The Alhambra – Photograph courtesy of Jan O’Brian, AIA.In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.
And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep.
And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.
And God said, Let there be light: and there was light.
And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided the light from the darkness.
And God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night.
And the evening and the morning were the first day.
And God said, Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters.
And God made the firmament, and divided the waters which were under the firmament from the waters which were above the firmament: and it was so.
And God called the firmament Heaven. And the evening and the morning were the second day.
And God said, Let the waters under the heaven be gathered together unto one place, and let the dry land appear: and it was so. And God called the dry land Earth; and the gathering together of the waters called he Seas: and God saw that it was good.
Genesis 1 (Bible: King James Version)
Streets of Fez – Photograph courtesy of Jan O’Brien, AIA.God is an architect. In this Judeo-Christian creation story, nothing existed but Darkness and Chaos. Then God swept across the formless void and lifted up an enormous dome to separate water from water, thereby opening up space for all living things to become.
Without the help of the sun or stars, God commanded light to pierce the solid darkness. With Spirit alone, God brought order to the universe. Then, within an ordered universe, intelligent life—society, civilization— could begin. When finished, God was satisfied and observed that it was very good.
When human architects set out to create sacred space, we look to breach the chaos and give order to our lives. As modern people, we are constantly bombarded by information, noise, and news and aggressively marketed to by those who want to sell us something. Sacred space can lift up a dome of silence and hold back the tide of modern life. A sacred space can allow contemplation, reflection, and the overview required to make moral choices.
The three major monotheistic religions known as the religions “of the book”—Judaism, Christianity, and Islam—depend on sacred gathering spaces. As a Christian, I am most familiar with churches, but I have traveled widely and visited other religious sanctuaries.
I grew up as a Lutheran in Buffalo, New York, gazing each Sunday at stained-glass portrayals of Jesus’s life, with the icy city just a sheet of glass away. I understood images of Jesus, the Saints, and even a white bearded God, to be normal in sacred space. They were there for our edification and inspiration.
The Alhambra – Photograph courtesy of Jan O’Brien, AIA.Later, as a young architect, I was part of a team working on a hospital in Algeria and a University in Mecca. For these projects, we studied the sacred geometries that make up the only permissible decoration in an Islamic building. As Jacques Berque has explained, “By definition, as well as by divine decree, Moslem art is non-figurative. God being the Creator by excellence, Al-Mucawwir, and Tacwir, any fashioning of plastic images and especially of three-dimensional ones (sculpture) would be unholy because it represents treacherous competition with Creation.”
I became fascinated with these pattern games and longed to see them applied as mosaic tiles, arches, and domes. Islam had been the dominant religion of Spain for centuries, until it was pushed out in 1492 and Christians reclaimed the country. So, while mosques in Africa are reserved for believers, Spanish sites are open to everyone. Eagerly, our team tagged a visit to Granada and Seville to the end of a trip to Algeria. Here mosques have been converted to churches, and I experienced first-hand the wash of color and texture of these interrelated geometries. Also, the rigid buildings of this desert people were partnered with courtyards—paradise gardens—where the sacred geometries came to life in fountains and well-ordered, fragrant plantings.
Is a space ordered by mathematics cerebral? Is it less instructive or inspiring than murals and paintings that include human faces? Why are these sacred spaces so distinctly different? Islam came into being after Christianity had made its mark in the Mediterranean region, in 610 AD. Were the founders of this new religion reacting to the art and sculpture of Christianity? Perhaps.
Many years later, back in the States, I watched a congregation in New York City grapple with how to modify the stained glass windows in their church that depicted Jesus with pale skin and blue eyes, to reflect the current multi-racial membership. The universality of geometry or unadorned walls serves changing times. Religious art in churches may promote “my God” rather than God alone.
Eero Saarinen’s MIT Chapel – Photograph courtesy of Jan O’Brien, AIA.Eventually, I found what I was longing for in the MIT Chapel by Eero Saarinen, built in 1955. The simple, cylindrical, brick hall is enlivened by light playing off the water that slips under the exterior walls, linking the quiet space to the world outside. This is a humble space, with human scale that reminds us of the Creator by playfully reflecting the changing angle of the sun, daily and seasonally. The movement of light on water reminds us of our connections to primal forces and the renewing, cleansing power of water.
The Church Cristo Obrero in Uruguay, by Eladio Dieste, speaks to me in a similar way. Traveling in Buenos Aires, we took a ferry across the bay to Uruguay. Held up by the fog, we were late getting to the tiny town and missed the Mass. The church was closed, but after seeing the novel exterior we were determined to see more. We sought out the priest who lived next-door and convinced him to let us inside. It is extraordinary. A place of power, it is not grandiose. It symbolizes respect for both God and human creativity. The architect, who is also a structural engineer, used brick for every surface, daringly and playfully, to create the needed respite from chaos. Light glances in, and the repetitive scale of the brick lends order. As Dieste wrote:
There are deep moral/practical reasons for our search which give form to our work: with the form we create we can adjust to the laws of matter with all reverence, forming a dialogue with reality and its mysteries in essential communion… For architecture to be truly constructed, the materials must be used with profound respect for their essence and possibilities; only thus can ‘cosmic economy’ be achieved… in agreement with the profound order of the world; only then can have that authority that so astounds us in the great works of the past.
Two years ago, I stood in the new Cathedral of Christ the Light in Oakland, before the large pixilated image of Christ dominating the far end, the Omega wall. It felt universal, open to my imagination, not so rooted in time, with only the play of light on the wooden louvers and concrete walls. But I wondered: without the Christ figure, hand raised in blessing, and the nearly life-sized crucifix by the pulpit, would its members consider it a Catholic church?
Eladio Dieste’s Cristo Obrero – Photograph courtesy of Jan O’Brien, AIA.Tradition continues to be embraced by the Church, frustrating many architects, who are seeking to renew church buildings. When I was on the building committee of a San Francisco church a few years ago, we investigated using chairs instead of pews in the 100-yearold church to accommodate a new, playful, evening service. Money was tight, but suddenly there was a special donation earmarked for the renovation of the old pews. As one senior member of the parish later explained, “I sat in this pew for my daughter’s baptism and her wedding. I want to sit here, holding this very armrest and smelling the incense when my grandchild comes to be baptized or for a friend’s funeral. A new chair, even in the same space, would not connect me in the same way.” “Faith” in the lexicon is often paired as “Faith tradition” and so underscores the idea that faith must be something on-going that links us to our culture, to how we are, in the best sense, a part of a larger whole.
Utah Desert – Photograph courtesy of Jan O’Brien, AIA.This fall, I sought inspiration in the Utah desert, surrounded by magnificent red stone buttes. A sense of the eternal prevails. Here, in this harsh environment, I can see for miles in the bright light. As I walk across an ancient stone monument, wandering, I am brought back to the trail by dry-stacked rock piles that point the way. Partly to encourage hikers to stay off the fragile desert soil, they tell me that I am not the only human to seek beauty and inspiration here and point me back to the comforts of civilization, when I fade. Our best sacred buildings, and religious groups, do the same: encourage us to seek God, guide and support us as we do.
Author Jan O’Brien, AIA, MDiv, is a Bay Area-based activist, architect, and preacher.
Originally published 4th quarter 2010, in arcCA 10.4, “Faith & Loss.”
