The Transcendent Power of La Sagrada Familia
Cathedrals scare me? What Gaudí teaches us about loving God, neighbor, and the selfie-takers.
I guess we have to start at the beginning. I’ve been attempting to process my time in England at Hutchmoot, and then the subsequent adventures in Spain post-England, but since being back for a couple weeks, the days have gotten away from me. Work resumed, summer class started, I got stuck in an elevator for over an hour, my roommate moved out and married, a new one moved in and I’ve been remarkably anti-social since Spain. The next few days are wellness days because my body has decided to become a sick little beaver and shut down for a while and I don’t blame it. It’s all been a little too full of hobbit-adventure, so while I spend my time power-healing, I’m planning on finishing up reading a few books, ignoring all responsibility, and I can’t stop thinking about the Sagrada Familia.
Cathedrals scare me. I remember walking around the Vatican several years ago with a bit of a shiver. Seeing St. Patricks in New York in April for the second time this year also gave me a phantom feeling of depression. There is this enormous tension I feel of wanting to love the beauty and grandeur of the Catholic cathedrals and revel in their detail and majesty — and then feeling nauseous on the inside for unexplainable reasons. It wasn’t until Montserrat, Catalonia, Spain that I was able to figure out why.
The Abbey of Montserrat tucked away in the mountains will reach its one thousandth birthday in 2025. The mountains themselves are spectacular. Some surprising folks from British Columbia, my friends, and a currently-stationed US Marine in Germany all went on the three-hour hike around the Abbey of Montserrat but were first given a tour of the inside to catch the idea of what the religious order of the Benedictine monks were all about. They are about amazing things: welcoming those on pilgrimage, showing hospitality and devoted to prayer and work (I mean, sign me up).
The Basilica part of the monastery is darkly gorgeous. It’s heavy, cool, foreboding presence makes you want to light a torch (light something on fire) and glide through the space. I was blown away by it’s beauty — a hidden, forbidden beauty. Sitting on the wooden pews and looking up at the altar piece of the crucified Christ I found it hard not to wish for a spiritual experience in such a rich place.
The altar piece. The famous black madonna. The incense. The candles. The stone. The statues of saints littered around the church, religious art painted in the rafters and the detailing on everything supported by the marble flooring was immaculate.
The space is entirely absorbing. Hushed footsteps. Whispers. It calls out for sacredness, but if I were writing a screenplay… the villain would be the one living in this Basilica.
Is your God a joyful God?
At English L’Abri last year someone asked the question: Is your God a joyful God? And if He is not, then where does that leave us? The Abbey of Montserrat emphasizes the crucifixion part of the story, and I get it, it’s supposed to be dark. But it’s only one part of the story. Where is the light? Where is the resurrection and ascension? Where are the other key parts of the gospel? Where is the new creation? And why do the stories told through the statues and paintings have to feel so closed off and inaccessible to the people? Literally tucked away on the side of a mountain range?
We could get into the history of architecture one-thousand years ago and how Basilica’s had to be dark (made of stone) and their walls had to be thick to prevent the building from caving in, or we could look into papal doctrine to start explaining some of these choices, but there was no spiritual experience that occurred for me. Just ideas for a screenplay. It was the freedom of the hike around the monastery, in nature, that brought some transcendence into view.
God doesn’t sequester himself in a mountain. He comes down to humanity. You don’t need to go to a thousand-year-old Basilica run by the religious order of the Benedictine monks to find saving grace and redemption. God is equally transcendent and immanent. He found us in the hike, in the sleepless altitude-car-sickness, in the conversation with strangers struggling for words to describe the beauty. He found us in the birdsong, in the thunderstorm and in joyful companionship of friends.
I left those mountains feeling grateful that God comes to humanity, he bridges the infinite distance with the incarnation. He is with me, here in my room in Boston as much as he was with me hiking those hills. Christ is the way, the truth, the life. Christ is God-with-Us, the Immanuel who is not confined to basilicas or church buildings or darkly-lit cathedrals. Christ is resurrected. Not forever crucified. All this being said, while I was about to write cathedrals off forever, I wasn’t prepared for the shocking splendor of La Sagrada Familia.
Is your God a joyful God?
For Gaudi — inexplicably yes.
Enter La Sagrada Familia.
After having enjoyed Park Güell the day before we considered touring the Sagrada Familia, my friends and I were enchanted with this weird and delightful architect Antoni Gaudi, who nearly failed architecture school and was a misfit of his time. We love the misfits, the earth-shakers, those whose vision feels misunderstood in their own generation. The unfinished works of Turner, the unappreciated Van Gogh — the persistent artists who keep to their vision at all costs. They are the ones to follow.
Park Güell sparked our interest and appreciation for Gaudi’s use of color, and the way he based so much of his architecture on nature (he is known for saying “the straight line belongs to man, the curved one — aka nature — belongs to God”) but we were not prepared for his life’s work to hit us so hard at the Sagrada Familia.
All of the darkness felt at former cathedrals appeared non-existent in Gaudi’s imagination of a house of worship. The outside is crowded with imagery upon imagery of the Gospel. Countless events from Jesus’ life are told in stunning style, it’s overwhelming. And it’s public. The story of the gospel is for the people to see — you don’t have to enter the Sagrada Familia. You just have to gaze on the outside and you’ll know what it’s about. Half of our tour was just about the outside of the building. Accessible for all. When asked about the intense passion facade on the outside, Gaudi said: “Some may find this doorway too extravagant. But I wanted it to inspire fear, and to do so I used plenty of chiaroscuro, recesses and protrusions, all of which provided a gloomy effect.” I love that. The outside does inspire fear. It’s hard to look at.
The outside is the novel, it’s clamorous. But the inside? The inside is like entering the garden of Eden. It’s glorious. When I entered I felt my entire heart/soul/mind being lifted up. It was a laughing and a crying moment. Surely, this will last. The inside of the Sagrada Familia is like a forest: the pillars are trees, the stained glass sides depict the nativity (in blue, yellow, and green) and the passion facade (in orange and red) include the resurrection and the whole building is about light and color. It felt so incredibly sacred and playful at the same time.
I don’t think I can describe it much further because I’m still astonished by it.
The altarpiece (all the way at the front of the first photo) is not like a depiction of the crucifixion that I’ve seen before - it’s entirely Trinitarian. God the Father is depicted above the vault (triangles everywhere) Christ on the cross hangs, and the heptagonal “baldachin” surrounding Christ symbolizes the seven gifts and presence of the Holy Spirit.
This place is a whole world inside of a world. And it’s been “under construction” for over a century. It is said that Gaudi saw no need to rush because he knew his client was God. This sentiment brings me back to what a Ally Gordon said at Hutchmoot: “There is no rush in the new creation.” While I am not building something like the Sagrada Familia with it’s eighteen (casual) towers, I share in Gaudi’s peace of knowing that God is the audience of one for whom we make.
About the selfie-takers
While I was having my transcendent moment of glory inside this astonishing building, relieved that this was a cathedral (basilica? catholic church?) that I was totally in love with without feeling any trepidation, what also made an impression on me was how loud and boisterous people were inside. Unlike the Abbey of Montserrat where the darkness drowned everyone into a point of silence, the inside of this space felt too approachable for the average tourist to not be, well, tourists. The center of the Sagrada Familia was sectioned off as a place for quiet prayer and reflection, but those warnings were neither enforced or respected.
After sitting up front toward the altar piece to take in the splendor, I watched countless people walk up in front of baldachin, have their friend take a selfie of them, again, again, and again. It was relentless and I found myself getting more annoyed with how tone deaf people can be to profound Beauty and Truth right in front of them.
As the influencers went on influencing, I found a truth slowly dawn on me as I watched the posers prance under the crucified Christ. They know not what they do. Even at the second coming of our Lord, one day, someone will go Instagram live. Or whatever version of Instagram we’re on when the Lord returns. They do not know about the Story that they find themselves in. I felt a lot of my anger shift into compassion as I looked around at all these blinded-by-the-lights humans knowing that the whole point of redemption is for God and His glory, yes, but it’s also for these beautiful fools who don’t know that the ground they’re on is holy ground. And it is holy ground. I’ve never felt more intent to not take photos of a beautiful place than I was in the Sagrada Familia. And yet, I realized that it is my occurring tendency to be just like them — a selfie-taker on holy ground.
There are eighteen towers being built on a building in the middle of Barcelona that is showcasing the glory of God, and we think it’s cool to take a selfie and, once again, make it all about ourselves. Sounds familiar, right?
God’s holy ground will be fine. The building will be fine, the Truth is secure, Beauty transcends, God came for the fools, he came for me, and even if all we can do in the presence of glory is take a selfie — grace persists even more. It’s our empathy toward those who have not yet been given eyes to see that makes us able to stand, or worship on the holy ground.
love love LOVE this Elizabeth!!! you have a gift with both pictures and words
I’m still blown away too. Thank you for taking me back.