architecture

The Problem of Worship Renewal in Present Worship Space

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Many existing church structures present problems for current efforts at worship renewal. In particular, these structures may fail to emphasize the primary symbols of Word, font, and Table or altar. They may also significantly restrict movement around these primary symbols and leave little room for the congregation to gather for worship. This article outlines some of these problems and is therefore instructive for congregations who may be designing new spaces for worship or renovating old ones.

A generation ago the debate about architectural style revolved around theological perspectives. On the one side of the debate were those who argued that the only appropriate architectural style was the “center-pulpit church.” On the other side of the debate were advocates of a “split-chancel church.” The former would have looked like many church buildings that were built in the late 1800s, whose prominent feature was supposed to be a dominant, central pulpit that emphasized the essential role of the reading of Scripture by the clergy and the preaching of the sermon. The latter building would have appeared much like any Anglican church of the day, with a long choir and a visible Table at the end of the sanctuary, and with a smaller pulpit to one side of the chancel with a lectern or reading desk for the Scriptures at the opposite side. The advocates of this style believed that it gave a balanced emphasis to Word and sacraments. By placing such a “balance” within an almost medieval structure, the advocates of such a style were often derided by the other party as being more “high-churchy.”

Today that debate is totally out of date. With the acceptance of new service books that give expression to the fruits of almost a century of biblical and liturgical research, none of the old buildings and their architectural styles give adequate expression to the new realities. The dominant role of the clergy in worship is no longer acceptable. Choirs are no longer seen as “religious performers” in some Victorian concert hall, providing entertainment to the congregation as a means of alleviating the weariness associated with long pastoral prayers and even longer sermons contained within worship that gave practically no active role to the people. Consequently, there is a growing awareness that our church buildings give inadequate expression to the new forms of worship. While some of them are capable of interior modification to address these realities, many congregations will look to new buildings as their congregations grow. Others will look to new buildings as older congregations that are growing smaller are amalgamated and relocated on new sites. Properly addressed, this can be an exciting and stimulating time in the life of a congregation.

What’s Wrong with the Old Architectural Style?

Most church buildings are characterized by flaws that prevent free worship. Generally, there is practically no movement space at the front of the sanctuary. Many churches have relatively small Communion tables that have been crowded under the pulpit and must be moved out for celebrations of the sacrament in order to allow the minister to sit behind it facing the people. This leaves barely enough room for the servers to move from their seats to receive the elements at the Table for distribution to the people. On those occasions when the people come forward to receive the Communion at the Table, movement past the Table by the people is awkward. This same lack of movement space at the front of the church is very noticeable at weddings. Here, in many churches the Table must literally be moved from its central position and placed to one side, blocking a side aisle, in order to enable the prie-dieu to be located in front of the bride and groom and to allow space for the minister to stand there as well. As it is, the entire first pew on either side of the main aisle must be left empty.

The same lack of space is also very evident in celebrations of baptism. The baptismal font, in churches that do not have a pool, should be one of the most prominent items of liturgical furnishing. Yet, because it occupies too much of that small space that may be needed for other purposes, it is placed to one side, along a sidewall, while at other times it is removed entirely from the front of the church. At baptisms, it is placed within this small space to one side of the Table, and those being baptized are crowded around it with the feet of people in the front pew again being a hazard.

This lack of movement space becomes very apparent whenever a funeral is held. The church is the proper place for funerals, especially for people whose lives have been closely associated with the worship of God, and even more especially where that association has taken place in this building. However, the lack of space to place the coffin and the lack of space to move about it, together with the numbers of steps that must be climbed to get into the church building in the first place, often discourage people from having the funerals of loved ones take place here. Because of the limitations of space, the Table must be moved in order to accommodate the coffin, and the candles that visualize the light of the world, who is the Christ who gives us hope at such times of sadness, are also crowded onto the rails surrounding the Pulpit rather than being able to stand significantly at the head of the coffin.

Such lack of movement space is not just a logistics problem for people. Much more importantly, it is a hindrance to the setting forth of those pieces of liturgical furnishings that symbolize the very core of our faith. Like so many church structures that are based to some extent on the Victorian concert hall model, the pulpit and the pipe organ are the dominant visual elements. For many churches, this has had the effect of singling out the sermon in the Liturgy as the central element of worship. The somewhat hidden Communion table indicates a poor understanding of the centrality of the sacrament alongside the preaching of the Word. In many church buildings, the pulpit area is also extremely confined. While there are the customary three chairs behind it, space is often so small that it becomes almost a gymnastic feat to move more than one person around from chair to chair. Consequently, the very structure discourages the use of lay readers, thus once again centering out the Minister as the official “worshiper” on behalf of everyone else. The large pulpit Bible solemnly set on this pulpit thus becomes disengaged from the people and appears to be the domain of the minister. All of that is simply bad theology and communicates a message that is contrary to the message that is being given verbally from that same pulpit by the minister!

Like most older buildings, the seating in the sanctuary is represented by fixed pews set in rows one behind the other on both sides of a central aisle. It is almost impossible to establish a sense of “community” in a building where, for the most part, you are looking at the back of someone’s head. This form of seating arrangement carries with it all the theology of the Middle Ages, where the laity in the nave of the church was physically separated from the significant actions of the clergy in the choir area at the front of the building. We need to remember that earlier tradition did not place seating in the church at all, much like the Eastern Orthodox practice, and people were able to turn around, move, and mingle; to rub shoulders with each other in such a way as to make no mistake that this was a community of the faithful gathered together to offer their worship and devotion to God.

Consequently, one of the “musts” for a new building will be the need to provide seating in something like the half-round so that people can see each other. With a large central area devoted to the pulpit, Table, and font, and with the seating located around that focus, people will be able to recognize themselves as a community of people gathered together around those visual symbols of God’s presence among us rather than a group of individuals focusing on a religious lecture and entertained every now and then by a choir. In this proposed arrangement the choir would be seated in one section of the curved pews, able to be seen by the congregation so that the choristers could cue the people for their participation, but also very be evidently identified as part of the worshiping congregation rather than a body of entertainers. Such a seating arrangement requires careful thought relative to the placement of the pipe organ. Whatever the mechanics and sound demands of that placement require, the organ should not be seen as the most visible artifact in the building.

Such a plan would solve the problem of movement space at the front of the church, making many things possible, including much more lay participation than is possible now. Weddings would be vastly improved, and funeral caskets would be able to be placed and moved with much greater effect and dignity than is now possible. Such a seating layout also enables more people to be gathered together but kept within much closer proximity to each other than is ever possible with a long, narrow nave. With such seating, it would also be possible to leave gaps at aisles where wheelchairs could easily be placed, enabling handicapped people to be physically and visually a part of the congregation. With a church building built at ground level, without any steps anywhere approaching it or in it, the handicapped will be encouraged to attend the worship of God. That none do so now is caused by the congregation’s unwillingness to accept them. It is simply the fault of the building that does not accommodate them.

Another problem posed by many present buildings is the lack of gathering space. Many buildings have a narrow narthex at its main entrance. Imagine a Sunday congregation of between 100 and 120 on average moving from the sanctuary following the benediction into a narthex that measures ten feet by twenty feet, already filled with several tables and containers for food-bank donations, and you can readily appreciate that it is not a mingling space! It is, however, important to provide a sufficient space outside the sanctuary where people can congregate prior to worship and greet each other following worship without being jostled and pushed or made to feel that they have to move on for fear of blocking someone else’s approach or departure. Many new churches have an expansive narthex and a kitchenette where tea and coffee are prepared for fellowship times after worship. This large, bright, and cheery gathering place is an excellent companion space to that of the sanctuary.

The Structure and the Church Year

All of this concern for adequate architecture to enable adequate worship to take place impinges heavily on the subject of the church year and its expression. Beginning in Advent, a building without adequate visual space surrounding pulpit, Table, and font leaves little room for the use of such symbols as the Advent wreath with its candles. Where such visual symbols can be easily seen in a central location relative to the people, its use assists in focusing attention on the theme of each Sunday in Advent. The appearance of chrismon trees or Jesse trees should not be relegated merely to church-school classrooms. With sufficient room to accommodate their presence in the sanctuary, they can again add visual focus to children’s participation in the Advent season’s devotional acts each Sunday. As Christmas approaches, the need for suitable space in which to place the crèche is also important. Within many of our traditions, the use of a Christmas tree carries on customs that many Lutherans claim credit for beginning. In my present church structure, all of these make their appearance, leaving the front of the church totally crowded and less effective than they might otherwise be.

Each season of the church year carries with it potential for changes in color through banners, antependia, and drapes. In older buildings, these can only be used as the building permits. A new structure provides an architect and the people with the opportunity of reflecting on the good use of color to highlight the change of ecclesial seasons. Walls thus have more significance than just structures to keep the roof and the floor apart! This usefulness of the visual in the form of changing color needs to be given thought in the design of the structure.

Holy Week and the triduum cry out for adequate space for the special services that mark this highlight of the church year. Gathering space outside the sanctuary proper is essential for the formation of processions that often precede some of these rites. Open space around the pulpit, Table, and font becomes necessary for the adequate use of candles in the Tenebrae. In my congregation, the movement of elders in relation to the Great Entry of the elements in the form traditional to the Church of Scotland is a feature of our Maundy Thursday celebration of the sacrament. Clear space to enable the gathered congregation to see what is happening is essential to the effectiveness of the movement, something that is now lessened by the design of the present building. The special and particular needs of the high holy seasons have traditionally been overlooked completely in much of Protestant church architecture. With the renewal of concern and interest in matters liturgical among many Protestants, the time is now ripe for the appearance of buildings that give adequate expression to the full range of Christian worship.

Pulpit, Font, and Table

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The following article examines every aspect of the worship space, reflecting the unique perspectives of the Reformed tradition. With regard to many concerns, the similarity of the Reformed view with other views expressed in this chapter is quite striking—a reflection of how much various worship traditions have learned from each other. One point of contrast among traditions concerns the understanding of the sacraments and how that understanding is reflected in the design of the worship environment.

Church buildings are really quite unnecessary! In fact, early in its history, the church did not have buildings. If the church were again to be without buildings, it certainly would be hampered, but it would not lose anything essential to its life. All that is needed is some space, a Bible, some water, a loaf of bread, and a bottle of wine. This is true because it is the community that the building houses that is primary. The community of God’s people gives the building its meaning, purpose, and dignity. The building has little meaning apart from the community that gathers in it.

However, buildings are important. They are important because of their function. They accommodate the gathering of people and provide a place where the Word can be preached and the sacraments celebrated. It is not easy to maintain the community apart from someplace to meet. Furthermore, the building either helps or hinders the church in understanding its true God-given nature. Whenever a congregation builds or renovates its space for worship it ought to ask itself, “How can the space for worship best serve to build up the community in Christ?”

Form Follows Function

Modern architecture works from the premise that form follows function. This means that buildings are designed from the inside out. Worship space is, therefore, to be built to serve the liturgy in the best possible way. Care needs to be taken to ensure that our buildings do not get in the way of the liturgical actions. Worship should never be shaped by the architecture; worship should always shape the architecture. Peter Hammond wrote, “The task of the modern architect is not to design a building that looks like a church. It is to create a building that works as a place for liturgy” (Peter Hammond, Liturgy and Architecture [New York: Columbia University Press, 1961], 9).

When planning space for worship, we need to consider first the nature and needs of the worshiping community and seek to answer questions such as, “What is the church, … its purpose, … its mission?” “What is the meaning of worship, … of the sacraments, … of preaching?” “How can space for worship help us understand worship?” “What are the actions and movements of the liturgy, and how can the building best accommodate them?” Only by beginning with this kind of a functional analysis can the resulting space adequately serve its purpose. A congregation should never ask an architect to start plans until it has come to understand the nature and function of its life together as a community of faith. It is the responsibility of the congregation to articulate this self-understanding to the architect so that it may shape the design.

The importance of starting with a definition of function becomes clear when one realizes that the reverse of the principle “form follows function” is in some sense also true. A building always tends to shape what takes place in it. John A. T. Robinson made this point:

The church building is a primary aid, or a primary hindrance, to the building up of the Body of Christ. And what the building says so often shouts something entirely contrary to all that we are seeking to express through the liturgy. And the building will always win—unless and until we can make it say something else. (John A. T. Robinson, “Preface,” in Making the Building Serve the Liturgy, ed. by Gilbert Cope [London: A. R. Mowbray & Co. Ltd., 1962], 5)

It is important to so shape the building for worship that, when it is used, it will shape us in accordance with the best insights of our faith.

Space for Corporate Worship

Space for worship should help a congregation understand that Christian worship is basically communal. Many church buildings encourage an individualistic view of worship and contribute little to a corporate sense. A building designed for corporate worship should somehow seem incomplete until the people gather together in it.

It is important to consider how the expression of worship’s corporate nature should shape the form and location of each of the liturgical spaces:

A.     the place occupied by the congregation;
B.     the area for the choir;
C.     the space for baptism;
D.     the space for proclamation;
E.     the space for the Lord’s Supper; and
F.     the space required for processions and the movement of the people.

For example, the location of the people will either suggest a group of individuals in a spectator role or a community participating in the action.

A single unified space, rather than the two-room chancel/nave, best underscores the unity of God’s people by including both ministers and laity. The single space also helps eliminate the implication that God is more real in the area screened off from the people where the ministers conduct worship.

Edward A. Sovik suggests that we might see the entire worship space as a chancel rather than a remote part of the space. The liturgical centers—pulpit, font, and Table—would be dispersed throughout the space rather than placed together in a single area. Perhaps people then would more readily recognize that they are part of the liturgical action and not mere spectators. Sovik describes the concept:

It can be helpful if we will allow the space to have many foci so that the congregation can sometimes feel itself to be the center, and sometimes the pulpit, and sometimes the Table, and sometimes the choir, and sometimes the prayer desk, and sometimes the reading desk, and sometimes the baptismal font. And so we would allow the focus to move to wherever the action of the liturgy naturally takes it. This, it seems to me, could make liturgy and architecture companions in a much more effective way than they usually are. (Edward A. Sovik, “Fundamentals for Church Builders,” Your Church 7 [July–Sept. 1961]: 33)

Certainly the long, narrow nave, with people lined up row upon row in military fashion facing a distant chancel, does not contribute to a sense of community or participation. On the other hand, the semicircular arrangement does contribute to a sense of community, for it is the natural way people group themselves, as may be seen when a crowd gathers about a speaker in a public park. The semicircular arrangement helps us be aware of others and assists a group in being a community rather than a faceless crowd.

Even so, while worship’s corporate aspect is fundamental, we must not lose the sense of the holy in our zeal to recover a communal sense. To replace the former otherworldliness with mere sociability would be to move from one extreme to another. The church is a community, but it is a community bound together with its Lord. It is the body of Christ. There needs to be a balance between the sense of community and the sense of the holy.

Hospitality—Simplicity—Flexibility

A church building should express a true hospitality. It is a place for people. This is in keeping with the concept that the church is a household, the family of God. It should therefore convey warmth and not be cold or pompous. On the other hand, it must avoid an atmosphere of “clubiness” or living-room coziness in which God is thoroughly domesticated.

Contemporary liturgical architecture will also express a simplicity. Superfluous elements will be eliminated. The focus will be clearly upon the essentials. Churches are so often cluttered with nonessentials that the primary things are not readily recognized.

Contemporary liturgical architecture also demands a flexibility unknown in the past. The space for worship should accommodate different kinds of services in varying circumstances and occasions. Flexible seating and movable furnishings greatly aid this. Flexible space will also provide the extra benefit of accommodating other congregational activities, thereby enabling the congregation to more adequately fulfill its servant role. When the space for worship is also used in ways that support its mission to the community, the relationship of worship and service come into clearer focus.

In speaking of the need for simplicity and flexibility, one should not conclude that what is being described is the typical multipurpose hall, which is often erected as the first stage of a congregation’s activities. On the contrary, many of these buildings, designed to serve every function, end up serving none well and most poorly. A variety of functions are possible and desirable, but those functions need clear definition, and the space designed accordingly. Furthermore, there are numerous alternatives to the steel folding chairs once characteristic of first units. Seating is now available that is attractive, comfortable, interlocking, and stackable. (The desirability of flexible space is convincingly presented in Edward A. Sovik, Architecture for Worship [Minneapolis: Augsburg, 1973].)

A common problem with the minimal worship space of the typical first unit is that it does not help persons be sensitive to the numinous, to the mystery and majesty of God. Being devoid of the artistic and aesthetic qualities, they fail to point us beyond ourselves. Art mediates a sense of the numinous, because there is a kind of mystery in it which is truly beautiful. It transcends our rational ways of thinking and often moves us to wonder and awe. Beauty as well as truth and goodness are ingredients of our faith and are important to our being fully human.

Therefore, space that is ordinary, banal, or ugly fails to serve the Christian community adequately. We cannot afford to build spaces that dwarf the human spirit. The space for worship with its liturgical centers, together with the objects used in that space (e.g., the vessels used in the sacraments, the Bible itself, vestments, paraments), needs to be planned with artistic sensitivity. Care needs to be taken to avoid what is cheap, tasteless, or sentimental, for such fails to point us to God. Neither is there a place for elaborate ostentation. Simplicity and good taste should prevail. When worship space is artistically designed, embodies a proper balance of space and light, and speaks with theological and liturgical clarity, it will help lift us beyond ourselves.

Particularly important in liturgical space is the character of the liturgical centers—pulpit, font, and Table. These furnishings provide for the material objects that are essential to Christian worship.

Around these three centers the community of faith organizes its life of prayer and praise. These three centers not only fulfill their utilitarian purposes, but also symbolize the actions that are central to the life of the community. Even when they are not in use, they communicate something of the meaning of the actions they enable. Care should be taken therefore to ensure that each center clearly and unambiguously expresses the true nature of the action identified with it.

The Pulpit

Even though the proclamation of the Word is not dependent upon a pulpit, the pulpit is likely to remain as the principal place from which the Scriptures are read and the sermon is delivered. The presence of this liturgical center further symbolizes the centrality and authority of the Scripture in the life of the community of faith. As such, it should clearly express the authority of God.

Where should the pulpit be placed? In early Christian churches, the preacher delivered the sermon while seated on a throne behind the Table. During the late Middle Ages, a recovery of preaching by the mendicant friars resulted in pulpits being placed on the wall on the side of the nave. For much of post-Reformation history, in the Protestant tradition, the pulpit has dominated the space in front of the people, virtually eclipsing the Table and font.

Acoustics are the main consideration for the location of the pulpit. It is helpful when a wall is located immediately behind the pulpit to help amplify the voice. It is not such a great problem in a small building, but a wall at a considerable distance behind the preacher results in the sound of the voice being blurred. A pulpit placed too far forward may result in acoustical problems.

Perhaps the best location is against the wall, but off-center. It has been pointed out that a pulpit located off-center is about as effective acoustically as a central pulpit against the wall, provided the path of reflected sound is not over sixty feet longer than the path of direct sound (Ade Bethune and Thomas A. Drain, “Some Plans on Renovating the Sanctuary for the Renewed Liturgy,” Liturgical Arts 33 [Aug. 1965]: 108). Therefore, the acoustical advantages of a pulpit against the wall are not lost by moving it off-center away from the Table, thus freeing each liturgical center to possess its own space. Care should always be taken to avoid remoteness from the people.

At the same time, it is important in fan-shaped seating that the people are in front of the preacher rather than at the extreme left or right, and certainly not behind the preacher. Unless the people are in front of the preacher, they will not feel they are being addressed. A fan-shaped seating rather than a full horseshoe shape is preferable therefore since it avoids too sharp an angle at the sides of the preacher or celebrant at the Table. The preacher can comfortably address the entire congregation without undue awkwardness turning from side to side. Since the choir is also part of the congregation, it should not sit behind the preacher any more than any other portion of the congregation.

An attempt should be made to have the best acoustics possible, with the ideal being to eliminate the need for a public-address system. A public-address system detracts and makes rapport between preacher and congregation more difficult to achieve. If a public-address system is necessary, it should reinforce the voice without distorting it, with the microphones hidden from the view of the congregation.

The problem of acoustics goes beyond considerations about the pulpit. It is equally important to be able to hear those officiating at the Table and font. By giving proper attention to the acoustics of the entire space, a public-address system may not be needed except in the largest buildings. In an acoustically live building, voice, song, and musical instruments are stimulating.

The visibility is another consideration for the location of the pulpit. It should therefore be elevated sufficiently, so that the minister may be seen by everyone. However, it should not be so high that the minister is isolated from the people. Vertical separation is even more difficult to overcome than horizontal separation since it results in an awkward head angle for those seated near the pulpit.

The design of the pulpit should express a balance of intimacy between the preacher and people, on one hand, and the authority of the Word, on the other. If too large and dominant, the pulpit will convey a sense of hierarchical structure and undue austerity. Preaching then tends to become oratory, formal, and impersonal. On the other hand, an insignificant pulpit magnifies the preacher rather than the preacher’s role as minister of the Word. James A. Whyte points out that an insignificant pulpit tends to “destroy the sense of the rule of the word in the midst of the people” (James A. Whyte, “The Theological Basis of Church Architecture,” in Towards a Church Architecture, ed. by Peter Hammond [London: The Architectural Press, 1962], 108).

Practicality would require spaciousness in the area surrounding the pulpit to enable ample freedom of movement on the part of those participating in the liturgy. A movable pulpit is a distinct advantage to meet the needs of varying situations. Preaching is not the same for every worship occasion.

Care should be taken in the lighting of the pulpit. It is better to have some well-placed lights in the ceiling, illuminating the pulpit area as naturally as possible, than to have a small desk light to light up the manuscript (and the preacher’s stomach), a practice that often leaves the face in the dark. Often, pulpit lamps create glare and are never appealing visually. The light should not be so strong that the preacher cannot see the congregation. The preacher should not be in the spotlight as an actor on a stage. Establishing rapport requires that both congregation and minister see each other. Overhead lighting creates distorting shadows and should be avoided.

A clock built into the pulpit, visible only to the preacher, is a good feature. A small shelf out of view of the congregation to hold hymnal, service book, and papers is a convenience.

The pulpit should be designed so that the Bible is visible at all times during worship. The pulpit Bible, when not being read, can be placed in a niche or front panel on the face of the pulpit. Thus it has its own place of honor. A pulpit designed so that the Bible is its dominant feature will express the relationship between sermon and Scripture. This eliminates the preacher’s manuscript being shuffled on top of the opened Bible or closing the Bible and tucking it away on a shelf in the pulpit. In recommending that the Bible have a place of honor, Theodor Filthaut, a Roman Catholic, writes that the place provided

ought always to manifest that love and veneration which are paid to the book as the instrument of God’s word. Then too, the cabinet or shelf ought to be constructed in such a way that the book (which like the receptacle ought to possess artistic value) can be seen by the faithful. This book does not serve for the perusal of casual visitors. It should be looked upon as a sign of the presence of God’s word in the church. This would give clear expression to the fact that the church is not only a church of the sacrament, but also of the word. (Theodor Filthaut, Church Architecture and Liturgical Reform [Baltimore: Helicon Press, 1968], 65.)

The Bible itself, the quality of its binding, its size, and visual appeal, should say that this book is of great significance for Christians. It is through the sacred Scriptures that we hear the Word of God. The Bible shapes our faith and the way we live. No small hand Bible or paperback edition can visually communicate the centrality that the Scriptures have in Christian worship. We tend to respond causally to whatever is treated casually. We could learn a great deal from the respect Jews give to the scrolls and the way they are used in synagogue worship.

As is common in Scotland, the Bible might be brought into the assembly during an entrance or processional hymn, and then enthroned in its place of honor. It is important that the Bible carried in procession or enthroned in a place of honor be the same Bible whose pages are opened and from which the lessons of the day read.

A pulpit of significance is located in First Presbyterian Church, Lawrence, Kansas. It is approximately seven feet wide with a book rest of approximately six feet in length. Behind the pulpit is a sounding board in the form of a plain wall that extends upward toward the ceiling for about twenty feet. It is about nine feet wide and is painted white. In the upper right corner of the sounding board is a single-column speaker for amplification. It has a pleasing appearance against the dark brick color of the interior of the room. The sounding board is used as a projection screen. Space is provided in the pulpit for an overhead projector, which is sealed from view when not in use. This space for proclamation thus provides for a variety of forms of proclamation.

Whereas a pulpit has a clear and important function, a lectern is not essential to worship. When a lectern is used for reading the Scripture and the preaching is from a pulpit, a division between the reading and preaching is suggested. In ordering worship, preaching and the reading of the lessons should not be separated. Preaching is to immediately follow the readings, thereby underscoring the interdependent relationship of one with the other. Just as this is true in ordering worship, it is equally true for the spatial arrangements. The reading of Scripture and preaching should be from a single-center, the pulpit.

Although a lectern is unnecessary, there are occasions when a speaker’s stand other than the pulpit is desirable. A portable lectern, attractive in design and made to harmonize with the other furnishings, could be provided for such occasions and can be placed when and where needed.

In building or renovating worship space, it is important to anticipate the space needed for a variety of appropriate proclamation forms such as the dialogue sermon, drama, dance, and audiovisual presentations. Although nothing can fully replace a pastor who lovingly interprets the Word to the people, proclamation need not always be in the form of monologue.

Unencumbered space is required for movement and drama. Movable furniture is also desirable, so that it may be relocated as the need emerges. If movable seating is utilized, the entire space can be adapted, as the need requires, to accommodate the varied forms of proclamation. Nevertheless, it is desirable that the space around the Table and the pulpit in its usual arrangement be open and spacious, unencumbered and uncrowded. Thus, other forms may be easily provided for without the need to move the pulpit and Table.

Lighting is again an important consideration in planning for other forms of proclamation. A theatrical appearance should be avoided. An audiovisual room might be located nearby to enable simultaneous projections and to provide for ease in using tapes and recordings. Where a room is not possible, convenient and adequate electrical outlets need to be provided for both power and sound. The projectors may be hidden from view of the congregation by well-placed banners. A white wall surface is desirable, which would eliminate the need for setting up portable screens, which are always intrusive. Speakers need to be built in at appropriate places for the best acoustical effects. The use of audiovisuals may require that some windows be neatly and easily darkened. The space needs to be radiant with light, symbolizing resurrection joy, but should also have the ability to control the light easily and to direct it where it is wanted.

Those responsible for planning the space need to anticipate the various forms that are to be accommodated and build flexibility into the structure that will free the space for use in a variety of ways.

The Font

The space for baptism is too often the neglected liturgical center. Many churches have no visible evidence that baptism is practiced. It is central to Christian worship because it is through a washing with water in the name of the Trinity that one is initiated into the Christian community. This sacrament is a clear sign of God’s grace, of our cleansing from sin, of our dying and rising with Christ, of our incorporation into the body of Christ, and of the gift of the Holy Spirit. All that the gospel means is focused on this sacrament. The font with its surrounding space, the baptistry, should therefore serve more than the utilitarian function of accommodating the ritual washing. It should be the ever-present symbol of Christian initiation.

Given the centrality of this sacrament, where should the place of baptism be located? What should the font be like in order to give baptism the prominence it merits?

In early centuries, Christians built separate buildings to accommodate baptism. Later, fonts were placed in alcoves at the entrance to the nave. Since the Reformation, Protestants have usually baptized persons before the congregation with fonts located near the pulpit and Table.

The communal dimensions of baptism would rule out a separate building for us. It would also rule out an enclosed space in the narthex. In neither location could baptism be celebrated in the presence of the congregation, nor could the people participate.

Nevertheless, when baptism is celebrated at or near the entrance of the nave, it becomes a strong symbol of entry into the body of Christ. There are ways of locating the place of baptism at the entrance without sacrificing the presence and participation of the congregation. The limitations can be overcome if there is no wall separating the baptismal space from the worship room. The removal of the wall would be an economic advantage in making the space serve double duty as an entry and as an open space to accommodate people gathered around the font for the baptism.

Another possibility would be to provide a space for baptism between the narthex and the worship room. Worshipers would pass through the baptismal space as they enter to worship. Any drawbacks hindering a communal celebration of baptism would be reduced if the walls between the baptistry and the worship room were quite open in design.

Perhaps a better alternative would be to locate the place of baptism within the worship room itself. We are quite familiar with the provision of space near the Table and pulpit. The advantage of this location is that people can see, hear, and participate in the sacrament. However, even though the Reformers chose this location to emphasize incorporation into the community, it does not clearly convey this. Nor is the relationship of baptism to the Eucharist and the Word read and preached conveyed simply by placing the font in close proximity to the pulpit and Table. Furthermore, clustering the liturgical centers together results in little movement in worship and contributes to confusing focal points.

There is great symbolic strength in restoring the baptistry to a position at the major entrance into the nave, but preferably inside the worship room. It can be located at the side of the entrance, although a clearer symbolism is conveyed when the font is placed in a space between the door and the seating space, where worshipers must pass around it as they enter. The Christians of the community may be reminded repeatedly of their own baptism through which they entered the Christian community.

The importance of the sacrament is emphasized if sufficient space is provided around the font, enabling part of the congregation to move in procession to it for the baptism. The rest of the congregation could still see, hear, and participate by standing and turning to face the baptistry. Movable seating would be a distinct advantage so that space could be opened up as needed. A baptistry located in this position does not compete with the pulpit and Table. It has its own appropriate space and is able to maintain its own distinct integrity. The relationship of baptism to the Eucharist and the reading and interpreting of Scripture is clearly seen. Baptism is recognized as the way we enter into that community where the Scripture and Eucharist mark the continuing style of the Christian life.

Some efforts have been made to locate the font in the center of the main aisle in the midst of the seating space. This may also symbolize entry into the community, but such an arrangement tends to be crowded and may unduly separate the seating areas. It also can accommodate only a few people at the font, unless movable seating can provide flexibility for baptismal occasions.

There have also been attempts to symbolize the entrance motif of the sacrament in front of the congregation. In these buildings, the font is the first liturgical center seen upon entering, even though the font is actually located in front of the people.

In one such building, the font is located near the pulpit and Table but is on an outside aisle leading from the entrance. It is directly visible as one enters the door from the narthex, since the doors open at the corner of the room. A small room above the aisle lowers the ceiling between the entrance and the baptistry, thereby leading one’s eye directly through an area of reduced light to the font which is bathed in light from a glass wall on the side of the nave. Neither the Lord’s Table nor the pulpit is visible from the entrance. They come into view as one enters the seating space. (This church, St. George, Rugby, England, is described, together with the plan, in J. G. Davies, The Architectural Setting of Baptism [London: Barrie Rockliff, 1962], 155. This book is particularly valuable in tracing the history of baptismal space and the ways the contemporary church is providing for baptism. It is well illustrated.)

Another example combines both the symbolism of entrance with baptism before the people by having an indirect path into the nave. “Along the route one passes a pair of glass doors which open on the baptismal font and allow a glimpse of the chancel area and worship space beyond the font.” (“An Inner City Mission Church,” Faith and Form 1, Special Issue, p. 19. It is a description of Emmanuel Presbyterian Church, Chicago, Illinois.) The font is associated thereby with the entrance, while still being located before the assembled congregation.

Together with the baptistry being located in an open space between the major door and the pews or at the entrance to the space occupied by the worshipers, these examples successfully combine the symbolism of entrance, while still providing an opportunity for the congregation to hear, see, and participate. If the font is to be located in relation to the pulpit and Table in a manner similar to these examples, it should not compete with the Lord’s Table and the pulpit. Each will have its own distinct space. The greater advantage may still be to locate the font away from the pulpit and Table releasing each liturgical center for its own unique action.

There is something to be said in favor of a baptistry in which one must step down into the font area. Stepping down symbolizes identification with Christ’s death and burial. Stepping upward after baptism symbolizes rising with Christ to newness of life. Where this is done, some sort of railing is needed for safety reasons. A paschal candle located in relationship to the baptistry is a reminder of baptismal resurrection. It is appropriate that the baptismal space have artistic beauty. Light streaming through colored glass could further symbolize new birth and new life. Provision for kneeling should be made for the baptism of older children and adults.

The font, set within its own unique space, should be of significant prominence, of ample size and visibility, denoting the importance of baptism. It should not resemble a Victorian birdbath in which the font is insignificant, and especially the kind in which a small glass dish is used in the rite.

The font should be made of stone, marble, ceramic, cement, or some other durable material that is not damaged by water drippings. Because wood is damaged by water, wooden fonts should be avoided. Carvings, relief design, mosaic, or other artistic expression may depict various aspects of the sacrament’s meaning.

The font should be convenient to use for adults, children, or infants. The basin portion should be a minimum of two feet in diameter, which will facilitate easily the pouring of water into it, the scooping of a generous amount of water out of it, and the dipping of an infant into it. (A noteworthy example is the font in St. Richard Church, Jackson, Mississippi, pictured in Frank Kacmarcik, “The Berakah Award for 1981,” Worship 55 [1981]: 377.)

An effective provision for baptism in one church is a large ceramic basin about two feet in diameter. The basin and a matching pitcher are placed on a table at the entrance to the worship space. There they remind the faithful of their own baptism as they enter. This arrangement provides flexibility in use, enabling a variety of locations for the baptismal action. The basin can be moved to the midst of the people for baptism, and then placed once more at the main door. The baptismal vessels should be prominent, in the direct path into the worship space, and thereby obvious to all who enter.

Since immersion is the most dramatic use of water in baptism, forcefully portraying our dying and rising with Christ, some congregations may want a font that is large enough for the immersion of an adult. It is important to keep in mind that a large font can accommodate a variety of modes of baptism, whereas a small font will allow only limited use of water and will be unduly confining.

The font should speak clearly that it is a receptacle for water. Water is clearly the important feature of large fonts and in fonts that are designed so that water recirculates. In this last font, water is seen and heard when entering worship, since it always contains live, running water symbolizing new life. To see and hear the baptismal water when one enters to worship is a reminder of our own baptism and all the meanings associated with it. (A fine example of such a font is in the United Methodist Church, St. Charles, Iowa, pictured in E. A. Sovik, Architecture for Worship, 94.) In small fonts, the font itself as a furnishing tends to become the focus rather than the water in it.

Aids for administering the sacrament would include an ewer, or pitcher, for pouring water into the font (if water is not in the font at all times) and a baptismal shell for use when pouring water over the head of the candidate. The ewer can also be used to pour water over the head of the candidate leaning over the font. The water, as it is poured, falls over the head and into the basin of the font. A generous amount of water should be used, so that it may be seen and heard. This sacrament calls for more than just a dampening of the forehead. The generous use of water will more clearly indicate that baptism is a washing. As a part of the baptistry, a ledge is desirable to accommodate the service book, ewer, shell, and towels.

Drama is heightened when parents, family, and friends form a procession to the font for the baptism and stand with the ones being baptized. If water is not in the font at all times, it may be poured into the font during the rite, immediately prior to the prayer preceding the actual baptism. (Suggestions for baptismal practice are developed in Harold M. Daniels, “Celebrating Baptism,” in Worship in the Community of Faith, ed. by Harold M. Daniels [Louisville: The Joint Office of Worship, 1982].)

The importance of baptism will be more readily recognized when it has its own space with a font of significant proportion and design is celebrated in a liturgy that is sensory in character and unfolds baptism’s manifold meanings.

The Lord’s Table

The Lord’s Table, set in the midst of the assembled congregation, visually symbolizes week by week the presence of Christ in the midst of the faith community. This symbol of Christ’s presence also speaks of the community that Christ inaugurated, which gathers around the Table on each Lord’s day. E. A. Sovik points out that the Communion table is the symbol of the family of Christians, just as the dining table is our strongest symbol of being one when we are gathered at mealtime at home. The meal we have together around the Communion table provides us with our strongest sense of unity as the family of the Lord. (E. A. Sovik, “A Portfolio of Reflections on the Design of Northfield Methodist Church,” Your Church 13 [Sept.–Oct., 1967]: 53-54.)

The Table should be free-standing, enabling the celebrant to officiate from behind it. Reformed Christians have insisted upon the fact that the Communion table is a table and not an altar. It should, therefore, look like a table, preferably with central support and with a top that extends well over the edges of the support to assure the graceful draping of the linen. The top needs to provide adequate space for all of the Communion vessels and the service book. The length and width ought to be in proportion to the area in which it is located. Six to eight feet long is probably ample; the standard height is from 36 to 42 inches. It should be constructed as perfectly as possible from the finest materials.

It is desirable for the Table to be movable. This would make possible varying placements of the Table in celebrating the Lord’s Supper and would be adaptable to different circumstances and occasions.

Art used in the Table and in its environs should enhance the sacramental action, ensuring that the artistry does not detract from the action. Artistic Communion vessels can convey the importance to the occasion and enhance a sense of the holy. The Table and its setting should foster a joyous, festive spirit, for the Eucharist is “the joyous feast of the people of God.”

The Table needs to stand in equal prominence to the pulpit. When constructed of the same material and design as the pulpit, it will imply the unity of the Word in Scripture with the Word in the sacrament. If placed in the center of light concentration, it will help focus the attention of the people. However, the lighting should not isolate the Table from the congregation.

The Table should be fully visible to the congregation at all times. In many churches built about the turn of the twentieth century, the Communion table lacks prominence. When the Table is placed on the floor in front of the pulpit, one is aware of it only when walking down the center aisle. Too often it is the place to put flowers and offering plates, obscuring its purpose.

When raised on a low platform, the Communion table can be seen over the heads of the congregation. One step ordinarily suffices, especially if the congregation is seated in a semicircular configuration around the Table, rather than in a long narrow nave. Certainly, no more than three steps are needed, not raising it to a point that it is isolated from the people, thereby making it a “holy island.” If more than one step is used, they should be broad, inviting easy access. If the design features the pulpit, Table, and font across the front of the room, the steps ought to extend from wall to wall. If the Table is extended into the midst of the people, the steps should surround the platform on three sides.

It should be self-evident that the Table is the Table of the congregation. It must be accessible with no rail separating it from the people. The Table should not appear to be set on a stage but impress the congregation by standing in its midst. Obviously, identification with the Table is much more readily achieved if it is central, with the congregation sitting around it. This conveys a sense of involvement in the action of the Supper. The pastor celebrating from behind the Table is a reminder that the Lord is in the midst of the congregation. Generous space around the Table will facilitate freedom of movement on all sides. The people must be so related to the Table that there is a rapport with the celebrant, but not so close that the space about it becomes crowded.

It is preferable that the people receive the sacrament at the Table rather than merely being in its presence. To receive the sacrament at the Table involves one’s choosing to take the bread and wine, rather than being passively served. In standing around the Table people more readily sense their place within the family of God.

The manner in which the Lord’s Table is used should clearly speak of the character of the sacrament. Therefore, only those articles used in the eucharistic liturgy—the Communion vessels with the bread and wine, and the service book—should be placed on the Table. Whenever such things as flowers, a cross, and a large, open Bible are placed on the Table, making it a shrine to focus the attention of the congregation, the primacy of the Supper is dissipated. Candles may be set on stands around the Table. Flowers may be placed elsewhere in stands. A cross may be located on the wall behind the Table or suspended above the Table. The Bible should be associated with the pulpit where it is read and interpreted.

Offering plates should have their own place apart from the Table. To place them on the Table confuses the nature of the sacrament. The sacrament should speak clearly that God’s grace is prior to our response, that it is God who takes the initiative. It is therefore preferable that another place other than the Table be provided for the offering, such as a credence Table or a shelf near the Table.

It is appropriate that the Lord’s Table be used for all portions of the service, except the reading and interpretation of Scripture. This was Calvin’s practice. The Table is a more appropriate place for prayer than the pulpit, the place of proclamation. An alternate possibility is to lead the confession of sin and the prayers of the people in the midst of the congregation. Such practice clearly conveys that these are the people’s prayers.

The Lord’s Table should be treated with the respect entitled it. Although we do not make it a fetish or place it under a taboo, we do expect that the Table be respected. It ought not be a place for coats or piles of music during choir rehearsal, a convenience to Sunday School teachers for their lesson materials, a countertop for ushers to count the offering, or a station for tellers to count ballots. It is true that it is only a table, but it is the appointed place to set forth the clear sign of God’s grace-filled acts. Respect for the place of sacramental activity naturally flows from a deep appreciation of the significance of the sacrament itself, for which it is the sign. The Lord’s Table will stand in our midst as a clear sign of God’s presence only when it is allowed to express simply, clearly, and without ambiguity the Supper, which is central to the life of worship.

Summary

The reading and interpretation of Scripture, baptism, and the Lord’s Supper are the indispensable actions of Christian liturgy. Around these three actions, the church orders its prayer and praise. Since each action is central to the church’s life, the pulpit, font, and Table are to be given prominence. In order for the essential character of Christian worship to be clearly seen, without distortion or ambiguity, each center is to be designed with great care. Each needs its own separate and uncrowded space. No single center should dominate, deny, or distort the significance of the others. The locations ought to express both the distinctiveness of each as well as their unity and interdependence. The space for worship should clearly say that it is through baptism that one enters the community, which is continuously nourished by Scripture and Eucharist.

More than anything else about a building, these three liturgical centers aid in our growth in Christ and help root us in the essentials of the faith. As parts of the actions they enable, these centers can assist us to understand the meaning of the gospel, to shape us into a Christian community, and to keep before us the essential character of Christian worship. They can do this only when they are carefully designed, shaped by the liturgical action, informed by solid theology, and in continuity with historical tradition.

The Church Building as a Home for the Church

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The church building is the home for God’s people, providing identity and a place in the world. The article illustrates how the change in liturgical understanding since Vatican II has changed the understanding of what a church building wants and needs to be for God’s people.

What does the building want to be? Architect Louis Kahn, whose work ranges from the Sears Tower in Chicago to the Unitarian Church in Rochester, New York, introduced this question into the discussion about architecture. Although the question has been posed in a variety of disguises throughout the history of architecture, Kahn’s phrasing stands in stark contrast to the modernist preoccupation with function: What should a building do? In light of Vatican II, its reformed liturgy, ecclesiology, and view of the world, Kahn’s question may be asked more specifically: What does the church building want to be?

We may answer the question by showing how the church building has undergone a change in identity from the house of God to the home of the church. An appreciation of this change is now fundamental for designing church buildings and worship spaces. The new paradigm for the church building is, in light of the reforms, the home.

House of God—Home of the Church

Adapting an older church building to the liturgical reforms is often difficult and frequently unsuccessful. This indicates the radical shift in the identity of the parish building. The older buildings were not meant to house worshipers. They were meant to house God, and this was consistent with the theology inherent in the liturgy and popular piety of the times.

With the Counter-Reformation of the sixteenth century, the Roman church aggressively attempted to defend against the confusion introduced by the Reformation, especially regarding the Eucharist. For example, the Council of Trent reaffirmed the doctrine of transubstantiation, which holds that the substance of the bread and wine undergoes a radical transformation at the moment of the consecration and becomes the body and blood of Christ, even though appearances remain the same. Reaffirmation of this doctrine renewed devotion to the consecrated host, a devotion that had its genesis in medieval church history and nourished later as the reception of Communion waned. What people felt no longer worthy to receive, they could worship and adore from a distance. Thus, the consecration at the Mass became the raison d’etre of the Mass.

Parallel with this devotion, preaching took on a life of its own outside the Mass. Architects then designed churches to feature the sermon and the consecration. The pulpit became prominent; acoustical projection became essential. However, except when the pulpit was in use, the focus was the high altar where the consecration could be seen. With the increasing focus on the consecrated host, the tabernacle found its place on the high altar. Thus, even after Mass, one could prolong that moment of consecration by gazing at the tabernacle, which typically was placed where the priest would have elevated the host. The tabernacle often included its own balcacchino where a monstrance, which also served to keep the faithful focused on the consecrated host, could be enshrined.

The architecture of the church—from the reredos that embellished and augmented the tabernacle to the plan of the building—reinforced the importance of the tabernacle and the theology it symbolized. The lines of the church from the main entrance led the eye to the sanctuary, up a flight of stairs, to the high altar upon which the tabernacle rested, augmented by an elaborate backdrop. Here was the locus of God’s presence, where one could witness the sacred moment and sustain it in worship and prayer.

In effect, the Tridentine church became a tabernacle to house the tabernacle that housed God. One came to church to pray to God who resided there. God’s court could be found there, too, hence the various side altars and shrines for the Virgin and various saints. The church was a place to make a sacred social call in God’s earthly dwelling.

We should not be too quick to denigrate such piety. It was practiced for centuries and was supported by a formidable theology. The greatest and most sophisticated architecture gave expression to it. Such architecture served the spiritual needs that today we run the risk of ignoring, forgetting, or denying.

The Essential Recovery

That piety, however, neglects the essential character of the eucharistic liturgy that the church needed to recover. To Christians, the divine presence is not manifested primarily in objects and images, but in the community of believers, especially when they gather for the eucharistic liturgy.

Despite the long tradition of seeing the consecrated host as the primary manifestation of God’s presence, the documents of Vatican II, along with subsequent documents, emphasized the primary importance of the assembly. The assembly not only has the right and duty to be present at the liturgy, but it also has the right and duty to take an active role in it. The liturgy, which formerly was a rite performed by one man for a passive congregation, became a ritual celebration demanding the activity of all present—from actively listening to the Word of God to moving around an altar in song and prayer. Sacred objects, instead of helping to focus attention on a consecrated host, now facilitate the liturgical action. In short, what was formerly the house of God has become the house of an active congregation.

The difference between the house of God and the house of the church reflects the difference between two significantly different kinds of prayer. Since Vatican II, both private passive prayer and active public prayer have been encouraged. However, they require different times and, perhaps, even different spaces. The house of God is suitable for private prayer, which calls for quiet and solitude. Even when devotions are done in common, they are essentially passive. Gestures, movement, and active responses are typically detrimental. Such prayers engage the imagination, experience, and emotions and may be deliberately inspired by sacred images and objects.

True community prayer is exactly the opposite. Because it requires the faithful to gather together as a community, it is predisposed to socializing. Entering the church quietly, saying a prayer, and waiting for Mass to begin is no longer appropriate. Community worship requires the active participation of people: to greet each other; to sing and pray with one voice; to wish each other peace; to break bread and share it; to drink from the same cup. The eucharistic liturgy still engages the feelings and imaginations of the congregation, but this occurs less through extraneous visual images beheld by the individual and more through the word, action, and symbols of the liturgy made available to the entire assembly.

Where Is the Sacred?

This shift in the nature of the church building also reflects a shift in the way the church perceives herself—from militant and triumphant to personal and serving. With Gaudium et Spes the person received renewed recognition and importance. With Lumen Gentium the people of God recovered their identity as a church of disciples and servants. With Sacrosanctum Concilium the Sunday assembly assumed a vital significance as the visible manifestation of the body of Christ gathered again to remember and reenact the saving work of the Lord.

The church needs a new architecture to house its people, its liturgy, and its other activities. This new architecture must have a “good feeling in terms of human scale, hospitality and graciousness. It does not seek to impress or even less to dominate.” A monument or temple of exaggerated proportions is no longer deemed appropriate.

The document Environment and Art in Catholic Worship suggests another possibility. “The congregation, its liturgical action, the furniture and other objects it needs for its liturgical action—these indicate the necessity of a space, a place or hall, or a building for the liturgy.”

Since the council, architects like E. A. Sovik and Frederic Debuyst have designed such halls and parish buildings fully equipped with portable altar, movable platforms, stackable chairs, office rooms, classrooms, and what Sovik calls the centrum, a space large enough for a congregation to meet for any number of reasons, only one of which is the eucharistic celebration. The new space is meant to facilitate and house the activities of a parish or faith community. The main centrum becomes a space that can be adapted to the needs of a large group, but primarily it provides space for the celebration of the Eucharist.

One might question the appropriateness of this multipurpose hall for the liturgy. As Environment and Art in Catholic Worship indicates, “such a space acquires a sacredness from the sacred action of the faith community which uses it.” At the same time, the community of the church and her liturgy find their home in the space because the space is sacred. This is not a simple matter of cause and effect, but a matter of the mutual relationship between the space the community. What is sacred about the space must be sustained by its design and “feel.” To use the metaphor from modern architecture, the model of the multipurpose hall is in danger of becoming nothing more than a machine for worship. To paraphrase Frank Lloyd Wright, the church building is a machine for worship, but architecture begins where the machine ends.

Look Homeward

Environment and Art in Catholic Worship, with its emphasis on hospitality, graciousness, and human proportion, suggests that the church building should be a home, a dwelling. A home is more than shelter, more than skin to house the inner activity. Like Heidegger’s understanding of “thing,” a dwelling gathers “world.” It is the space where life occurs. It serves as a reference and orientation point. The home, the dwelling, becomes for the household part of the fabric of its life together. Home is the place where the person creates his or her world. It is the place where the person is at home in the world. This is not a matter of convenience, appliances, or decoration, but a matter of meaning, harmony, and integrity.

What are the characteristics of the home that might be pertinent to the church building?

First, the home is both public, or at least a semi-public, and a private place. It shelters, facilitates, and becomes integral to the ritual activities of the household. At the same time, it allows and fosters spontaneity, individuality, and solitude. As the place that gathers the world, establishes and maintains meaning, it must be instrumental in gathering family and friends and in gathering the self. It must help designate the subsets of the world that stand for the world and that are progressively more intimate: friends, family, lover, self. It thus articulates one’s relationship with the world.

Second, the building becomes home when the household takes possession of it. This is not accomplished by the exchange of title deeds. The classical Romans had the custom of carrying and moving their household gods with them. The household “moved in” when the gods were established in the house. The household moves in when the spirit of the family meets the genius loci, the spirit of the place, and the two are wedded, shaping each other and accommodating each other. The family takes possession when those tokens, those things which stand for the family, are established and when the new place embraces the rituals and the uniqueness of the individuals who contribute to the household’s spirit. This is not an immediate occurrence, but one that takes time and that resists manipulation.

Third, the home must stand over and against its surroundings as well as respond to them. As the subset of the world, it is of the world and opposite to the world. To maintain a sense of the mutual relationship between the home and the world, the home includes something of its surroundings: plants and animals, for example. The house, built of materials like stone and wood, assumes characteristics of its environs, while open windows for view and air allow for interpenetration of the world within and the world without.

The fourth follows from the third. Even as the home articulates the distinction between outside and inside, it must also celebrate the transition from one to the other. Entry into the home is carefully arranged so that it becomes something of an event. One removes outer garments, proceeds through a vestibule, and so on. The home is supported architecturally by a porch and a door that is an integral part of the structure, but more than a machine for gaining entry. All this conspires to promote a feeling of hospitality and welcome. The dwelling opens its arms and enfolds the one who enters and then sends them on their way.

Fifth, the house needs a center around which the household gathers. In some cultures and at certain times, this was the hearth or the fountain in the middle of the courtyard. Perhaps now it is the kitchen. But it must become the center for the group’s most intimate and significant experiences. It must provide a means for preserving former experiences and for documenting the history of the household. The hearth is perhaps the best example of this. Favorite chairs were placed around the hearth. Pictures and family relics were displayed on the mantelpiece. The center is the place within the space that gathers the household, gathers meaning. It is the center of the world; the place where the family is most at home; the place where the family leads its guests to be at home with them.

Thus, the house as home facilitates relationship and communication as well as the withdrawal from them. It is a place replete with meaning and memory, a place that encourages and ritualizes the activities which are sacred to family.

Moving In

The church building is a public facility, but people who use the church building are bound together by a faith which makes them more a family than a random collection of people on independent paths.

Although there is a communal aspect to the church building, the design of the building must allow for the need to withdraw, to be alone, to pray. The building which houses the people of God and becomes the facility for their prayer and worship must accommodate both public and private prayer.

To be at home in the church building, the community must take possession somehow and move in. The household gods must be established, so to speak. The spirit of the community and the genius loci must embrace. This is achieved in a number of ways and on a number of levels. First, the design of the church must communicate the presence of God, whether the community is assembled or not. Through its eloquent beauty, it must bespeak the presence of the holy. For Catholics, the “household God” moves in when the blessed sacrament is reserved and the red lamp burns. The blessed sacrament testifies to the lasting presence of God. The “household gods” move in when the patron is adopted and the beloved Virgin finds a home.

In terms of its surroundings, the church building, like the home, must stand over and against its environs and, yet, relate to them. By separating the space for the people of God, the building thus groups the people and gives basic architectural expression to the unity of those who assemble there, but which does not extend beyond the walls to those who do not believe. Yet the church serves as a witness to the world. To be entirely self-enclosed, with no relation to the world, would frustrate the community’s essential duty to the world.

A sense of welcome and hospitality must be woven entirely into the fabric of the building. This does not take the place of a welcoming community, but architecture has the capacity to help make hospitality possible and more likely. Moreover, even when the community is not assembled, the solitary visitor ought to feel welcome to enter and pray. A church, especially in a busy urban area, has the responsibility to be a place where one can withdraw momentarily in order to recollect oneself. Such a welcome can be achieved through the combination of several elements: a vestibule; light; warmth; color; familiarity; and a place for coats, hats, bags, and so on.

Hospitality is not merely a matter of functionality. The design of the church must embrace the community and the individual. It must reveal the God who summons a people to gather. The break in the boundary, the entrance, must serve as the invitation and the point where the building begins to reveal itself.

Finally, the church building needs a center where the most significant actions of the community can be experienced. This center is where the Eucharist becomes “the summit toward which the activity of the church is directed” and “the fount from which all the church’s power flows.” Although this place is conducive to and may be used for other events such as concerts, other artistic performances, meetings, and prayer groups, its vital importance as the space for the Eucharist must not be compromised or violated. Any activity that divorces the sacred experience of the liturgy entirely from the space is a questionable practice. Space acquires its sacred nature from the activity of the community, but the sacred is not so transient a characteristic that it can be disregarded immediately after the sacred activity is completed. Like the house, the church building becomes part and parcel of the sacred activities of the community and cannot be violated without violating the sensitivities and the dynamic of the community.

The Second Vatican Council reestablished the church as a people called to holiness and to be witnesses of the good news to the world. It also reestablished the Eucharist as the activity of that people, a ritual that asserts their identity in relation to God. In light of this, what the church building wants to be is a dwelling for this people, the place that allows them to be, the center of their lives, which holds and communicates the meaning of their lives. Nothing is so expressive of this meaning as the eucharistic liturgy, and the church building that houses this sacred activity becomes an integral component of it. More than a platform or a facility for their activity, the church building becomes the place where this people gathers its world and its greater meaning, which is not finally thought, but felt. It is where religion is articulated and restored through the community’s experience of God. The church building is that existential foothold where the community is at home.

The “Public Language” of Church Architecture

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Church buildings should be designed with consideration of how the general public will relate to the space they define. Church architecture is one language by which the witness of the church may be made known. Church buildings may be valuable to a community both as a space for communal activity and as a symbol of what community stands for.

In a few pages of his classic book The Shape of the Liturgy, Gregory Dix described what it might have been like to come together for Christian worship in second-century Rome. It is very, very early on a Sunday morning, which was a working day in Rome. The setting is a somewhat generous home—typically a series of spaces surrounding the central atrium which might be open or covered. The tablinium, which is a couple of steps up, is the place of the bishop and elders. Others mostly assemble in the atrium, which has its pool, the impluvium, and the cartibulum, a small, blocky Table. There are many elements of the event that endure to this day and others that we might well recover.

It is noteworthy that the architectural setting had a humane and domestic character instead of a monumental one. This was quite fitting for the Christian concept of worship; the assembly was a sort of family reunion. In sharp contrast to most other religions of the time, Christian worship was very much a communal occasion and not an exercise in personal piety.

Another interesting thing about the place is that though it had architectural dignity, it was what we would call a “secular” place; the architecture itself had no ecclesiastical features. For as Justin Martyr said in the year 155 when Rusticus, who was the prefect of Rome, asked him where the Christians worshiped, “The God of Christians is not circumscribed by place, but is invisible and fills all heaven and earth. He is worshiped and glorified by the faithful anywhere.”

A third noteworthy characteristic is that the place was one of functional variability; it was not used exclusively for worship. Clement of Alexandria wrote, “We have no temples and no altars.” Typically, the structure was sturdy and durable; but the artifacts of worship, the lamps for reading in the early dawn, the books, fabrics, and vessels were portable and kept in storage between times.

These are qualities that we can, and I think should accept as continuities between the way early Christians conceived their places of worship and the way we conceive ours. Nevertheless, there was one very radical difference between worship in those early centuries and ours. Theirs were hidden from the public eye. Even when it was no secret, it was private. Neither the liturgy itself nor the structure that surrounded it was open to the public. There are circumstances like that in our world too, and those Christians who must worship in secret must feel a particular kinship with the early Christians.

But our condition is quite different and much happier. We may have if we wish, public worship; and we may build whatever we need and can. Their service and their public witness, charisma, and kerygma, were apart from the liturgy and outside the place of assembly; ours need not be separate.

Buildings and Symbol Systems

What are the implications of all these similarities and differences for those who design and fund the buildings of the church?

What I have to say emerges from the fact that architecture is not only a useful shelter but language. It is a silent language, a symbol system through which Christians can communicate. They speak of themselves, for one thing, reminding themselves Sunday by Sunday about the body of Christ—who they are and what they hope to be. And they speak to other people—the public—about the household of faith and what it is that binds this household together as believers and as disciples.

We are not, by the grace of God, a secret society. We address the public. One thing we have to say is that we receive life as a gift from the Father, and through the Son, forgiveness. It is only reasonable then that Christians respond in the way they design their structures. People who receive gifts of grace and love respond, if they are grateful, with a kind of vivid joy. And so there ought to be a kind of liveliness and joy in the language of our architecture.

There are a million ways of accomplishing this, and I can’t begin to tell you how. But I can say something about what a church building must not be. It must not be a dull, banal, prosaic, commonplace, architectural nothing. It must not be ugly. It must not seem to be something done only out of duty, or stinginess, a cowardly workaday drudgery. It should be a gift not in payment for but in response to a gift. A beautiful thing.

And of course, it must not only be a gift of the congregation to itself, but it must also be a gift from the family of God to others. For if we have received the gifts of life and forgiveness, and if we want to acknowledge the relentlessly loving God, we must be relentlessly loving in turn to the people about us—even in the way we build our buildings. Bonhoeffer described Jesus as being “the man for others” and said that it was only proper that his followers should also be for others.

So, if there is ever the impulse to say, “After all, it’s only a building for ourselves so let’s keep it down and not get too excited about it,” think again. Architecture speaks, and the language is public.

On the other hand, if there ever is the impulse to say, “Let’s build a great monument with a fine tower, so people all around can see it and say, ‘That’s where the Disciples go to church; they surely let themselves be known,’ ” think again. Is that tower just another self-serving billboard?

A Design for Others

The best way I can propose that Christians acknowledge God’s gifts is to approach the work as a few of the congregations we have worked with have. They have said to themselves: “We want a building that isn’t just for us; we want a building through which we can supply some of the unfilled needs of the community we belong to. It will be so planned and so available that it can be used for other purposes besides ours. And this will be our gift to the people around us.”

What that meant, of course, is that they didn’t build what we usually think of as traditional, single-use “sanctuaries.” They grafted onto the oldest tradition instead and built places that could have varied uses. A Catholic parish agreed that if they were in earnest about being hospitable to non-Catholics, they ought to avoid the typical array of Catholic devotional accouterments. So there are no holy-water stoups fastened to the walls (though there is a great vessel of running water at the door); there are no sculptured or painted stations of the cross (which exist instead only as signs in the floor along one wall); the only crucifix is one brought in on a staff when Mass begins; the stained glass is beautiful, but has no pictures of iconographic symbols; the tabernacle can be veiled with a screen; and the liturgical furnishings are movable, including the altar-Table. It is a place just about as secular as the house where the early Romans assembled. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t a fine place for the Mass. We call the place not a church, nor a sanctuary, nor a nave. And it surely isn’t an auditorium. We call it a centrum—a fine hall for various kinds of assemblies of people, including liturgical assemblies.

A couple of other centrums we have designed have been used as banquet halls, even for such things as political dinners. Why not? They are noble rooms and anything that happens in them is made nobler by the environment. So a double gift is given: a place for the public event and an environment that bestows upon the event a dignity it wouldn’t otherwise have.

What the church says in this public language is what it ought to be saying: “We are the people for others. And even our buildings are intended to be vehicles of service to others.”

Symbols of Roots and Responsibility

Here is another sentence from the public language: Christians live in history, between memory and hope. Our present life is part of a thread that traces back to Jesus and beyond, and it will be spun on from us and through us into an unpredictable future. We have roots in the past, which we treasure.

Architecture supplies a visual and useful symbol of rootage and continuity. Human history is not at the end chaotic, aleatoric, a matter of chance and accident. We may not have very complete or secure knowledge of the order of time, but we do believe in order, and in destiny. And we do believe that when God gives us the stewardship of a piece of land and the means to build a piece of the world, we must do it responsibly.

What does “responsibly” mean? It means that we build coherent structures that are meant to survive because we believe in history. Buildings that can be symbols of our sense of time or our hope, and a good heritage for future generations.

We tend to look at old buildings in two ways. Sometimes we think of them as trouble; irritating, intractable, outworn candidates for the headache ball. And then there are those we cherish. They wear their datestones like medals of honor. What’s the difference? Generally, the first kind of buildings wasn’t really good even when they were new, and they got worse. The second kind was done well and beautifully. So, we adopt them as symbols of our roots and history.

But, one may ask, why should we strain ourselves to build well when the future is so insecure, change is so certain, and it is such a burden to do things well? San Antonio is a great city to supply an answer. For here in San Antonio, we have five missions built by the Spaniards 250 years ago. They built simply, durably, and beautifully. Today those missions are the treasures of the whole populace. They supply a heritage even to people who haven’t been in the city very long and aren’t Roman Catholics. They are occasions for wonder and pleasure, and a sense of rootage in a transient and fractured society. And what if they are no longer place of worship? Those ancient Spaniards gave a gift to more people in that architecture than any of them might have thought possible.

Accommodating Change

As Christians, we live in a context of change. We pray for change daily when we pray “thy kingdom come.” We bivouac, we live in contingency, we look for reformation, for renewal, for growth, and for change. How then should the language of architecture deal with this and at the same time deal with permanence, durability, and roots?

If we start with the conception of the early Christians and of the centrum, rather than with the conventional single-use ecclesiastically oriented place of worship, incompatibility disappears.

A centrum is a piece of secular, earthy (not other-worldly) architecture. It is essentially a beautiful assembly hall, intended for people, but not shaped around any one particular configuration of people and furniture. There aren’t any ecclesiastical motifs in the architecture. It’s just a nice part of the world, and a durable, permanent one capable of accommodating change.

Consider what is likely to change. Even if the centrum’s major use—perhaps for the time its only use—is worship, we know the patterns of worship will change. The numbers of people vary, the kinds of liturgical or paraliturgical events vary. And each condition of use has its own proper configuration of people and furniture, changing with the occasion and changing with the passage of time.

So in a centrum, we may accommodate change—even invite change—because almost all the furnishings (as in the early Roman house-church) are movable.

It is these things, these artifacts, that make a place convenient to worship. And their portability and changeability is the symbol that our life as Christians is provisional, contingent, a life of becoming as well as life of being. The people and the artifacts turn the place into a place of prayer.

Minnesota senator Hubert Humphrey once said, “The beginning of all practicality in politics is a vision of things as they ought to be.” I think the statement is equally valid if you substitute the word architecture for politics. For like politics, architecture is a reflection of people’s self-understanding, and architecture, like politics, is the art of the possible. The beginning of all practicality in architecture is a vision of things as they ought to be. I’m going to suggest such a vision.

Somewhere in America

Imagine a fine big room that is vacant except for chairs arranged on three sides of a platform which is made up of sturdy, but movable modules. Someone brings in some plants and flowers in pots and vases. Some of these are put beside a pool of running water near the main entrance, some at other places around the room. The custodian hoists a great banner behind the platform. It is vermilion and white and has two words on it because it is Pentecost: “Fire! Fire!” He wheels out a cart full of hymnbooks and places this cart just outside the main doors. He opens the doors wide.

Some people come, take their books, and find seats. Ushers appear. More people come. The organist begins to play. A procession forms. Two people bring in a rug and roll it out on the platform. Four men carry in, shoulder high, a fine Table. Two candle bearers bring lighted candles and set them down. A deacon brings a colored tablecloth with a Pentecost motif. Another one comes with a fine book on a pillow and puts it on the Table (the service book). Then the choir comes in, each with a candlestick (because it is Pentecost), and they part at the door and spread the candles all around the perimeter of the room. Then comes a cross-bearer, with a staff and cross that is set in a position where it hovers above the heads of the people. And behind come the ministers who take their place.

The verbal part of the service then begins. But the service really began when the room began to be transformed (converted?) by the people and things that make it a place of Christian celebration. The movement and action aren’t over yet. When the time comes to read the Scripture, another small procession begins—two candle bearers and the bearer of a fine and large Bible. Nothing trivial is to happen here, like reading the Scripture from the back of the service folder. And when the Communion service begins, an elder brings a white linen to spread on the Table over the colored cloth, and the Communion elements are then brought to the Table too. At the end of the service, while the people are still singing, the procession reverses, and the centrum again becomes just another very fine part of God’s world, available for other worthy purposes.

So, architecture is a witness to being and becoming, certitude and contingency, the general presence of God in the world and the special presence of Christ in his body, the church.

A Noble Speech

There are a great many other things that this kind of approach to the language of architecture can reveal about the church. But now I ask you to think about the two words, public language, in a different context. I take my clue from the language of speech.

We have seen in the last decades some remarkable changes in the texts of worship. For instance, the Roman Catholics switched from Latin to English or other local speech in the liturgy. That’s the sharpest change perhaps and a very admirable one. But there have been others: an Episcopal priest wrote a book of prayers titled Are You Running with Me, Jesus? One of my sons came back from camp a few years ago with a new Table prayer: “Rub-a-dub, thanks for the grub! Yeah, God!” and another came back singing, “Be present at our Table, Lord” to the tune of the Gillette razor jingle.

Perhaps you may have the same fears as I—that the public language of our worship is being depreciated. The intent has had a certain validity. The artificialities of the public language of worship had separated religion into a discreet category of life. The language had no currency. So it has been contended that worship had no relevancy.

Something similar has been happening in the architecture of worship. The artificiality of the Gothic and Georgian was held under siege by a generation of so-called modern architects. Georgian and Gothic are pretty well gone, and good riddance. But the old styles were followed by uncertain, sometimes brash, sometimes capricious new forms. “Get with it, get hep,” many of them seem to be saying, and saying it too loudly. And more recently there has been a current that seems to use domesticity not as a paradigm but as a model. “The church is like a family,” they seem to say, “obviously the church building must be an oversize rambler.” Not long ago I was in a big new structure where the interior surfaces were wallpapered. And we’ve all probably seen new church buildings filled with the same modish chrome and plastic chairs that we see in restaurants and hotels. I’m all for using chairs, but not just any stackable commercial chair.

There is a difference between the everyday language and a public language. The everyday vernacular is surely acceptable for conversation and for private prayer. But liturgy is not conversation, and it is not private prayer. It is proclamation, or praise, or common prayer. Public language has its own style, cadence, and dignity. It is not esoteric, but it verges on poetry.

Some may object for fear that I am backsliding to the ecclesiastical jargon, the “language of Canaan,” with its circumlocutions, its pious embroidery, and its indirections and pecksniffery—the kind of speech that substitutes “he died” with “he forsook the fragile tabernacle of this world.” We’ve all heard this kind of quaint euphemism that weakens thought and camouflages reality. Architecturally, we do the same thing when we take the Latin cross—which is an image of the instrument of execution on which Jesus died—and camouflage it with sweet decorations or distort it into something elegant and pretty until it is no longer a symbol of the real tragedy and terror.

What we must have is a public language, both of speech and architecture, that is direct and real, noble and gracious. Listen to this: O God, for as muche as without thee, we are not able to please thee: Graunte that the workyng of thy mercie, may in all thynges direct and rule our heartes; through Jesus Christ our Lorde. Terse, unsentimental, rhythmic, full of feeling.

This is not the everyday vernacular. It is a public language, as good today as in 1549. The thee’s and thou’s have no inflated value, of course; you is just as good.

The virtue of Bishop Cranmer’s prayers is not that they are ecclesiastical jargon, they aren’t; they are a public language. For public language exists also in the secular world. For example: “Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.” That’s public language just as surely as Cranmer’s. Public language in speech and architecture is quite distinct from the vernacular. It is secular, but it is not commonplace prose.

Bridges Are Needed

Can we make the architecture of our church buildings a public language? Neither ecclesiastical nor trivial, but direct, real, earthy, secular, vigorous, and at the same time noble, gracious, and beautiful? How shall it happen?

Clearly, it won’t happen by accident. It won’t happen if we try to get by with half-skilled, half-educated, half-sensitized, and halfhearted designers. The distinction is much too subtle for mediocre sensibilities. We need the very best professional help we can get. There is one way toward the goal.

But there are aspects of this work that we can’t expect many architects—even the best designers and most responsible professionals—to bring, ready-made, to the work. We won’t find many of them very sophisticated in church finance. We won’t find that they know much about church policy and the processes of decision-making in church affairs. And we may find that they have not thought any more deeply about worship and theology and Christian piety than the typical minister has about the subtleties and complexities of architectural aesthetics and technology.

A bridge is usually needed. And that bridge is the consultant. A consultant can widen the people’s horizons regarding architecture and deepen the understanding of the architect in the areas of churchmanship, worship, and theology—and in the relationship of these things to architecture.

The issue before us, of course, is not so much how we get where we want to be; there are various routes. But we must clarify our visions. And I think that if we are careful about that, we will find that we are rediscovering and recovering some of the most ancient patterns of church life and grafting onto the most elemental traditions of our faith.

A Biblical Philosophy of the Visual Arts in Worship

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As worship arts, the visual arts include architecture, sculpture, painting, mosaic, and the crafting of artifacts. These arts create durable objects that may be seen and handled. Although of lesser importance in the biblical perspective than some other art forms, the visual arts may serve as effective windows into the holy.

Static Nature of the Visual Arts

With the exception of architecture and its associated furnishings, the visual arts are given lesser importance in biblical worship than are other art forms. The reason for this may be found in the character of Yahweh. The Bible associates his name with a Hebrew phrase meaning “I will be who I will be,” and makes clear that he is known by his people through their experience with him in the ongoing events of redemptive history. In other words, Yahweh is not known statically, as a reality to be grasped only at one moment of time; no static image can represent him. Rather, he represents himself dynamically, as one known through his actions and deeds of deliverance.

The visual arts tend to have a static character; that is, objects of visual art may exist in their entirety at one moment. Moreover, they do not require the participation of a community in order to exist; a temple or a painting does not cease to be when no one is looking at it. On the other hand, literature (especially in its oral stage), music, and liturgy are dynamic arts. They must be presented over a period of time, and they require the participation of the community in order to exist. These dynamic arts can more adequately reflect the character of God as he has revealed himself within the biblical tradition, in the context of his covenant, and of the unfolding of his historical purposes. Further, though all the fine arts tend to be the creations of gifted individuals, the need for individual design and execution is greater for a material object than for a work of music, literature, or drama, which can be modified by those who recite or perform it. The visual arts, however much they may assume traditional forms and may be intended to express the identity and faith of the artist’s community, are still prone to be personal expressions, stand-alone creations representing the work of an individual.

Nevertheless, since worship depends on symbolism, the visual arts play a role in the worship of the covenant people. The fashioning of effective symbols requires the skilled hand of the artisan. There is the ever-present danger that the symbol can be misunderstood—the dilemma of Jeroboam, whose bull images of Yahweh’s throne (1 Kings 12:28) were too easily taken for Baalistic motifs. Ancient Israel always faced, and often yielded to, the temptation to compromise the historical faith of Yahwehism by combining it with the cyclical, mythological rites of popular fertility cults, with their associated idolatry. Also, it is an easy step to magnify the symbol over the reality it represents. The indispensable function of symbols as windows into the holy, however, requires that the biblical worshiper employ them, taking the risks involved and trusting in the integrity of the covenant faith and its precepts to protect him or her from apostasy.

Architecture: The Temple

The great visual symbol of biblical worship is the temple. Both the Solomonic and the Herodian temples were architectural monuments, neither of them destined to survive the centuries (although the foundation stones of the temple enclosure remain as the Qotel Hamma‘‡ravi, or Western Wall, in Jerusalem). The temple of Herod was still under construction during the time of Jesus’ ministry and was completed only a few years before its destruction by the armies of Rome in a.d. 70, as Jesus had predicted (Mark 13:1–2). The decorative motifs of Solomon’s temple, of which we have a good biblical description, disclose the link between the created order and human artifice. On a larger scale, the temple was really an architectural microcosm of the whole of creation, of “heaven and earth.” In it, the worshiper encountered God enthroned in the heavens (Ps. 123:1), establishing the earth (Ps. 96:10) and preserving its creatures (Ps. 36:6–7), defeating the enemies of his people (Ps. 76:2–3), and blessing the land as the source of the river of life (Ps. 46:4; Ezek. 47:9).

Israel’s theologians understood, of course, that the sanctuary, however magnificent as a work of art, was inadequate as a bearer of the sacred (1 Kings 8:27; cf. Isa. 66:1). Moses did not invent the design of the tabernacle but was told by Yahweh to make it according to the pattern he would reveal (Exod. 25:9); in the New Testament, we encounter the concept of the heavenly sanctuary, of which the earthly one is but a copy (Heb. 8–9; cf. 2 Cor. 5:1; Rev. 11:19). No holy place of human construction may contain the presence of the holy; in Jesus’ words to the woman of Samaria, “neither on this mountain [Gerizim] nor in Jerusalem” (John 4:21) may people worship the Father in the authenticity of spiritual worship. Nevertheless, the Israelite temple, as a work of art and beauty, is the background for the New Testament symbolism of the worshiping church, the New Jerusalem, the tabernacle in which God dwells among his people (Rev. 21:1–3).

Artistic Craftsmanship

To execute a work of art requires craftsmanship; in the biblical perspective, craftsmanship itself is an art form, employing the skills of the artisan in the creation of useful objects. A corollary of the dynamic conception of Yahweh as Creator of a coherent universe and the doer of “mighty works” in his historic deeds of deliverance is the ability to find beauty in that which is utilitarian, that which functions properly and accomplishes useful work, as well as in that which is decorative. This is especially true of the implements of worship. Only this can account for the prominence given to the skilled craftsmen Bezalel and Oholiab in the instructions for the creation of the tabernacle (Exod. 31:1–11). When viewed with an eye to visual appeal, the artifacts of the Mosaic sanctuary are mostly functional rather than “beautiful” in the aesthetic sense. They are described in terms of how they are to fit together for assembly, disassembly, and transport during the travels of the people; this is their “beauty.”

Scripture places a high value on skillful work: “Do you see a man skilled in his work? He will serve before kings; he will not serve before obscure men” (Prov. 22:29). Such was true of Huram-abi (also called Hiram), the chief craftsman of Solomon’s temple. He was sent to Solomon by Hiram, the king of Tyre, who furnished the materials for the sanctuary, and though Phoenician he was half Israelite (2 Chron. 2:13–14). The application of training and skill to the worship arts is also seen, for example, in the work of David’s musician Asaph and his associates (1 Chron. 25:1–7). The apostle Paul gave voice to the foundational biblical philosophy of artistic craftsmanship when he placed it within a wider context: “Whatever you do, whether in word or deed, do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him” (Col. 3:17).

Painting, Sculpture, and Mosaic

Painting as an art form was practiced in ancient cultures, though most of what has survived for the appreciation of the modern student has been limited to decorated pottery or frescoes on the walls of tombs. The sculpture and statuary of Hellenistic civilization are well known and played a major role in the recovery of the principles of classical art during the Renaissance. Sculpture in stone was an important art in Semitic cultures of the ancient Near East, as attested by the numerous cultic images, palace bas-reliefs, commemorative obelisks, and the like that have come to light through archaeological research. Mosaic, or inlaid multicolored tile, came into use at a later period than these other arts, beginning with Hellenistic floor designs and becoming increasingly important until well into the Christian era.

The Bible does not discuss these visual arts, except to condemn and ridicule the sculpted images of the polytheistic religions (Ps. 115:4–8; Isa. 44:12–19; 46:1–2; cf. Acts 17:16; 19:23–26). In the centuries following the New Testament period, Christian theologians held a negative view of the visual arts, rejecting them as sensual and unspiritual. Here, as with so much else, the post-apostolic church departed from the biblical perspective, influenced by Hellenistic philosophy, which created an unscriptural dichotomy between the spiritual and the material. Paul had decried such asceticism, calling it “hollow and deceptive philosophy” (Col. 2:8) and asking, “Why do you submit to regulations, ‘Do not handle, Do not taste, Do not touch?’ ” (Col. 2:20–21 RSV).

Despite the strictures of theologians, the visual arts flourished in the early church; the ordinary worshiper at this period had a more sure instinct than the theologian for what was biblical. The walls of the Roman catacombs, or burial chambers, are adorned with scenes and characters from the Bible, including events in the ministry of Jesus, and with Christian symbolism. The same is true of sculpture on early Christian sarcophagi or stone coffins. A favorite theme, for example, was that of Jonah and the great fish, a symbol of the Resurrection (Matt. 12:40); it appears on the tomb alleged to have been Peter’s, in Rome. The loaves and fish of Christ’s feeding of the multitude (John 6:1–14) occur, in fresco, as a symbol of the Eucharist. Furthermore, the catacomb paintings provide a pictorial record of the early church, depicting men and women with arms lifted in prayer. As the church emerged from its subversive status and began to erect buildings for worship, the art of mosaic took up many of the same themes. The pointillistic, two-dimensional technique of mosaic gives it a special quality as a vehicle for the expression of the numinous. It was to reach its peak of development centuries later in the majestic Christos Pantokratōr (“Christ, Ruler of All”) mosaics above the apses of many basilicas in the Mediterranean world; in them, we view an awesome, powerful, living Christ, his right hand raised in the gesture of blessing, in his left the gospel book.