies for the
priests, containing the Ark of the Covenant and separated from
the inner court by a great curtain from top to bottom. This pattern
gathers together the different functions of a house of worship.
The outer court gathers all the people for the sacrifice to God.
The inner courtyard sets apart a place for prayer and worship.
The holy of holies sets apart a place of mystery and transcendence.
The structure gives the sense that the temple is a “Bethel,” the
house of God. That it is not only a meeting place of people, but
the meeting place of earth and heaven.
This
three-fold structure also expressed the linear aspect of the Jewish
(and later the Christian) religion. It provides a focus and direction
for the worshipper. There is a front and a back to the church.
There is a beginning and an end. The Judeo-Christian tradition
is not cyclical. We do not believe in re-incarnation and an endless
cycle of birth and re-birth. Some Native American tribes placed
their round teepees in circles around the fire because they believed
the whole of nature was cyclical. The ancient Jews and Christians
gave their buildings a linear form to affirm that each individual
and the whole cosmos has a beginning and end—an Alpha and an Omega.
Up to the 1960s, whether the style was Byzantine, Romanesque,
Gothic, Neo-Classical, or Baroque, the three fold pattern and the
direction were retained. In the Catholic tradition the church could
be broken down into nave (outer courtyard), chancel (inner courtyard),
and sanctuary (holy of holies).
In the Catholic tradition, the Tabernacle (where the
blessed sacrament is reserved) is also placed in the sanctuary,
where it symoblizes both the Ark of the Covenant and an extra Holy
of Holies. Most even have a little curtain inside to reflect the
curtain in the Tabernacle and the Temple. In the Orthodox tradition
the nave is separated by the iconostasis or screen from the chancel
and sanctuary, where the Eucharist is celebrated, equivalent of
the holy of holies. Protestant churches did not follow the pattern
so completely, but even they retained a sense of direction and
focus with the people turning toward the word of God, symbolized
in the pulpit.
Inspirational buildings
The self-help gurus
tell us how our clothing influences the way we behave. They would
probably also suggest that our buildings
influence the way we behave. The modern architect’s motto is “form
follows function,” but what if function follows form? A medieval
church architect wanted to build a church “so glorious that it
would inspire even the dullest heart to prayer.” If beautiful buildings
can actually help inspire prayer, function does follow form.
If this is so in a positive way, then it must also be so negatively.
In other words, an architect who takes no thought for
beauty or transcendence can help destroy the idea of beauty and
transcendence in those who try to worship in his building. Could
it be that the dismal state of the liturgy, the lack of reverence
among both priests and people, and the lackadaisical attitude to
the awesome mystery of our religion is inspired and encouraged
by the brutal buildings in which we gather?
Does anyone stop
to visit a round church simply to sit still in the silence and to
soak in the spirit of the place? Does
one look to a round church to contemplate all that lies beyond?
Perhaps some people do. For me a round church doesn’t help me look
anywhere but inward, for there is nowhere else to look. A linear
church, on the other hand, directs my attention beyond myself.
Furthermore, in a linear church there are usually side chapels,
nooks and crannies where all sorts of treasures lie hidden. When
you explore you may discover an unknown saint, a remarkable stained
glass window, or a quiet shaft of sunlight filtering through to
illuminate an ancient tomb.
All of this speaks
of faith that is also more vast than we can imagine — a faith in which there are hidden treasures and
undiscovered corners of delight. A faith where we can go “further
up and further in.” In a round church there is no beyond. There
is no “further up and further in.” There is only round and round.
At worst, round churches are a subtle statement confirming the
humanistic assumption that there really is nothing beyond this
world, so we had better get used to it. They are buildings for
people, not temples of God.
The ancient English
churches I visit still retain the sense of being a temple of God.
In them I want to sit still “where
prayer has been valid,” in T. S. Eliot’s words. As Philip Larkin
observed, in each church there is the “holy end” which draws the
heart and mind toward that “musty unignorable silence” — and beyond
that to a land and a Lord beyond our imaginings.
