Humane Transcendence

  

Preamble:

You may recall that in my first post, Surprised by Architecture, I shared a transcendent moment in my life.  I described, in the midst of the horror of Dachau, a redeemed space that was made possible by the work of Christ in this world, in my heart, and in the expression of this work in Architecture.

This transcendence is not just available at specific places or times. No — rather, it is the very fabric of the Christian life.  This experience, our experience, of the eternal and infinite but personal God whom we serve is both delightful and transcendent.   I started this blog to explore this grace in the light of my own experiences and through the lens of philosophy, theology, and mathematics.   My aim is to show that transcendence is not an exception to nature, but is intrinsic to the world around us, to our humanity, and to any approach to life that is both moral and humane.  My hope is that these reflections will aid you on your journey and help you to see our world as a place made for you.

 

And now onto the actual post:

I was bewildered but perfectly comfortable, consoled by both beauty and surprise.  Taking in the light and space, I was astounded that a building could be so foreign and yet so familiar as my eyes filled with tears and my heart with joy.

Since that day at the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona, I have often meditated on the wonder and joy I felt and explored the meaning of that astonishing experience.

The Sagrada, begun by the famous Spanish architect Antonio Gaudi in 1883, became his life’s work.  In 1914 he left all other work to focus on the Cathedral until his tragic accidental death in 1926.  Placing his prodigious and bold architectural skill in the service of God, he devoted his time and energy to produce a building that explains Christianity in stone, light, symbol, and space.

Antonio Gaudi’s act of worship, which is now nearing completion, is neither modernist, nor post-modernist, nor a revival of a previous architectural tradition.  It defies categorization.    Entirely new, but curiously familiar, it is a space that references the patterns of nature and transcends them.  As best I can, I will try to explain my feelings on that day when I first entered the Sagrada Familia.

 

 

Purposeful nature:

The columns and the light filtering through the ceiling and side walls are reminiscent of a forest.  There is both variety and unity: steadily changing patterns of light so that your eye does not rest – yet at the same time the effect is one of peace to the mind and to the heart.  At the same time, both the wonder and curiosity this building in me left me torn, eager to further explore this gorgeous space, yet at the same time longing to simply stand in one spot and allow my heart to soak up the visual experience of this view.

The interior of this building breathes life.  However, its design is not just a simple reminder of life: calling to remembrance light filtered through trees, the growth and pattern of branches and leaves.  Rather, Gaudi’s structure, although organic in expression, has an immediacy of purpose: you are confronted with a designed space, constructed with stone and glass, yet reminding you of nature.  Knowing that someone’s hand had drawn these patterns as a purposeful act of love is part of the experience in the Sagrada.

Do I mean that it is better than nature?  No.  But our experience of Creation has been coloured by the insistence of our surrounding culture that it has no intrinsic purpose, that it is random, and that the patterns and beauty we see are simply our projection of purpose onto it.  This view dampens, at least for me, the immediacy and joy of recognizing God’s hand.

In the Sagrada, the wonder of the space recalls the innocent joy of walking through a forest. The explicit purpose is inescapable: the pleasure of a garden.  This is part of the joy of seeing the Sagrada — a return of this immediacy, and a reminder of the hand of God in each tree, mountain, valley, and distant galaxy.

“Those who look for the laws of Nature as a support for their new works collaborate with the creator.”     – Antonio Gaudi

 

Relief from modernism:

The overwhelming aspect of much modern architecture is repetition, rationalized order, and mere utility.  The failure of many modernist developments is visible in most cities.  It is inorganic, often planned to maximize profit for the builder, human density, convenience, or all of these.

Le Corbusier, one of the fathers of modern architecture, described buildings as “machines to live in”.   This ethos pervades most modernist architecture.  It is not a lack of talent that has created the drab mechanistic buildings our cities are burdened with.  It is a lack of any transcendent vision.

The architectural heritage of the Middle Ages, reaching its zenith during the Renaissance, left us with remarkable buildings and villages throughout Europe.  More than this, it left a witness of the beauty and grace possible when the focus is transcendent – when it is God.  The buildings and communities constructed within this philosophical framework are not only testaments to worship.  They are welcoming places for mankind.   The focus on the transcendent makes a joyful home for humanity.

By contrast, and with some unintended irony, the Enlightenment framework of humanism, that man is the measure of all things, has engendered in the modern world buildings of joyless utility.  In accepting the ethical underpinning of utilitarianism from Mill et al, we have, throughout most of the 20th century created a modern architectural landscape that is sometimes drab, sometimes pleasant, sometimes inhumanly oppressive but always modern (at least for a fleeting decade or two).   It requires a transcendent ideal to build a space for joy. The philosophical underpinning of the modernist movement has none.  We humans, born of flesh and spirit, either feel out of place in a machine or allow this ethos to deaden our souls.

A home, as opposed to a house, can never be a machine for housing the products of evolution efficiently.  The love and joy which ideally fills a home is not subject to a system or a reductionist set of needs, but is a transcendence integral to humanity, and demonstrates whose image we are created in.  All beautiful homes reflect the families that make them their own and reveal their history, sensibilities, and dreams.

In Barcelona, Antonio Gaudi created a building which loudly rebukes modernism.  It rebukes it by creating a transcendent home and creating it in the midst of the modern world.  The contrast is striking.  By building for the Sacred Family (translation: Sagrada Familia), he has created a place that is both human and natural on a grand scale.  It felt like coming home.

A picture of a redeemed world:

Remarkably different from most other Catholic Cathedrals is the lack of images of crucifixion and imagery in the interior.   The great majority of those cathedrals use the interior to tell the Christian story: the passion and the nativity, and often other local connections.  The Sagrada is different.  These stories are all on the outside of the building – you pass through them to go inside.  The interior is alive with light and form, but very few icons draw your eye.

This layout is a theological expression.  We pass through a gate (“a narrow gate”) to enter a redeemed life.  The work of Christ was not an end but a means —  a means to enter the family of God: the sacred family.  The Sagrada, by name and architecture, reminds us that salvation is the path to something glorious and that this glory is sacred, beautiful, and joyful.

Throughout our Christian life, we receive hints of the life to come.  In moments of worship, we experience the transcendence of His spirit.  In corporate worship, we hear the mingled voices and take joy in our shared love.  In a family, at its best, we can be vulnerable and love with abandon.  In the best of churches, this happens as well.  I dream of a family feast from every nation and people gathered into the family of God in a place that the Sagrada is a hint of.  However, I know the reach of my imagination is limited and what God has in store will be an everlasting wonder.

I am grateful to Antonio Gaudi for this hint and vision of a redeemed world.

– CBW

Postscript Notes:

In the words of a great 20th-century poet: “Dream on, dream on, dream on, dream until your dreams come true”

I need to acknowledge and thank Roger Scruton for his clarifying and enlightening exposition of beauty and its value in architecture.

I would like to also note that another angle to view the transient admiration for some modern architecture would involve our very human worship of success, wealth, and ingenuity.  The newest, tallest office building offers a fleeting sense of the glorious.  It does not last.

One further note:  The homepage of this site has an interior shot of Notre Dame Du Haut, a chapel in Eastern France.   This remarkable building was designed by Le Corbusier whom I maligned above.  However, it seems that my thesis bears out, for even this agnostic (and incredibly talented) architect, when designing for a transcendent purpose created a glorious space.

P