As a teenager, I was part of a large, growing Baptist church in East Texas, and every summer we’d invite guest speakers to come and join us for worship on Monday nights during a special summer series. On one occasion, an African-American preacher well on in years was our guest, and many of the members of his congregation from their church were present with us as well. The choir from their church provided the music. The sermon was on John 13.
Assisted by a walker and two young gentlemen as he ascended the pulpit, the preacher began with a short story. He said that many years ago he had planned to visit New York City, and a friend, upon hearing this, offered him some advice. His friend shared, “Whatever you do, don’t look up.”
“Why?” the preacher asked.
“Because,” his friend replied, “then everybody will know where you are from.” He felt the same way moving from his smaller church building into our large auditorium. He was a stranger in a foreign land. I hope we made him feel welcome.
Our building was much different from his own. The seating capacity was greater, the sight lines were different, and I assume the lighting and sound system were much more sophisticated. But the building was still a church building. And though the space was different, the purpose was the same. The building was meant to be a place where the saints were gathered, the gospel proclaimed, and the people sent into the world for mission.
Our buildings matter a great deal. As I’ve travelled throughout the United States, I have always been fascinated with church architecture. I’ve been particularly interested in the shifts I have seen from aesthetically pleasing and theologically-loaded building design to mostly utilitarian and technologically well-equipped modern structures. With all the talk of the church being a people, not a building, we’ve failed to recognize that the church building itself has immense value for the edification of the Church, to recognize the fact that our buildings are a tool both pragmatically with regard to gatherings and education, and to telling us of the beauty of God.
Design: Balancing Pragmatics and Beauty
Economically, it may not be feasible to install stained glass. And socially, it is unreasonable to expect multiple generations of artisans from the same family line to hue and fit stone as we make additions to our modern cathedrals. There are many facets of how church buildings are designed and constructed that have changed. But with those changes in mind, we can make wise decisions concerning how we build our buildings now, and how we can bring balance between pragmatics and beauty.
Most often, modern worship spaces are designed for maximum technological functionality, with theatre style seating, excellent acoustics, nice sight lines, video projection capabilities, and top-notch sound and lighting systems. But outside of the worship space, there are a number of other elements of building design that can speak theologically and teach valuable lessons regarding the type of community we are called to be.
In designing a worship space, I am entirely sympathetic to leaders who want a projection system that opens up varied creative possibilities, sound equipment that maximizes the talent of musicians, comfortable seating, and unobstructed views. I’m not advocating a return to a cruciform nave and high Gothic ceilings. I don’t believe fixed pews, a grandiose altar, and an elevated pulpit are must-haves for any worship setting. But all of those things had both a functional and a theological purpose.
I also wouldn’t want to limit our thinking about building design simply to worship space, as important as that space is. For example, is our desire to include a café or coffee shop in our building designs born of a desire to be hip and cool, or does that space teach something theologically about our calling to be in fellowship with one another? And if so, do we help our people make those connections as we teach them about the various purposes of our building design? Does our commitment to having excellent and beautiful landscaping, a prayer garden, a fountain or reflecting pool, or a labyrinth on our grounds reflect our desire to help people learn profound truths about God as our Creator, our need for silence, and our calling to steward our world?
The transitions between different spaces, and the lessons they teach, can add a great deal to our architectural design. They can help us balance pragmatics and beauty.
Pulling the Plug
Not long ago while on a trip, my wife Molly, myself, and our friends Steven and Holly chose to attend a Catholic mass at the Cathedral Basilica of Saint Louis. I easily could have spent hours in their worship space, marveling at the artwork, the intricacies of the design, and the numerous symbols brilliantly woven throughout the structure itself. Visiting their space was far from boring, and lacked the transience of some of the more compelling electronically generated liturgies and displays common in our modern buildings.
Visit their website (http://cathedralstl.org/intro/). You will see what I mean.
I understand the objections to spending exorbitant amounts of money on architectural design. I also understand the immense value in investing in technological aesthetics. But I hope we see the value in well-designed, theologically meaningful spaces that do more than fulfill a certain function. I hope we design spaces where people are drawn in and compelled to rest awhile. Our building itself might provide someone a first glimpse at pieces of the Christian story or provide occasions to explain the meaning of certain elements and how they point to the existence of God.
When the power is down, and the lights are off, our buildings should still speak of God’s reality. They communicate a message one way or another. That message should be profound and eternal. With creativity, imagination, and prayer, God help us build structures that serve the purposes of aesthetics and utility.
Ben Simpson is a thinker and writer living in the Kansas City area. He’s also a regular contributor to COLLIDE. Follow him on Twitter: @bsimpson.