Sacred Architecture Journal’s 25th Anniversary Gala, Philadelphia, Oct. 14

Sacred Architecture Journal will be holding a gala to mark its 25th anniversary on Saturday, October 14, in Philadelphia. The anniversary celebration will begin with Mass celebrated by the His Excellency Salvatore J. Cordileone, archbishop of San Francisco, at the Cathedral Basilica of Saints Peter and Paul, starting at 3pm. (Open to the public.) Following the Mass, there will be a cocktail reception, dinner, and keynote address by Wall Street Journal architectural critic Michael J. Lewis, from 5:00-9:00 p.m. at Le Méridien Hotel, located at 1421 Arch Street.

For more information and to register, please visit https://sacredarchitecture25.org/.

Discounted hotel rooms at Le Méridien are available until September 23. https://www.marriott.com/event-reservations/reservation-link.mi?id=1689093354183&key=GRP&app=resvlink

SAJ editor Duncan Stroik reflects: It all started in someone’s basement. A new journal dedicated to sacred architecture. With the help of John Stroik, my architect father, and some talented writers, we launched the magazine in 1998. There was nothing like it that I knew of – a journal dedicated to promoting the artistic patrimony of the Church.

The magazine’s godfather was Ralph McInerny at Notre Dame who earlier had asked me to help him on an issue of Catholic Dossier dedicated to church architecture. Ralph was writing books on philosophy, murder mysteries, and editing four journals at the time. Another early supporter, John Powers, convinced me to go full color, and after that we were cheered on by prelates, priests, and architects, especially John Burgee and Thomas Gordon Smith.

It has been great fun to do, and I hope a pleasure to read. People sometimes ask me what we have accomplished in 25 years and I tell them there has been a great sea change in the way American Catholics look at their churches. Where once they thought of their parishes as worship centers, they now see them as they should be, sacred places and houses of God. ~ What are some of the fruits of 25 years of Sacred Architecture?

1. Over forty new traditional parish churches.

2. Upwards of one hundred tasteful renovations and restorations of historic churches.

3. Several new classical cathedrals, shrines, and seminaries.

4. The re-catholicization of many churches built since the 1950s.

5. Numerous classical buildings at Catholic colleges and Newman centers.

6. The commissioning of sacred art with a new generation of classical artists.

7. Choir lofts with pipe organs, both new and borrowed from other churches.

8. Several new architectural firms that specialize in sacred architecture.

9. Five architecture schools where students can once again learn the basics of classical architecture.

10. A generation of priests, bishops, and cardinals who embrace their artistic patrimony and acknowledge the importance of sacred art and architecture for the faithful.

We invite you to join Sacred Architecture and our honored guest The Most Rev. Salvatore J. Cordileone at a gala celebration in Philadelphia on October 14. Mass will be celebrated by the Archbishop at the Cathedral of Saints Peter and Paul at 3:00 p.m. and is open to the public. A ticketed dinner and lecture by Wall Street Journal architectural critic Michael J. Lewis will follow.

Architectural Reflections on the Shrine of Our Lady of Fatima

Basilica of the Rosary, Fatima Shrine

Today, May 13, is the Feast of Our Lady of Fatima. I recently had the privilege of visiting the shrine in Portugal, a large complex of several buildings formally known as the Sanctuary of Our Lady of the Rosary of Fatima. The most touching aspect of the space is the piety of the pilgrims who flock there to honor the Mother of God and the three little shepherds who saw her. But the architecture is also difficult to ignore. In particular, I was struck by a dichotomy between the message of Fatima--especially the prediction that Russia would spread her errors around the world--and the shrine's own artistic statements.

Chapel of the Apparitions

The three shepherds (Sr. Lucia, St. Jacinta, and St. Francisco) had visions in several different locations, but the most important was at Cova da Iria (Peaceful Hollow), where a total of six Marian apparitions occurred, including the disclosure of the Three Secrets and the Miracle of the Sun. In that cove, Our Lady appeared on top of a young holm-oak tree no more than a meter high. Within a year of the last apparition (October 13, 2017), the local townsfolk built on the site a small, charming chapel in obedience to one of Our Lady's commands. Anti-clerical fanatics bombed the chapel in 1922 but it was quickly restored. The humble monument is now encased in a modernist glass and wooden structure that can be mistaken for a highway rest stop and surrounded by a sparse, postconciliar sanctuary where Mass is celebrated on a free-standing altar. The interior of the chapel is inaccessible to pilgrims.

Chapel of the Apparitions

First Basilica

A much grander fulfillment of Our Lady’s command to build a chapel in her honor is found not far away at the top of the hill, where the children were play-making a small stone wall when they saw the “lightning” that preceded the first Marian apparition on May 13, 1917. The neo-Baroque Basilica of the Rosary, which was begun in 1928 and completed in 1953, contains the tombs of Sr. Lucia, St. Jacinta, and St. Francisco as well as fifteen altars in honor of the mysteries of the rosary. The cruciform church has many virtuous elements, including: an imposing spire that is topped with the same crown that adorns the statue of Our Lady of Fatima; a façade with a statue of the Immaculate Heart of Mary donated by American Catholics; and a robust representation of Portuguese saints and saints associated with the rosary both inside the church and atop the surrounding colonnade.

Yet the basilica, in my opinion, lacks the marvelous blend of transcendence and intimacy that some other Portuguese churches have. The grey interior has a cold vibe to it, the stained glass windows smack of a modernist antipathy to form, and some of the paintings of the events of Fatima are, well, strange. Above the high altar is a scene where the Blessed Virgin sends Saint Gabriel to distribute Holy Communion to the three children. The artist’s depiction of Our Lady reminds me of the ghostly, floating female figure in Raiders of the Lost Ark before she turns into a terrifying harpy and melts the faces off Nazis.

High altar of the Basilica of the Rosary

Outside Altar

A little further down the hill in front of the Basilica of the Rosary is a covered sanctuary where the most populous Masses are celebrated. Except for a cross-less image of Jesus either rising from the dead or jumping off the high dive, there are no architectural or ornamental indications that this is a place of importance, nor is there any sacramental symbolism. To a Catholic, it looks like a sanctuary on Holy Thursday after the stripping of the altars; to a non-Christian, it might be taken for an outdoor pavilion with limited seating and only one table.

Outside Altar in Front of the Basilica of the Rosary

Second Basilica

The outdoor altar looks over a vast, barren plaza that would be perfect for a remake of Triumph of the Will or a Soviet parade celebrating their victory in Stalingrad. At the other end of the plaza is the second basilica. The Church of the Holy Trinity was dedicated in 2007, the 90th anniversary of the apparitions. According to one of the many tourist booklets on the subject:

Under the authority of the Greek architect Alexandros Tombazis, the church represents a bold design with its main structure partially underground….It is constructed in a circular shape of 125 square metres in diameter, void of any supporting columns.[1]

Bold indeed. Chesterton argues that while the circle is an excellent symbol for madness and for centripetal religions like Buddhism, the cross is the symbol “at once of mystery and of health” and, of course, the centrifugal religion that is Christianity.[2] Unsurprisingly, the traditional design of a church, both in the West and in Mr. Tombazis’ native Greece, is cruciform. We may also add that like Leninist ideology, the circle is anti-hierarchical and radically egalitarian—except for the center which, like a geometrical Politburo, reigns over an infinite number of nameless radii.

The boast about the church being “void of any supporting columns” is also noteworthy. Columns are “abstracted people” (the Doric is based on the proportions of a man and the Ionic on the proportions of a woman), and so the columns of a church building betoken the “pillars of the Church,” those who uphold the Body of Christ and promote its spiritual mission.[3] A church “void of columns” therefore implies a Church without hierarchy or heroes.

The Plaza, a large crucifix and, in the background, the Basilica of the Holy Trinity

Other Features

The shrine has one distinctive monument that credits the fall of Soviet communism to Our Lady of Fatima. Bordering the plaza is a piece of the Berlin Wall. After it fell in 1989, Portuguese workers residing in Berlin commandeered a section of the wall and donated it to the shrine. Outside the shrine, Hungarians grateful for the end of communism in their country had stations of the cross built along the path that the children used to tend their sheep and where they received several apparitions. To the victor go the spoils.

Section of the Berlin Wall, Fatima Shrine

Conclusion

Despite these important reminders of the evils of communism, the shrine as a whole—thanks in large part to the plaza and the second basilica—feels like a product of communism. There are stylistic differences between modernist and Soviet architecture, but they share a contempt for celestial hierarchy, beauty, and form. If one did not know the history of the twentieth century, one would have thought that Russia began to spread her errors in the very spot where Our Lady warned us about Russia spreading her errors. It is a shame that the form of the Fatima shrine is so at odds with the content that inspired its creation.

Notes

[1] Fernando Leite, S.I., The Apparitions of Fatima (Secretariado Nacional Do Apostolado Da Oracao: 2017), 42-43.

[2] Chesterton, Orthodoxy 

[3] Denis McNamara, How to Read Churches (Rizzoli: 2017), 30.

Architectural Aids: Two Reviews

Sketch by Peter F. Anson

A review of Carl Van Treeck and Aloysius Croft, Symbols in the Church (Romanitas Press, 2021) and Peter F. Anson, Churches: Their Plan and Furnishing (Romanitas Press, 2021)

It is a fact without doubt that the Roman Missal represents in its entirety the loftiest and most important work in ecclesiastical literature, being that it shows forth with the greatest fidelity the life-history of the Church, that sacred poem in the making of which ha posto mano e cielo e terra [“Heaven and earth have set their hand,” Dante, Paradiso XXV,2].[1]

The temple of Solomon… was not alone the binding of the holy book; it was the holy book itself. On each one of its concentric walls, the priests could read the word translated and manifested to the eye, and thus they followed its transformations from sanctuary to sanctuary, until they seized it in its last tabernacle… Thus the word was enclosed in an edifice.[2]

Here is a riddle: What are the three most important books in Catholic life that are not books? The answer is: the Bible (which, despite its modern binding, is not a book but a library of works co-authored by the Holy Spirit ); the traditional Roman Missal (which, though also appearing in book form, is a set of instructions for a sacred action); and the church (a building that, like the Holy Temple, is meant to be read cover to cover).

But if it is true that the church, like all great architecture, is a book (Victor Hugo calls architecture the great book of humanity), then it takes training to read it. One must learn its alphabet and grammar, so to speak, in order to understand its sentences and paragraphs. And yet not many people today are artistically or architecturally literate. One of modern Catholicism’s deficiencies is the widespread inability of its faithful to decipher the symbols of their Faith.

It is for this reason that we can be grateful to Romanitas Press for republishing two volumes on the subject: Carl Van Treeck and Aloysius Croft’s 1936 Symbols in the Church and Peter F. Anson’s 1947 Churches: Their Plan and Furnishing.

Peter Anson (1889-1975) was a restless and talented soul. Born near the sea in Portsmouth, England and trained as an architect, he entered an Anglican Benedictine monastery in 1910. Three years later, he and his community submitted to the Holy See and became Catholic. Anson eventually became an Oblate and the monastery’s librarian; he also founded the Apostleship of the Sea for Catholic seafarers. After a breakdown in health, however, Anson decided to return to the world, and at the age of 35 he earned a living as an artist while seeing the world. He became a Franciscan Tertiary for a while in Italy but returned to his nomadic life before eventually settling down in a village of sailors and fisherman in Macduff, Scotland, where he could savor the life of the sea once more.

Anson wrote Church Plans as a practical guide for building and remodeling churches. The author wisely cautions against altering churches simply because they do not conform to contemporary sensibilities, and he frowns upon antiquarian and unimaginative resuscitations of earlier styles. His language of functionalism and his disdain for “fancy symbolism” are slightly troublesome, for they could be interpreted as an excuse to produce barren barns and call them churches. But Anson himself does not go in this direction: his meticulous illustrations and moderate counsel open the reader up to the riches of sacred architecture. Anson faithfully operates within the strictures of the 1917 Code of Canon Law and other Church legislation. His summary of these regulations is quite useful, although not all of it is still valid, such as the prohibition of electric lights for illuminating the altar (112).

As you may have guessed from his biography, Anson was an eccentric fellow, and Church Plans is an eccentric work. The author does not shy from offering his own advice in addition to official Church rules. Pulpits, he opines, should be elevated, made of wood (“it looks warmer and gives more color to a church”), and have a door (“many an eloquent preacher would feel far more at his ease if knew there was no danger of falling backwards”) and a solid front (“it is distracting to see the preacher’s cassock and feet”)(156). He also holds the odd view that if the weather were perfectly clement every day, we would not need churches at all but would celebrate Mass in an open field (3). He seems to forget that churches do not simply provide shelter from the rain but, among other things, help keep our minds from wandering.

The chief weakness of Church Plans is that it tries to square the circle between traditional architecture and modernist. Anson quotes passages that advocate placing the altar in the center of the church and advises a “happy mean” between the new view and the old (39). But how can you have a happy mean between an altar in the center of the church and an altar at the end: placing it three-quarters of the way in? Fortunately, Anson’s go-to authority on practical matters is St. Charles Borromeo, so he almost never ends up recommending something silly. And although he includes illustrations of modernist abominations (there is a bleak, free-standing altar for Mass facing the people from 1935 Germany), his own rich sketches betray the stark differences. After being enchanted by page after page of beautiful churches, seeing a design by Hans Herkommer or Eric Gill is like a punch in the gut.

Sketch by P.F. Anson. Yes!

Sketch by P.F. Anson. No!

Although Church Plans is thin on symbolic explanations, it is nonetheless useful for gaining a better understanding of the meaning and parts of a church. Equipped with this understanding, readers can then continue their education in sacred architecture with the works of men like Duncan Stroik.

Carl Van Treeck and Aloysius Croft’s Symbols in the Church was also written as a practical guide for artists and “ecclesiastical craftsmen” rather than students of symbolism (vi). Annotations are scarce as well as scholarly explanations of styles, historical context, etc. Like Church Plans, the images are illustrated with black-and-white sketches rather than photographs. The disadvantage of this choice is that the image is more dependent on the viewpoint of the artist; the advantage, however, is a unity of presentation, a greater beauty, and, in this case, the superior viewpoint of the artist, Carl Van Treeck. The basic idea behind Symbols in the Church is to introduce artists to “the beautiful picture language” of the Mystical Body of Christ (vi) so that they can adapt these symbols to contemporary use. Happily, the authors did not follow their own rule strictly but included some early representations of Christ that are no longer recognizable as such, e.g., a griffin, a peacock, a phoenix, and a bird in a cage (representing gestation in His mother’s womb!). As a result, the reader catches something of the breadth and depth of Catholic symbolism, which has varied from century to century and place to place.

Symbols in the Church begins with an interesting chapter on symbols and symbolism in which the authors argue that all Christian art must necessarily be symbolic because Christian art portrays some element of the supernatural. (“Sheer naturalness” they state earlier, is “the death of all liturgical art” [vi]). The rest of the book is divided according to subject matter: the Holy Trinity, God the Father, God the Son, God the Holy Ghost, the Gospels and Evangelists, the Apostles, the Church, the Sacraments, the Blessed Virgin Mary, the Ecclesiastical Year, and the Four Last Things.

The entire book is a delight to peruse, but I was especially fascinated by the symbols of the Church, some of which surprised me (there are a lot more than just Noah’s Ark and Peter’s Barque). And I was struck by an image of the Last Judgment depicting scales, one of which is filled with the cross, the anchor, and the crown of thorns, the other of which is laden with jewels. The latter tilts upward: the virtues and sufferings of the faithful soul outweigh the riches and comforts of the world.

Plate XXXVIII of Symbols in the Church. Symbols of death (1 and 2), judgment (3 and 4), and damnation (5).

Church Plans and Symbols in the Church fit hand in glove: Anson more or less tells you how to build a church, and Van Treeck and Croft tell you how to decorate it. I recommend these books to anyone interested in Catholic art and architecture but especially as gifts to priests and planning committees in charge of building or remodeling churches. God willing, with aids like these, “writing” beautiful churches will once again become common.

Salt of the Earth

Staggeringly beautiful Catholic sacred art and church architectural forms carved into the rock by miners in an ancient salt mine in Poland.

Thank you to a reader for bringing to my attention these staggering pictures of a salt mine in the town of Wieliczka, near Krakow. The mine, which closed in 1996, contains amazing art and architectural structures fashioned out the rock salt as it was mined. The miners created chapels in the caverns, one even large enough to be considered a cathedral-size basilica. I have no information as to where the artistic talent came from. It is amazing, if it was simply just the miners doing this in their spare time. Even the chandeliers are carved out of rock salt!

It is now a tourist attraction which receives thousands of visitors each year. It is apparent from the photos that it is available for hire for functions… how about a destination wedding!

Once again, this demonstrates that when you have authentic devotion and the willingness to create beauty for the greater glory of God, then wonderful things can happen. The only reason that contemporary culture is not a beautiful culture is that there is not the will to create one and devote resources to it. This is not something that should be seen as a relic of a past era that we cannot recreate today.

Over the years, along my way to becoming an artist, I spoke to several people whom I trusted about the discernment of my personal vocation. What was interesting was that in considering my situation, none asked me what seemed to be the obvious question: “How good are you at painting and drawing?” Years later, I asked one them, my teacher Aidan Hart, (who is coming the US to speak at the Scala Foundation conference in Princeton, NJ, this spring) why this was. He told me that the skills of painting and drawing can be learned by anyone if they apply themselves enough. The main criterion for being able to create beautiful art, he said, was to love God, and to love creating art that gives glory to Him.

Judging by this criterion, I would say that it is apparent that these miners loved God.

Continue Reading this Article. . .

The Chapel of St Thomas Aquinas at the Univ. of Nebraska in Lincoln

Since we just saw the chapel of Thomas Aquinas College’s campus in Northfield, Massachusetts, here are some photos of another very nice college chapel, that of the Newman Center at the Univ. of Lincoln, Nebraska, which is dedicated to St Thomas. This project by McCrery Architects was completed and dedicated in 2015, happily replacing a very unattractive structure from the early 1960s. 

Continue Reading this Article. . .

Cathedrals of Mordor and Zen-like Meditation Rooms: Some Churches That Fail as Churches

Saint Ignatius, Tokyo, Japan (Sakakura Associates, 1999)

Last week, we looked at a High Church Anglican theologian's reflections on what makes a church building worthy of being called a church, that is, a spatial representation and habitation of what the church is in its mystical essence (my words, not his).

Since we're on the subject of architecture, which is endlessly fascinating and has not been featured as much as NLM as it used to be, I thought I would take this opportunity to share a remarkable gallery of photos by the French photograph Thibaud Poirier of ultra-modernist churches.

Most of them are impressive for their sheer size, but nearly all of them transmit either a cold, oppressive, sinister feel (as if they were chapels for the religion of Sauron in Mordor) or, on the contrary, a religiously vague, mildly comforting, functionally neutral spaciousness that is artistically far superior to “the Shed” (the name of the space in which the Mars Hill Bible Church meets, which we featured last week) yet lacking for the most part in the qualities that make for a recognizable, inhabitable, incarnational dwelling.

I was particularly struck by how many of these churches were built in the 1950s, well before Vatican II, or at any rate during Vatican II, before the Novus Ordo. It prompted me to wonder if such trends in architecture were a small part of the psychological reason behind simplifying, abbreviating, and modernizing the liturgy, for the simple reason that it's very hard to imagine a solemn Mass in such spaces. It would seem awkward to say the least, and bizarrely out of place. Of course it can be done (and surely was done for a short period of time in these buildings), but I can only think of the tensions involved in, say, a super-minimalist production of Shakespeare on a barren stage with actors all in black, where the Elizabethan language clashes with the plain constumery and the vacuous setting.

Here are a few examples of the sinister ones featured in the gallery, with location, architect, and year of completion: 

Saint Mary's Cathedral, Tokyo, Japan (Kenzo Tange, 1964)

Saint-Rémy de Baccarat, Baccarat, France (Nicolas Kazis, 1957)

Sainte-Thérèse-de-l'Enfant-Jésus, Metz, France (Roger-Henri Expert, 1959)

Saint Joseph, Le Havre, France (Auguste Perret, 1956)

Notre Dame du Royan, Royan, France (Guillaume Gillet, 1958)

Saint Anselm's Meguro, Tokyo, Japan (Antonin Raymond, 1954)

Again, note the dates of these: 1964, 1957, 1959, 1956, 1958, 1954.

And now for a few examples of the more comforting but deistic-agnostic designs:
 

Église du Saint Esprit, Viry-Châtillon (Anton Korady, 1964)

Kruiskerk, Amsterdam (Marius Duintjer, 1956)

Notre dame du Chêne, Viroflay, France (Louis, Luc and Thierry Sainsaulieu, 1966)

Obviously these structures, unlike Mars Hill, have a permanence, massiveness, and artfulness (in a certain sense) that marks them as important public buildings with religious overtones, but still they seem to thwart their purpose; indeed, the very modernism draws too much attention to itself, and becomes like a Pharisee standing in front and saying: “I thank you, Lord, that I am not like other churches…” Whereas the traditional church design kneels in the back and says: “Lord, be merciful to me, a sinner like everyone else.”

The photography is brilliant. Some of the churches Poirier photographs are quite inspiring (I have not included here the semi-traditional designs); others, intriguing; still others send chills down the spine. It is clear that no cost was spared in building these edifices, and that they represent something other than mere utility. They are built on a grand scale. Unfortunately, some of them hardly transmit anything of the Christian message and could just as well be United Nations meditation rooms. At their worst, they are cold and terrifying, and would certainly not draw ordinary people in, except those who are curious about feats of modern architecture. One cannot envision Mary sitting at the feet of Jesus there; not even a cozy nook exists to escape into.

Speaking of United Nations, I shared on Facebook not too long ago the following two pictures. The first is of the main hall of the UN; the second is of the Cathedral of Light in Oakland. Family resemblance? What is the message of either building? What is the message of their analogy?

It does no good to pretend that a building is not a silent language and a philosophy embodied.

Sacred Architecture Journal Pays Tribute to Thomas Gordon Smith

The most recent issue of Sacred Architecture Journal is dedicated to Thomas Gordon Smith, architect and founder of the classical program of architecture at the University of Notre Dame, who passed away in June of last year. Readers of New Liturgical Movement may be especially interested in the article by Abbot Philip Anderson of the Benedictine Abbey of Our Lady of Clear Creek in Oklahoma, The Gentleman Architect and the Monks.

“It all began when the small band of black monks stepped off the plane from France in September of 1999, and arrived after midnight at the hilly area in the backwoods of Cherokee County Oklahoma named Clear Creek. As we contemplated the rustic accommodations, made up mostly of a big log cabin and an adjoining horse barn, the challenge struck us with all possible force: how would we ever manage to erect a true Benedictine abbey here? How could we build a fitting place where monks could thrive in continuity with our traditions of some fifteen centuries?

Much was wanting even to begin the process, not only in terms of the financial resources to accomplish our ambitious goal, but, even more urgently, a plan, a design, a vision—and the right man to make it happen. Although monks are rarely up-to-date with respect to current trends of thought outside the cloister, we did know that we must find someone capable of understanding our particular architectural needs, someone with a sensitivity to buildings that would reflect our own aspirations and that would last a long time.

Already a few younger architects, brilliant and capable men, were aware of our coming to America and eager to seize what looked like a golden opportunity. We felt we needed for our project someone solidly established. We had really only heard one name, that of the professor of the University of Notre Dame chosen to build the seminary of the Priestly Fraternity of Saint Peter in Denton, Nebraska: Thomas Gordon Smith.”

Read the rest here:
https://www.sacredarchitecture.org/articles/the_gentleman_architect_and_the_monks

Physical copies of the magazine can be purchased here:
https://www.sacredarchitecture.org/subscribe)

How Carmelite Spirituality Informs the Design of a Monastery Today

Readers of the New Liturgical Movement may be wondering how the Carmelite nuns in Fairfield, Pennsylvania, whom we have featured before, are getting on with their project to build a new convent in a traditional style. I think that both architecturally and liturgically this is something that is worthy of note.

They seem to be making good progress, but could still do with prayers and financial support. For those who wish to know more, and perhaps even donate, you can do so through their website: FairfieldCarmelites.org.

They are an offshoot of the Valparaiso Carmel, and describe their liturgy as follows:

We celebrate Holy Mass and the Divine Office in Latin, using the rubrics and texts pre- Novus Ordo; generally those of the 1962 Extraordinary Form. We have sung-Masses with incense on Sundays and other feasts regulated by our ancient Carmelite ritual books. We chant all the Hours of the Divine Office including Matins each day, but (except on feast days) this is done recto tono. We sing polyphony pieces and hymns during Holy Mass on feast days. On other days we attend Holy Mass in silence. 

Their convent is modeled after St Teresa’s original plans in Avila, Spain. Here are the architect’s drawings and some photos of the buildings taking shape.

I asked one of their nuns about their aims for the monastery and also about Carmelite life.

First of all, what style is the monastery?
In the 1500’s, Our Holy Mother St Teresa of Avila would take the large haciendas, and country and city homes of the time, and join them together to form her first monasteries; she would also ensure large garden spaces and build an encircling wall. Our style choice was instinctively informed by this. Ten years ago, when the idea of building a new monastery took flight, I spoke to Mother about the style it was going to be and said it should just be a simple Pennsylvania stone farmhouse behind a chapel. This concept has remained constant up until this day: taking what is natural and fits with this area, acknowledging the wisdom of our forefathers who originally settled this land. It is a farmhouse complex made up of several smaller buildings connected by “covered cloisters”. Like Saint Teresa envisioned, this monastery will be a “micro village” - a Church at the center, with living quarters and workshops surrounding it. The chapel facade is modeled after San Jose’s chapel in Avila. It is being built with large, rough cut heavy timbers, plain plaster walls washed with a milk/lime paint, brick floors, open fireplaces, as well as wood stoves, candle and lamplight, and hand pumps at the sink. No central heating, A/C or electricity, cooking with wood, shutters on single-pane windows. The Chapel will with a marble altar, stained glass, and small pipe organ - the sanctuary being the jewel set in the rough. Of course, the stone is on the outside with slate roofs, big chimneys, and a 40’ bell tower.

All the rooms/spaces are specifically geared to the monastic life. The Choir is behind a double grill adjacent to the sanctuary. There is the Chapter Room, Refectory, individual cells, and a Novitiate. Basically, we are striving to build how a farmer might have two hundred years ago, but not what he built - essentially using the PA stone farmhouse language to speak a 15th-century Spanish text.
Can you tell me something about the Carmelite charism and spirituality?

Discalced Carmelite life is centered around interior, silent prayer along with a definite strong note of the eremetical. Both these characteristics distinguish it from the monastic forms, such as Benedictines, who center their spiritually on the Divine Office. Some things that result from this would be: two hours of mental prayer in silence in the Choir before the tabernacle (but not - except very occasionally - before the exposed Blessed Sacrament); the only occasional sung Mass; and only on some days certain Hours of the Divine Office are chanted in Gregorian chant. The Nuns are very strictly enclosed, behind grills, walls, and a turn, but also within the monastery each sister must work alone in her cell or an office and keep strict silence during the day. On the other hand, there is an intense family atmosphere with two full hours of recreation, one after dinner and one after supper. Very few religious houses have this amount of time set aside each day. There are no games but work is done while one common conversation takes place.

How many are there in your community?
Eleven now; and 21 is ideal.

Who is doing the construction?
First of all, we have had an excellent architect (Riccardo Vincenzino) from the very beginning. At heart, he desires all the things we are striving for, but is prudent too and makes sure we understand the difficulties (and expense) of trying to build an authentic way in today’s building world.

Last summer, Neil Rippingale of Scotland - a master stone mason - headed up the building crew in erecting our fist building. It was dedicated on June 27. Then into the fall and winter, our next building was completed: the guest cottage. Built by Brian Post from the Stone Trust, it is a small two-story building that will be used for visiting priests and aspirants.

This spring, work begins on our next building. The Recreation and Work Rooms (Vestry) building is 3750 sq. ft, and will be built in the same style as our guest cottage - using only reclaimed wood and structural stone masonry. It is the largest building so far and should take approximately 12 months to finish. The stone masonry will be headed up by a master mason, Justin Money, of Irish Rock Art. Stone masonry begins in May, and excavation is already completed. With minimal plumbing and no electricity, the building will be heated by wood burning stoves and have a rainwater system. The plastered walls will keep the building cool and in the summer, and warm in the winter.

Once the stonework is finished, local craftsmen will hand make the windows and doors, while timber framers will do the roof, and the interior will be completed by Patrick Lemmon, resident Project Manager, and owner of Orthodox Masonry. Floors and fireplaces will be built using Old Carolina Brick - a company which specializes in hand making brick. Each brick is hand molded using the beautiful and lasting traditions of colonial craftsmanship. The roof will be finished with authentic Virginia slate. Once it is finished, we will be able to move out of the barn and trailer and into something much more suitable for living. After this building is completed, plans for 2020 will commence.

Here is a picture of the monastery in Avila.

Consecrated Buildings and Their Officially Sponsored Profanation

The back of the monastery chapel in Norcia

The Rule of St. Benedict has as one of its many virtues the ability to capture an entire vision of things in one lapidary phrase. There is not a single wasted word; what Benedict means to say, he says with vigor, brevity, and clarity. A splendid example is chapter 52, “Of the Oratory of the Monastery,” where the Patriarch writes:

Let the oratory be what its name implies, and let nothing else be done or kept there. When the Work of God is finished, let all go out in deep silence, and let reverence for God be observed, so that any brother who may wish to pray privately be not hindered by another’s misbehavior. And at other times also, if anyone wish to pray secretly, let him just go in and pray: not in a loud voice, but with tears and fervor of heart. He, therefore, who does not behave so, shall not be permitted to remain in the oratory when the Work of God is ended, lest he should, as we have said, be a hindrance to another. [1]

I have often wished that this text would be carved into wood or stone and mounted at the door of every Catholic church throughout the world, printed in every bulletin, and preached from every pulpit, with such unfailing regularity that the pervasive anteliturgical and postliturgical chitchat by which the reverent silence of the temple of God is globally snatched away Sunday after Sunday might begin to be suppressed and reduced to naught. I don’t know if it would work, but I’ve often wondered why so few pastors ever make the attempt to restore “deep silence” to our churches. It may have to do with a sinking feeling that the good habits of preconciliar days are gone forever and will not return among the cellphone barbarians in the pews; it may have to do with a simple loss of belief in the church as a sacred place. Considering that many suburban churches fall somewhere along the spectrum between a Jet Propulson Laboratory and a beige-carpeted athletics facility, it may not be surprising that the sense of sacrality is absent, even eradicated.

Earlier in the Rule, in chapter 19, “On the Discipline of Psalmody,” St. Benedict bears witness to the dignity of the church and of the opus Dei that takes place in it, deducing thence what our inner and outer attitudes should be:

We believe that God is present everywhere and that the eyes of the Lord in every place behold the good and the evil (Prov. 15, 3); but let us especially believe this without any doubting when we are performing the Divine Office. Therefore, let us ever remember the words of the prophet: Serve ye the Lord in fear (Ps. 2, 11); and again, Sing ye wisely (Ps. 46, 8); and, In the sight of the angels will I sing to thee (Ps. 137, 2). Let us then consider how we ought to behave ourselves in the presence of God and his angels, and so sing the psalms that mind and voice may be in harmony. [2] 

This text helps us to grasp two lessons: the sacred liturgy is the time when, by God’s own design and good pleasure, we are most of all held to be standing in His divine Presence, yielding up our minds and hearts to Him; and the oratory or church in which we are doing this “Work of God” is a place like no other, a place consecrated for the sole purpose of worshiping God. In a well-known passage, Augustus Welby Pugin conveys this point with Victorian lavishness:

[The church] is, indeed, a sacred place; the modulated light, the gleaming tapers, the tombs of the faithful, the various altars, the venerable images of the just, — all conspire to fill the mind with veneration, and to impress it with the sublimity of Christian worship. And when the deep intonations of the bells from the lofty campaniles, which summon the people to the house of prayer, have ceased, and the solemn chant of the choir swells through the vast edifice — cold, indeed, must be the heart of that man who does not cry out with the Psalmist, Domine, dilexi decorem domus tuae, et locum habitationis gloriae tuae. [3]

Drawing on the insights of Benedict and Pugin, we might state this principle: The church building is the most sacred space we have; as a result, it is there that we will learn — or not learn — the meaning of the very distinction between sacred and profane. If there is not a strong sense, upon entering a church, of passing from one domain to another, of leaving the world (to some extent) and entering a different realm, of going from an earth-bound atmosphere in which we are at ease to a celestial temple that calls forth reverential fear, I am afraid there will usually be nothing else that offers an equally powerful communication of the distinction. There are, to be sure, other ways to evoke the distinction, such as the sound of Gregorian chant even in a Mass celebrated outdoors or in a humble tent; but the sacred space, the “oratory,” is normally the most obvious, impressive, durable, stable, all-encompassing sign of the sacred that we have. It either says to you: “This is God’s house, where you will meet Him in a special way — tread quietly, watch and pray”; or it says “This is just a building, where you can amble around, talk, text, take selfies, joke, sleep, or eat a snack.”

Selfie in a church

Eminent liturgical theologian Msgr. Nicola Bux writes in his book No Trifling Matter: Taking the Sacraments Seriously Again (a book I highly recommend):

Jacob understood, once awakened from sleep: “Indeed, the Lord is in this place.” He became conscious of the fact, he was afraid, and said: “How awe-inspiring is this place! This is none other than the house of God, this is the gate of heaven.” [4] The divine presence pushes the patriarch to fashion the stone, on which he had slept and received the dream, into a stele, the primitive altar, and to anoint it on top. We would say: to consecrate it. God, in fact, had established his abode, his house; for this reason he changed the name and called that place Bethel, in Hebrew, house of God. That stone founded the house of God.
          Consecration renders the Lord always present in a place made by human hands, and increases reverent fear and devotion for the abode and house of God. Consecration changes the designated use of the place: it cannot be used for profane purposes.
          But unfortunately today things are not always like that! And so God leaves us, is not with us, does not protect and accompany us in the journey of life, does not feed us, does not make us return safe and sound to our home. [5]

Later on, Bux speaks at greater length of the grave significance of the consecration of a church — something that changes it objectively and permanently. His words are worth quoting in full:

Though much emphasized as regards the effects and the changes it calls forth in the place that has been chosen for the purpose, the dedication of a building to Christian worship is very quickly forgotten these days: in fact, one is frequently present at the profanation of everything that was offered to the Lord with such a rite. …
          In the Ordinary Form of 1977, the Mass of dedication underlines the will of the ecclesial community to dedicate the new building to divine worship, in an exclusive and perpetual way. In particular, the presence of the sacrament and the altar do not permit any other use; in fact they are there to recall to us that the church is the sign of the heavenly sanctuary where Jesus Christ has penetrated, in order to appear before the sight of God on our behalf (Heb. 9, 24).
          Liturgists would say that for the sake of the truth of the sign, a church cannot be employed for purposes other than worship, on pain of gravely offending the Lord to whom it has been offered. Besides, its dedication is rightly commemorated every year on the anniversary day, especially within the church that was consecrated. It is therefore a grave error that, in practice, the consecration we have just described is emptied of meaning in our day by the actions of priests themselves, with the holding of events incompatible with the sacred place: concerts, performances, ballets, meetings of every type, which at one time were done outside or “in front of the temple,” as the Latin word pro-fanum recalls; the phenomenon of using churches for concerts of not only sacred but also profane music seems unstoppable. Acts that are not sacred, and normally done elsewhere, bring with them a profanation of the church. …
          Welcome cannot be given to profane actions of this type, or to any others, in the place where the divine mysteries are celebrated. How is it possible that bishops and priests have forgotten that such a place as that, so often built with sacrifice by the faithful, has been “dedicated” — a word that recalls the act with which something very personal is offered to someone who is loved. To dedicate something means that it is no longer mine, but his. If I were to take it back, that would be a betrayal. It is a grave matter, because we take from God that which is his, what we ourselves had sworn we would give him. The rite itself of dedication shows that it is a kind of oath or vow, that is, a sacred act. What need is there for such solemnity, if afterwards the sacred place is employed for profane uses?
          Liturgists exalt the rite of dedication, but in contradiction with that, they go silent and speak not a word in the face of the transformation of churches into multi-purpose halls. This is worse than what was done by totalitarian atheist regimes, which had transformed these places into theaters, gymnasiums, and stores. It is a very serious phenomenon, because it means, first, that the sense of the church as a place offered to God, for the worship owed him, has been lost; we have consecrated something, and then we take it back in order to do purely human things there. In the second place, we favor in this way the eclipse of the divine presence, because in the church we practice activities proper to a theater or an auditorium, such as speaking, eating, applauding, and other attitudes typical of places of entertainment. When a church becomes a theater where people laugh, applaud, and shout, it then becomes difficult to demand, for the same place, the proper attitudes for worship: listening, recollection, silence, adoration, because the conviction that one is standing in a versatile locale has taken root. That conviction leads to obscuring the principal and characteristic function of a church, which is adoration, and to prohibiting kneeling for prayer, either when the liturgy is being celebrated in the church, or outside the liturgy. But in reality, the church remains a place of presence and prayer, and of silence, even when there is no liturgy being celebrated. [6]

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Cacophony and Monotony are the Twin Principles of Modern Design. Whatever Happened to Harmony?

When I look at most buildings designed in the traditional manner - this would be most built before the Second World War - it strikes me that the goal of the architect in his design is beauty, and that he seeks visual harmony through an appropriate proportioning of the parts in their different magnitudes. Generally, these were deliberately chosen to conform to a mathematical pattern whcih was believed to correspond to the pattern of the beauty of the cosmos, and which in turn participates in the pattern of divine beauty.

In contrast, when I look at modern buildings built since roughly the Second World War, I discern just two simple guiding principles of architectural design. These are even spacing and random spacing. Neither, in my opinion, is a principle of beauty. The first, even spacing, generates visual monotony. The second, random spacing, generates visual cacophony.

Harmony, monotony, and cacophony are the good, the bad, and the ugly of architectural form.

The traditional design principle has its origins in the mathematics of the ancient Greeks, and in one form or another was used, unquestioned, as the standard mode of design in art and architecture in the West until the period around the end of the 19th century. At that point, artists, architects and musical composers began, quite deliberately, to reject the tradition, and with it all traditional forms. By the mid-20th century, it had not only been rejected but, with very few exceptions, all but forgotten.

Does this matter? I think so, because I think beauty matters. The test for each of us to decide if it matters is to consider the buildings we would prefer to see, live and work in.

Consider first this Georgian house built in 17th century England.

What we see here is a classic manifestation of visual harmony in which, like a musical chord which is comprised of three different notes, each story has a different magnitude, and the combination is, to my eye at least, pleasing. That certainly was the intention of the architect in designing it this way.

Contrast this with the following more recent building, in which every story is evenly spaced.

I would characterize this using another musical analogy. It is a visual manifestation of a string quartet in which four identical violins play nothing but the continuous sounding of one note. However, clean and pure that note might be, however perfectly rendered, it quickly gets dull to listen to. It is, quite literally, monotonous.

The building below is built on the same design principle but on a grander scale, so that the result is the visual equivalent of a vast Mahler-sized orchestra, but once again, consisting of only one instrument, say 100 violins, all playing the same note. It doesn’t matter how many times you replicate that note, it is still monotonous. If that monotone is blasted at us through a megaphone, which is the visual equivalent of what is happening here, it gets worse, because we cannot escape it, and it obliterates all else around it that might be beautiful. In this case, it becomes offensive.

Here’s another example displaying a different design principle. Look at this building below.

First of all, can you guess what its purpose is?

Believe it or not, it’s a church. This random design is directed by uninformed intuition, the visual equivalent of cacophony. It is like the effect you would get if you had an orchestra comprised of many different instruments with each musician just playing notes randomly, and completely without any regard for what the others are playing. Here’s another church in the same vein.

Does this look like a building made to house the worship of God expressed through the beauty of chant and polyphony? The piece of music that best corresponds to this design that I can think of is Stockhausen’s absurd Helicopter String Quartet.

The traditional mathematics of beauty, in contrast, is an authentic analysis of the common human perception of the world around us, and is richer and more varied as a result. Furthermore, it is the basis upon which a Christian architecture is built. The mathematics of harmony and proportion came from classical sources, but was developed and enriched, just as instrumental music itself developed in the context of a Christian culture.

The more that we try to be different, as a deliberate statement of originality, the more, it seems that everything looks the same. The ugliness of so much modern architecture, and art and music for that matter, confirms for me the truth of the principle that there is no order outside God’s order, only disorder.

For those who want to know more about the mathematics of beauty, you can read my book, The Way of Beauty or for an even more detailed account, take the online class offered at www.Pontifex.University’s Master of Sacred Arts program called The Mathematics of Beauty.