environment

The Worship Environment at Christmas

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Will the parish Christmas decorations show good liturgical sense? Here are some guidelines for planning the worship environment for the Christmas season.

Decorations should not be limited to the area around the altar, ambo (pulpit), and chair. To do so creates a stage setting. Keep this area free from distraction by limiting the floral arrangements around the altar and by placing crèche figures elsewhere. Hackneyed decorations, such as masses of poinsettias or wreaths hung on every pillar, though beautiful in themselves, can have a numbing effect. Such overkill also obscures what these decorations signify.

First determine how you will embellish the assembly area, especially in the space over everyone’s heads. Then determine where more “intimate,” deeply traditional elements will be put—an apple-hung fir tree, a large suspended globe of intersecting wreaths, a place for the icons of the Christmastime feasts, the Bethlehem scene. These things are best located where they can be visited and contemplated before or after worship—near the baptistery or the gathering area or a shrine.

The most serious problem facing all parish ministers in preparing the Christmas season is the schizophrenia of the parish in early January when its church building is clad in red, white, and green but the homes of the parishioners (and the parish school) have already been stripped of their finery. Under such circumstances, worship is a sham. Liturgical ministers can’t begin to do their jobs unless they also help the parish live the Christian calendar at home as well as in church.

Wasting money and resources on decorations is certainly offensive. However, equally offensive is the notion that miserliness in worship somehow reflects the gospel. The gospel doesn’t demand that we pretend to be poor, but that we break down the barriers between rich and poor. If ethnic customs are any gauge, the poor know the value of flamboyant festival excess. Communal celebration means the pooling of resources to enable those who live in everyday simplicity to share in festival abundance. Fasting begets feasting. Perhaps we shouldn’t judge celebrations by the money spent but by the efforts invested by rich and poor alike, all made able to contribute their gifts and talents to one another.

The whole notion of decorating for Christmastime creates unique problems with few easy solutions. For example, at this season, any exceptional effort in liturgy, such as fine music or decorations, has the potential for coming off as just another holiday extravaganza. Yet Christmastime, especially in its full flowering at Epiphany, calls forth the “brightest and best” the parish can muster (although that should never turn into something pompous or triumphalistic).

The evergreens, flowers, or lights—anything you might use to grace Christmas worship—runs the risk of reminding people of a shopping mall, of appearing to glorify money and power. Ironically, the more beautiful and well-executed the Christmas worship environment is, the more it is likely to remind some parishioners of commercial displays. This is an unsolvable dilemma, exacerbated by many Christians’ lack of appreciation for their own symbols.

Opening Up Our Images

Environment ministers—those folks entrusted with the care and keeping of the material things of the liturgy—have a responsibility to open up for parishioners the meaning of the images of Christmas. While trees, wreaths, lights, and holiday foods we see everywhere in December have various meanings to many people, we often forget that Christians have found specifically Christian meanings in these symbols and held them dear for centuries.

If we ask ourselves what a tinseled tree or an evergreen wreath or even a plum pudding has to do with the birth of Jesus in Bethlehem, we’re likely to be stymied. But if we ask what these things have to do with the union of heaven and earth, with time dissolving into timelessness, with the everlasting presence of Emmanuel, God with us, then perhaps we will find our answers.

The bright tree is our return to paradise. With greenery and flowers, winter melts into Eden’s endless spring. Fruit cakes represent the harvest of justice. Eggnog is the milk and honey of the promised land. Sending cards hastens the ingathering of all people. Mistletoe heralds the coming of the Prince of Peace. Lights strung around our doors welcome all the world to the homecoming of heaven.

Each of these holy signs can offer comfort and joy, and they can also offer a tremendous challenge. Like the prophets, like John raging in the wilderness, our Christmas symbols can threaten us to open our doors to those who have no feast, to restore this good earth to the freshness of Eden, to labor long to bring about the reign of justice and compassion. Holy signs are always a two-edged sword.

Even the crèche is not so much a representation of a birth long ago and far away, but the birth that is to be, of the “hopes and fears of all the years,” when the poor and the rich will stand side by side with animals and angels, offering themselves each to the other, lost in wonder and praise, the circle of the saints surrounding the Lamb.

Evaluating Visual Art for Worship

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Visual art is made for communication and expression, and thus must be evaluated for how it accomplishes these tasks in a liturgical context. The evaluation process must be sensitive to be theological and aesthetic considerations. In particular, arts for liturgical use are best presented and evaluated in the context of the Christian year or the particular Sunday for which it is created.

The visual arts present opportunities to look at long-standing prejudices and ideas about art in worship and to search for fresh ideas in a field shunned by many faiths for a long time. It is presumed, in this article, that what we are evaluating is temporary art, rather than architecture or more permanent additions, such as sculpture, stained glass, or furnishings.

The Broader Questions

Many of us are untrained in the visual arts. We are vaguely aware that art can decorate our walls, and that some people collect art, and that some institutions enshrine it for the rest of us to venerate. We can appreciate art that pleases us. We can even find a place for visual art in worship, especially during Christmas, when our secular life holds such a strong promotion of nostalgia. Creches and greens are then a part of the times and do not offend our sense of appropriateness for our worship spaces.

Is this how we evaluate the function of art in worship? Is it to entertain? Does it provide the traditional image to particular festivals? Do people have to like art for it to be acceptable in worship?

Many of us have tolerated another form of art—that which instructs or gives a message. We permit slogans or cliches to appear on our walls, brightly colored, in the form of banners. Occasionally we even abandon words, substituting instead a cultic vocabulary of esoteric symbols or crests from creeds of the past. Our favorite medium for this is felt and Elmer’s Glue, and we often “design” by vaguely copying examples from religious catalogs or poster books. We even totally ignore the space it will show in, disregarding color or size as relevant considerations. Such religious “propaganda,” such it is because its function is to persuade or educate us, attracts our attention for a moment or two, but seldom goes beyond this. It is quickly dismissed or overlooked beyond a first glance.

Should art used in worship be the Word made visual? Should it explain, justify or connect an illustration as illustrative of a theme or idea from Scripture or sermon? Is it less important than other parts of worship?

Another tradition of the visual arts has been that of the icon or religious image that serves as a meditative focus for prayer. Usually, these images are stylistically and iconographically predictable. Their function is to become transparent to our experience, almost magic in their ability to transform our humble words to prayers fit for the Holy to hear.

Is there religious art and secular art? Is subject matter the most important quality to consider in evaluating such art? Can religious subject matter ever become kitsch? Or sentimental?

There are dangers in attitudes like these that are used to evaluate visual art in worship. Many of us are uncomfortable with sentimental religious experiences, sensing with embarrassment their inability to address the complex and conflicting questions and priorities before us today. We see cloying sweetness and innocence leading toward indifference or hostility toward the world as it is. We also are jaded by fads and by slogans and are impatient with cliches. Our artists often sell out to our aesthetic limitations, choosing instead to approach us as yet another client for a commission, yet another advertising design challenge. They do not give us art, but a product they think will please us.

We hunger for truth, honesty, and freshness. We wither without our imaginations. We cry out for visions of glory. We want our sons and daughters to dream dreams, our old ones to see visions, and our men and women to prophesy. I believe it is here that we must begin to evaluate art that is used in our sanctuaries for use in worship.

Specific Ideas

What, then, is appropriate for worship? Obviously, such an evaluation begins with a clear understanding of what theme or season is highlighted on a particular Sunday. It is probably more appropriate to look backward at credal images on Reformation Sunday than on Pentecost. Thorns belong more to the austerity of Lent than the abundance of Epiphany. Many churches find art for worship flowing naturally when particular Scriptures guide not only the sermon and music but all other aspects in the liturgy. The use of a lectionary or similar long-range plan makes such creativity practical.

There are certain aesthetic considerations in visual art that have parallel sensitivities in the other arts. Visual art is evaluated by these criteria: composition, color, scale, harmony, counterpoint, and the environment in which the piece is hung. Usually, scale is the most difficult concept to grasp. Many of us simply make things too small! A grand scale, like one would use in stage-set design, conveys of itself a graciousness and majesty that automatically adds a sense of glory and importance to worship.

One of the reasons artists make art is for self-searching and self-expression. When working for a congregation, this cannot be the focus. Here we are making art for communal use and common expression. Here the work is not for self, but rather for communal identity. When our own experiences can be made broad enough or transparent enough in their meanings that the community can use them or claim them, they can be appropriated. But even here, it is not a personal testament as much as a corporate vision that works.

The strongest criteria of the quality of art appropriate for worship is its ability to evoke, to involve, to refresh, to provoke, or engage the worshiper on an emotive rather than a rational level. Such art allures us, calling forth response before calling for explanation. It is often very difficult to talk about it at all. Often images based on an emotional response to the Scripture or theme of worship for that day are the place to begin. Usually, these are semiabstract in form, engaging our imagination rather than instructing us.

There are not categories of spiritual feelings and nonspiritual feelings. We must be ready to accept the intensity of all the feelings evoked and integrate them with faith experiences.

Finally, for the work to have integrity, it best arises out of the people themselves. It is created for their own community at a particular time, for a particular occasion, on a specific site. This is perhaps the most difficult dimension of evaluation. Not every church is able to claim artists among their own, nor find artists willing to work within the assumptions and needs of the church. Making visual art is a talent and skill, like making sermons, or making music. Unfortunately, the church has done much to discourage the artist from participating in worship as an artist.

In summary, how is work evaluated? Does it work aesthetically? Especially the scale? Is it integrative, as the other parts of the worship service are? Is it communal in its nature rather than personal or esoteric? Does it evoke rather than instruct? Does it merely decorate? Does it have courage and integrity? Is it imaginative? Does it arise from the work of the people themselves?

When art arises from these parameters, it belongs naturally in worship. It adds a dimension that is unapproachable by any other means. But diminishing any of these parameters by compromise or carelessness seriously weakens this gift.

Yet it is our visual artist who can most clearly show us a vision that hints at the Kingdom of Shalom. It is God’s glory that is reflected whenever one works from courage, integrity, and imagination. It is God’s love made visible in yet another way when the abundance of such art is showered upon us with lavishness and sensuality: a gift that is bestowed with love made visible.

Acoustical Design for Congregational Singing

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Congregational singing can be effectively stymied or greatly encouraged by the acoustical properties of the worship space. Recent trends in church architecture have unfortunately led to the use of more acoustically absorbent materials, which is harmful to this important aspect of worship. The following article provides helpful advice to remedy this problem.

Perhaps the greatest challenge in architectural acoustics is the worship environment. The acoustical characteristics within a worship space must cover the gamut from pristine clarity for the spoken word to enveloping reverberance for the pipe organ. The demands for room responsiveness exceed those of traditional concert halls and multipurpose performance facilities.

A closer examination reveals an even greater richness in this range of acoustical qualities. The speech end of the spectrum must accommodate all types of voices, from lay readers to seasoned preachers who will utilize every available nuance of the dynamic range—from a tumultuous shout to an intimate whisper to poignant silence. Through all this, the Word must be understood throughout the entire congregation.

At the opposite extreme is the pipe organ, capable of a dynamic range and frequency spectrum that can exceed that of a full symphony orchestra. And somewhere between the auditory alpha and omega are the choir and solo voice. They too must convey the Word with warmth and clarity, while encouraging and supporting the participation of the congregation.

Many of the difficulties of combining, within one structure, the requirements for speech intelligibility and musical resonance have been solved. Yet, if there is one facet of church acoustics that might be thought of as the neglected stepchild, it is the provision of appropriate acoustics for congregational singing.

Acousticians serving as consultants in church building projects, whether a renovation or new design and construction, are typically presented with a list of priorities during the initial stages. These invariably include a statement calling for “excellent acoustics for congregational singing.” However, as the project develops, this program element is frequently overshadowed or forfeited in compromise to other perceived needs.

Church renovation or construction projects involve an extraordinary variety of needs and priorities among the clergy and congregation. A church building project is, after all, a multifaceted undertaking and will typically involve

1.     An organ. The selection and cost of an organ can be a major issue. Usually, a committee is appointed to study alternatives and make recommendations. They may spend a year or more touring neighboring churches, interviewing organists, and debating the pipe-versus-electronic and tracker-versus-electropneumatic issues. The installation of a significant instrument can easily exceed $500,000 and have major architectural and aesthetic ramifications.

2.     A choir or music program. Here too a committee may be selected to address questions of placement of the choir, provisions for rehearsal space, new robes and robe storage, and so on.

3.     A sound-reinforcement system. Another committee or perhaps one of the other sound-related committees should be responsible for the sound system. The system must amplify speech intelligibly and perhaps include provisions for music reinforcement, recording, playback, and so on. It must also be visually unobtrusive and preferably invisible.

4.     Furnishings and finishes. The visual elements of the project call for many decisions regarding materials and colors, religious and art objects, seating, lighting, etc. This particular facet of the project is a major preoccupation for the architect who is deeply concerned about the impression the space will make, an overwhelmingly visual impression.

Too often the priority of congregational singing is overwhelmed by the high cost and visibility of other elements. When this happens, it is often assumed (or hoped) that if the worship space is designed to provide good acoustics for speech, organ, and choir, then it will naturally provide a welcome environment for congregational song. This is a reasonable-sounding assumption, but it is not necessarily true. To appreciate this, we might ask what is really known about the acoustical requirements for congregational singing and how these relate to those for speech intelligibility, organ, and choir. Before addressing these issues directly, let’s briefly consider a more fundamental question.

What Is Meant by Good Acoustics for Congregational Singing? This is indeed an intriguing question. When it comes to the qualities of the singing voice, research in acoustics has been primarily concerned with trained voices in the performance environment. This is not an appropriate paradigm for the common parishioner who may or may not be able to carry a tune, who may or may not even enjoy signing. Published studies dealing with the ordinary voice are generally geared toward open-plan offices, speech interference, telecommunications, and the like.

Let’s take a less pedantic approach, then, since there is little scholarship regarding the “optimal acoustics for the untrained voice as applied to congregational singing.” Let us consider some reasonable assumptions to motivate the formulation of acoustical requisites for congregational singing.

  1. The environment should provide support and encouragement for the untrained voice. It should sufficiently enrich and enhance the quality of the ordinary voice so that the singer feels encouraged to sing out, to participate in the communal act of lifting the voice in praise.
  2. The acoustic response of the space should impart to each individual in the congregation a sense of being a part of the assembly, an assurance that one is not alone or unduly exposed.
  3. The environment should convey to each parishioner the awareness that, as small as one’s contribution may seem, it is a meaningful part of the whole.

To summarize, the ideal environment ought to enhance the quality and fullness of the voice, provide a sense of envelopment, yet provide a sense that one’s simple gifts are an essential part of the whole and that this whole is profoundly greater than the sum of its parts. We seek, in essence, a sonic analog of unity, echoing the concept of the oneness of the assembly, while acknowledging the sanctity of the individual.

This is, perhaps, a rather grandiose concept; it surely exceeds the aspirations of even the most accomplished acoustician. But the concepts embodied in these lofty ideals suggest some well-understood acoustical principles. An insightful interpretation of these requirements can provide the proper acoustical conditions for congregational singing. Let’s take a brief look at some of the fundamentals involved.

Reverberation. Most people have some familiarity with reverberation time, the quality of sustain that occurs in large, hard-surfaced spaces. One need not be an acoustician to have some sense of the sound enhancement provided by a cathedral with a six-second reverberation time, a space where it takes six seconds for a sound to fade to inaudibility. Some of the more erudite may be aware that concert halls typically provide a reverb time of two seconds or more for symphonic music and that a pipe organ requires more than three seconds. There are many well-established benchmarks for “optimum” reverberation times for all types of environments and all forms of music. There are, however, no comparable reverberation criteria for congregational singing.

Nonetheless, reverberation is unquestionably a major and necessary factor for enhancing the quality of the ordinary voice in worship spaces. It also increases the loudness of a sound. Reverberation is, after all, made up of the myriad returns of acoustic energy from sound-reflective building surfaces. This energy combines with the original sound and increases the apparent loudness of the source. You might think of the analogy of a light source in a room. If the wall surfaces are covered with a dark, non-reflective finish, the overall illumination throughout the space will be less than if the finishes are light and reflective.

Sound-Absorbing Materials within the Worship Space. In most churches designed for good acoustics, there is a minimum of sound-absorbing material. In fact, in most churches, the single greatest sound absorber is the congregation itself. The fully clothed person provides about as much sound absorption as four to six square feet of conventional acoustical ceiling tile. A congregation of one thousand can provide as much sound absorption as an entire suspended acoustical ceiling over the nave!

It is fairly well-known that a certain amount of sound absorption is required to prevent echoes and to control reverberance. But it is not generally known that the performance of sound-absorbing material is strongly dependent on the location of this material relative to the sound source.

If a sound source is located quite far from a sound absorber and if this source is also projecting its sound away from the absorber, then the sound will have an opportunity to develop. It will blossom and begin to fill the room volume before the absorption begins to produce its sound-suppressing effect. In a church, these are generally the conditions that exist for sounds produced by the choir and organ. The major sound absorber (the congregation) is relatively far from the choir and organ, and both are oriented so that their sounds project directly into the full room volume. These conditions allow these sound sources effectively to utilize the available reverberation of the worship space.

If, on the other hand, the sound source is located near a major absorbing surface, the sound is directed (more or less) into the absorber, then the sound will be absorbed before it has a chance to be enhanced by the reverberance of the space. As we shall see later, these conditions fairly well describe those that exist for the voices in the congregation. In fact, it is a common perception, from within a congregation, that the choir and organ sound reverberant, while the congregation sounds rather dry in comparison. This is primarily a result of the proximity of the congregation’s voices to the sound absorption provided by the clothed bodies throughout the congregation’s seating area.

Sound-Reflecting Surfaces. Acoustically reflective surfaces are especially important for the support and distribution of unamplified sounds. A choir, if located near sound-reflective surfaces, can project its sound more fully and uniformly. A properly oriented overhead reflector can have enormous beneficial effects by projecting sound to the assembly and distributing sound among the choir members. A choral shell would be a real asset for a church choir, but such performance-oriented furnishings are considered by many to be inappropriate in the house of the Lord. Acousticians often attempt to introduce architectural elements that will perform the same functions as a choral shell while respecting the aesthetics and sanctity of the worship environment.

In much the same fashion, the voices of the congregation could make beneficial use of nearby reflecting surfaces to help distribute their sound throughout the assembly and provide support. However, only those singers near the perimeter will derive any advantage from sidewalls. There are rarely any usable overhead surfaces for the congregation since the needs for long reverberation require large room volumes and comparably great ceiling heights. The only available reflective surfaces are the pews and surrounding floor area.

Acoustical Requisites for Congregational Singing

We can summarize this review of acoustical factors with a statement of the obvious: Long reverberance and supportive reflections provide the foundation for delightful and awe-inspiring sound qualities of the archetypal church. These same factors greatly enhance the sound of the organ and choir and add a larger-than-life grandeur to speech.

It seems reasonable to assume that these qualities should also lend themselves to the need for congregational singing. They do. But they do not assure it. Nonetheless, large room volumes and long reverberation times are basic and minimum requirements for an environment that will encourage participation in congregational singing. We need to look just a bit further to see why these necessary conditions may not be sufficient.

Location and Disposition of the Sound Source. There is one feature of congregational singing that distinguishes it from nearly every other musical acoustic setting: The sound sources and receivers are in virtually the same location. Even more important, the sources and receivers are at the same physical height. There are few, if any, equivalent situations in musical acoustics. (There are some parallels in the acoustics of rehearsal rooms and stages, but the context and objectives are quite different.)

It should be evident that the height of a sound source, relative to the listener, is an important acoustical consideration. From an elevated position, sound is projected more efficiently and uniformly. The architectural acknowledgment of this principle is evident in the traditional form of music performance spaces. The principle is equally applicable in worship spaces. For example, the elevation of the chancel and celebrant takes advantage of the sound projection made possible by this simple height differential. The organ pipes and choir are typically elevated for the same purpose and are often located in a loft. Even within the choir, we typically find risers to take advantage of the enhanced projection of sound made possible by being elevated. Loudspeakers for the spoken liturgy are also placed as high as possible. Comparing these examples with the conditions in the congregation, we see that the assembly is at a decided disadvantage.

Another closely related factor is the directivity of the voice. The greatest concentration of sound energy from the untrained voice projects forward and down at a slight angle. Within the congregation, this tends to direct sound into the back of the person immediately in front. Most of the sound will be absorbed by clothing. What little remains to be reflected and scattered will be further absorbed by neighboring worshipers.

Pew Cushions and Carpeting. For the needs of congregational song, the use of any form of sound-absorbing material in and around the congregation is detrimental. It is not that these materials are the only cause of a poor environment for congregational singing. But, if we examine the most commonly occurring conditions in worship spaces, even in highly reverberant spaces, we see that the congregation already has several strikes against it:

  • The congregation is typically on one level (except where there is a balcony) and cannot take advantage of the benefits to sound distribution provided by elevation, raked seating, or tiers.
  • There are few, if any, proximal surfaces to produce supportive sound reflections and to distribute sound throughout the seating area.
  • The congregation is engulfed in a sea of highly effective sound absorption. The ordinary clothing worn to services is absorptive enough, and in cold climates heavy outer clothing can increase the amount of effective absorption by 50 percent or more.
  • To make matters worse, the normal directivity of the voice projects the sound energy from each member directly into this body of absorption.

The introduction of further absorption in the congregation in the form of pew cushions and carpeting is truly the final blow. It should be clear from the presentation above that this is a matter of physical fact, not simply the knee-jerk reaction of most acousticians who, as everyone knows, are always lobbying against the introduction of sound-absorbing material of any sort.

In fact, pew cushions and carpet produce, simultaneously, two effects that are directly contrary to the acoustical requirements for congregational song:

  • They absorb sound and do so in a highly efficient fashion because of their proximity to the sound source.
  • They occlude the floor and pew surfaces. These sound-reflective surfaces would otherwise be available to provide supportive reflections and to scatter sound among the assembly.

Pew cushions are generally considered to be a comfort issue as well as cosmetic concern. In truth, sitting on a contoured wooden pew for an hour is not a great discomfort. People of all ages are quite willing to sit in far less comfortable seating for even longer periods. Ballpark bleachers and park benches are two examples that immediately come to mind. This is really a matter of perception and priorities.

If pew cushions simply cannot be avoided, there are some alternatives that can minimize sound absorption. Cushions made with vinyl covering or fabrics with latex or vinyl backing will provide less sound absorption than the more common fabric upholstery. There are also closed-cell foams and alternative padding materials that offer adequate comfort without absorbing as much sound.

Carpeting is generally an aesthetic matter. There are many attractive hard-surfaced alternatives (for example, quarry tile, wood parquet, etc.) that would not introduce further absorption in and around the congregational seating area. If carpet is required for safety or to minimize the sound of footfalls, use the thinnest material possible and cover only the minimum area necessary.

Other Factors. Mechanical-system noise is of great concern in worship spaces. A noisy ventilation system can ruin speech intelligibility and cause distractions at the most inopportune moments. This same noise can have detrimental effects on congregational singing.

Consider the fact that background-noise generators are used in some open-plan offices to provide speech privacy and to reduce distraction from conversations and activities in neighboring areas. In such environments, an electronically produced “white noise” is used to drown out sounds from adjacent areas. The artificial noise effectively isolates areas by blocking or masking normally audible sounds. It is much like the effect of running water drowning out conversation in your home.

However, for congregational singing, we need to maximize communication within and throughout the entire sanctuary. A noisy background can greatly reduce the sense of support you would perceive from those singing around you.

Priorities and Compromises. Much of the foregoing has been a restatement of the oft-heard indictment against carpeting and pew cushions in the worship space. Hopefully, it has shown that if acoustics for congregational singing is a priority, then there are few options available, few concessions that can be made. There are no conventional methods that can offset the negative effects of sound-absorbing materials in and around the congregation.

It has also acknowledged the fact that church-building projects evoke conflicting priorities that call for compromise. There will surely be incompatibilities among the major areas of the project, for example, liturgy, architecture, and acoustics. There will even be disparities within these areas such as the conflicting acoustical requirements for speech and music. However, the acoustical characteristics required for choir, organ, and congregational singing are wholly compatible. These same characteristics (with a properly designed speech-reinforcement system) will provide the responsiveness necessary for the full range of liturgical oratory and actually enhance the richness and uniformity of speech distribution among the assembly.

It can be as compelling and uplifting as that which exists in any collective experience. While we might all wish for better singing voices, we must acknowledge that in some endeavors our God-given gifts are limited, but that we can be more than we are individually by being part of the whole. This is, perhaps, an idealized concept of the power of congregational singing, but proper acoustics within the sanctuary can help bring this concept to fruition.

An Environment of Worship that Fosters Devout Attendance and Active Participation

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This article argues for an environment of worship that encourages the full participation of the people and complements the symbolic meaning of the actions of worship, particularly the sacraments. It is written in the context of Roman Catholic worship but reflects the concerns of nearly all highly liturgical traditions. Many of these have been emphasized throughout the Christian church, given the recent phenomenon of liturgical convergence.

We are all aware that today’s liturgy requires a different kind of space than the liturgy of yesterday. But different in what ways? Just what adjustments are required? It may be helpful to reflect on some of the differences between past and present needs. Both new buildings and remodeling require attention to them.

Before Vatican II, the church building was, above all else, a place for devoutly attending Mass. Mass was celebrated as a drama in the sanctuary to be watched by those attending. The primary mode of communication was visual, signaled in architecture by the central, elevated, and normally very large high altar, and signaled in a rite by the dramatic elevations of the host and chalice at the peak moments in the Mass. Any number of secondary elements served that visual concentration: precision movement by celebrant and ministers, symmetrical side altars and candles, deep sanctuaries drawing the eye forward and upward. Virtually everything else was subordinated to that central function of the church building as a place for devoutly attending Mass. Devotional services outside Mass took place before the altar and normally culminated in benediction. Other services either took place outside of church (e.g., anointing of the sick) or were carried out in relative privacy in corners with a bare minimum of ceremony (e.g., penance, baptism).

Today’s liturgy is the result of a reform that sought to replace devout attendance with active participation. Today’s ideal worshiper is not a spectator, but one who is part of what is taking place. The people in the pew concelebrate the liturgy with the ministers in the sanctuary (see #54 of the Instruction of the Roman Missal for the strongest possible statement of this understanding of the people’s role at the liturgy). This displaces the visual as the primary mode of communication. To be sure, watching is an indispensable element of participation in any public act. But watching is not the only element in active participation. People are expected to sing, respond vocally, listen, and, above all, to feel as a real part of what is taking place.

The absolute centrality of the altar has also been displaced by the restoration of the importance of the proclamation of the Word and the communal celebration of sacraments other than the Eucharist. Respect for the presence of Christ on the altar has been balanced by respect for his presence in proclaimed word and worshiped assembly and for his action in all the sacraments.

The arrangement of the church building requires that these enrichments of the Catholic perspective be taken fully into account. Many experts now prefer to speak of the environment for worship rather than speaking of church buildings and furnishings. The term is indeed appropriate. Liturgy is an activity that communicates on many levels and in diverse ways, and it is only when all of these various modes of communication (hearing, feeling, seeing, smelling, tasting, sensing movement) are integrated and work together that the liturgy can work well. There is a genuine ecology of worship that should unite Word and sacrament, people and ministers, Christ and church.

When that ecology is neglected, we have to cope with a liturgy that is confusing and distracting, because it does not clearly signal what we are doing. For example, any number of recently built or recently remodeled churches have a large altar in the center of the sanctuary, flanked on either side by a lectern and music stand. This says, and says loudly, that the Word is only a mere appendage to the sacrament, on more or less equal par with commentary, announcements of parish schedule, and the songs of the liturgy. It is not enough to reduce the size of the music stand. The prominence of the Liturgy of the Word, not only for Mass but also for the other sacraments and for common prayer, requires that we rethink the proportion between altar and lectern. If our worship is to signal the importance of the Word, then the place of proclaiming the Word will have to look important. One of the ways to make it look important is to scale down the size of the altar. As long as the altar is located in the dead center of the sanctuary and is as large as it normally is at present, the altar will be perceived as the only important focus of attention. The conventional elongated altar is an inheritance from the medieval Mass-with-back-to-people and is totally unnecessary now that it can be seen in front of the celebrant.

In fact, our oversized altars confuse the kind of sign that the altar is supposed to be. The point of turning the altar around was not simply to make it visible, but to make it visible as the Lord’s Table around which we gather. But our very large altars inevitably mean that the gifts are swamped in a sea of linen and unnecessary decorations. The average large altar makes the Eucharist look more like starvation rations with window dressing than the banquet of the kingdom. A smaller altar, say four feet wide, would force the removal of flowers and candles to other places where they belong and allow the gifts to look more like a generous banquet.

The height of the floor on which the altar stands is an equally critical matter. The point of turning the altar around and moving it forward is to create a sense of unity with the congregation. That sense is destroyed when the altar stands in an excessively elevated sanctuary or when it stands on steps that are too high. In contemporary liturgy, dramatic elevation of the altar is a distraction. An altar is easily visible without seeming remote if the floor beneath it is elevated six inches for every thirty feet of distance between altar and people. In other words, an altar that stands a hundred feet from the back pew should stand on a floor twenty inches higher than the floor of the nave. If it stands higher, the congregation senses distance and remoteness from the altar.

Scaling down the altar and placing it lower than it once was is a real departure from the practice of the past, and some may see this as demeaning the altar. Emotions aside, it must be observed that the altar does have a different function now than it did in the past. In the old liturgy, it was the liturgical center. Now, the importance accorded to work, to the congregation, to the communal celebration of the other sacraments means that it is a liturgical center, functioning in relation to the lectern and to the people gathered around it.

Also, the primary mode of according a sense of importance to the altar in the old liturgy was its dramatic visibility. Now, the importance of the altar can be dramatized ritually with the shift of ministers from the lectern to the altar after the liturgy of the Word, with the offertory procession, with the visibility of the gifts on the altar, with speaking aloud the eucharistic prayer. We no longer need to rely so exclusively on elevation and size to make the altar appear as a thing of importance. Some new churches are being built with the altar to one side of the sanctuary.

This solves several problems at once. The lectern can come into its own, suggesting the importance of Word as well as a sacrament. The vexing problem of the celebrant’s chair is also solved. When the chair is at the side, its use makes the celebrant seem to be in temporary retirement from the celebration. When it is placed directly behind the altar, the chair either has to look like a throne or the congregation must live with looking over the top of the altar at a bodiless head. In this plan, the chair requires no pedestal or only a very low one, and the celebrant can be readily seen by most of the congregation. The greatest advantage of this plan is that chair, lectern, and altar together constitute a strong focus of visual attention. Credence tables, music stands, and devotional appointments can be readily seen as the secondary items that they are. Radical as this plan may look at first sight, it is also the one that most readily accommodates either a statue or a tabernacle at the side without distracting attention from the liturgical action itself.

Contemporary liturgy requires a larger and lower sanctuary than we normally had in the past, and not only because there are more ministers running around the sanctuary than there used to be. The ministers represent the church at the altar, and so the sanctuary should be experienced as an extension of the place where the people are. In some older churches, this is an architectural, financial, or emotional impossibility. In such cases, some kind of makeshift will be inevitable. But in other churches, the only barrier is imagination.

Another acid test of liturgical ecology is the placement of the font. There is a general awareness that baptism should be celebrated as much as possible as an action of the entire assembled church. It is often indicated by placing the font somewhere at the head of the nave or in the sanctuary. Placing the font at the front does mean that people can see more readily, and there is much to be said for this concern. But there are requirements beyond mere frontal visibility. One of the most important is room for candidates (or parents), sponsors, and ministers around the font. Not all sanctuaries readily provide this sort of room. The font should also be visible to the eye as a thing of importance and dignity. This does not necessarily require that it be of immense size. But when the font draws no more attention to itself than a music stand or credence Table or is rivaled by the tabernacle, it does not have the proper place of importance in the sanctuary.

There is still something to be said for having the font at the back of the church, near the entrance. There is nothing to be said for its being kept in the small and generally invisible baptisteries of the past. If the main aisle is wide enough, the font should stand there. Placing the font in the back suggests in a dramatic way that baptism is an entry into the church, especially if it can be used for holy water, instead of the conventional little bowl. There is an almost superstitious fear of having people touch the font or the water in it, a curious inversion of piety that makes the water more important than those who are baptized. This should be firmly resisted. The real difficulty with the font in the back is not that people cannot see, but that they generally cannot turn around comfortably during a baptism. If pews had a little more space between them, it would be possible to turn around without peril to nylons and knee bones. It should also be noticed that the word font means “fountain” or “pool,” not the sink suggested by the style of the average font. Indoor plumbing has been around for a while, and it is time that the church makes use of this convenience. Priests and catechists deplore the fact that most ordinary Catholics are so tied to the baptismal symbol of washing that everything else escapes them. A real fountain with moving water would suggest life, movement, celebration, as no font without running water can.

Active participation demands that processions play an important role in the liturgy. There is nothing like a parade to get people involved in a civic event, and the procession is the religious counterpart of a parade. A generous aisle that cuts through the midst of the assembly is a must, as is generous space between pews and sanctuary. Almost every rite of the church, to say nothing of the need for room for such necessities as wheelchairs and bassinets (this writer does not approve of the leprosarium called a “cry room”), demands that there be free room for movement.

Closely related to the processional space is the entrance and exit space. A truly appropriate entry to a church would say loudly and clearly that this is a place of significance and a place that gives welcome. Outside, even a small patio entrance would do this. Inside, there should be room for conversation, informal greetings, and real entrance rites. It is not surprising that priests are often reluctant to begin a wedding, a funeral, or a baptism at the entrance to the church. Many of them are not places where most of us would care to linger, much less pray in! Some newer or remodeled churches have the sacristy near the door. Then, not only the space, but also the ministers give welcome to the people, who have come to pray with them. Places used for genuine social occasions, like theaters and good restaurants, have just such generous entrance spaces. Places that have a more utilitarian purpose (like supermarkets and take-home eateries) allow you to move as quickly as possible from the parking lot to the counter. The question is, do we want the church to seem like a spiritual supermarket or a place that houses a serious social occasion?

Many people complain that new or remodeled churches are “cold,” and the complaint is genuine. Some are cold because of insufficient attention to lighting and color or because of poor arrangement. Some are cold because of puritan housecleaning that removes all touches of the past. With careful planning, such things as statues and vigil lights can be placed where they are still accessible for devotion, but not a distraction from communal worship. Some innovations are utterly tasteless—like tabernacles resembling microwave ovens or the refusal to use old and perfectly serviceable pieces of furniture that do not match the new decor. Any room that has all new furniture has certain sterility and flatness because it conveys no sense that this is a room whose users have a common past.

But it should also be realized that the newer church building is much more suitable for public, communal celebration than it is for private devotion. Nothing is colder than an amusement park in the winter or a good restaurant in the early morning, because those are places meant to be filled with people socializing. The more a space is functional for public gatherings and communal celebration, the less it is apt to be a pleasant place for solitude. Our newer churches probably require devotional chapels or corners that invite private prayer and reflection. This would be a far happier solution than the compromises that now afflict our churches—old high altars left in place for the reservation of the blessed sacrament, vigil lights burning before abstract Madonnas, and all the rest. Compromise is an excellent political principle, but it is liturgically disastrous. Good liturgy calls for wholehearted affirmation, and a church that is neither here nor there is anything but a strong affirmation of what we are about.

If a parish does not have a sense that certain things from the past are liturgical distractions, then perhaps its liturgical sensibilities need further education. Improvement of the celebration and understanding of the liturgy may be more necessary than remodeling the building. Better, perhaps, to make a few absolutely necessary changes and to live with a makeshift for a while, than to do a full-scale remodeling that will saddle the next four generations with the problems of their grandparents. Remodeling ought to be done with an eye to further and later improvements. If compromise is inevitable, and sometimes it is, then it should be carried out in such a way that those who are able to make further improvements will not have to undo everything that has been done in the present remodeling.

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.