Description

Faith and Religion in the Present Day

Throughout Europe, church building has always been shaped by a combination of architecture, theology and historical context. The interior and exterior architectonic constituents of a building, in other words its form and content, are always experienced as a whole. Still, today it is churches from the Romanesque, Gothic and baroque periods that most people regard as being archetypal Christian buildings. Despite the Reformation and its appeal against dogma – ecclesia semper reformanda – it was not until the Age of Enlightenment in the 18th century that any long-standing fundamentals were first challenged. Later, during the 19th and 20th centuries, the doctrine of Christianity became the subject of constant revision. Debates such as the relation between faith and reason on the one hand, or the law and the grace of God on the other, have resurfaced since then again and again. Whether or not one’s perspective of the church is that of an insider or outsider, the authority and autonomy it embodies is a paradox, evident since long before the upheavals of the 1960s, that is resolved anew with each generation. And if one were to subscribe to the hypothesis put forward more recently by the Egyptologist Jan Assmann, then suddenly the Jewish, and not least the Christian and Islamic monotheisms stand accused of bringing about new forms of conflict in the world through their rejection of Cosmotheism or polytheism and the introduction of a “Mosaic distinction” – the establishment of criteria such as “right” and “wrong” or “true” and “false” in religion.

For a number of reasons – society’s shift towards an ever more heterogeneous, hedonistic way of life, or an insistence on the absolute religious neutrality of governing bodies, i.e. the strict separation of church and state – Christianity, with its politically, culturally and socially anchored traditions, its rich history and imagery passed down from the Old and New Testaments through two thousand years of history, is gradually disappearing from our general background and education. In many countries, particularly in central and northern Europe, the greater part of the population no longer has any specific denominational allegiance and most people are no longer able to describe the differences between Catholicism and Protestantism. The Sunday communion is in decline, particularly in the larger cities, and no amount of media coverage of the Pope, church services after natural disasters or acts of terrorism seem capable of reversing this trend.

Francesco Garofalo, Sharon Yoshie Miura, Santa Maria Josefa Church, Rome, 2001

What does this process mean? What implications does this have for architecture, and for the building of churches? First of all, and this may surprise some readers, this does not mean that religion will die out. Rather, in modern societies, one can observe a tendency described by the sociologist Thomas Luckmann as “the invisible religion”, a concept he elaborated back in the 1960s. This term describes the shift away from distinct denominations to more diffuse forms of religion, to syncretic, private forms of “belief”. Such patchwork religions cater for a desire for self-expansion, to overcome one’s boundaries and to usher the transformation of the self. The contemporary middle-class no longer seeks the experience of passage from the material to the spiritual – the transcendental experience – in belief, but instead in art, pop, sport and sex. All that remains of religion is the folklore. In the seventies, this diffuse notion of belief as analysed by Luckmann revolved around people such as Jim Morrison and, in more recent times, around figures such as Harry Potter. Similarly, product marketing from the likes of Nike, Prada, Adidas or Louis Vuitton is no longer satisfied with encouraging customers to buy and wear shoes or clothes: their campaigns are successful only once they have won over customers as devotees of their products.

Michael Gill, inflatable church, 2003, exterior and interior views

Historicism versus Modernity

Whether one considers oneself religious, atheist or simply “religiously musical”, to use an expression from the sociologist Max Weber, one thing is certain: the opinion that, as an architect, one need only continue the tradition of church architecture and ignore this shift from away from distinct denominations towards diffuse religion, with all the changes this has entailed, will quickly lead to a dead-end of ill-considered and therefore aesthetically mediocre historicism. The exhibition “Riconquistare lo Spazio Sacro. Riscoprire la Tradizione nell’Architettura Liturgica del XX Secolo”, held in autumn 1999 in the Sala Borromini of the Biblioteca Vallicelliana in Rome is a case in point. Despite the stated purpose of the exhibition in the title – the rediscovery, or indeed the re-conquest of 20th-century liturgical architecture – the exhibits on show amounted merely to a collection of neo-Romanesque, neo-Gothic and supposedly vernacular architecture, which the critics, expecting more serious treatment, scornfully dismissed as “Disney-fied” Christianity.

There are indeed very few good examples of contemporary church buildings that subscribe to a classicist, and therefore also historicist, ideal. Among those buildings, which through their sheer elegance explain why post-modern historicism enjoys such popularity in some circles, are Quinlan Terry’s Brentwood Cathedral in Great Britain (1991) and Léon Krier’s Windsor Chapel in Vero Beach, Florida, USA (1999), the latter also serving as the city hall. The Windsor Chapel, a long, gleaming white and smooth-rendered building with steep pitched roof and green wooden interior, stands in the middle of a small New Urbanism settlement. Its stout architecture resembles both a Greek temple and a long barn. The repetition of similar elements, such as piers, cornices and windows, lends the building a monumentality entirely appropriate to its function as the religious and political centre of Windsor.

Quinlan Terry, Brentwood Cathedral, 1991, exterior and interior views

Leaving aside, for a moment, the escapism of the exhibition in Rome and the work of such traditionalists as Terry and Krier, and turning one’s attention instead to articles on church architecture that have been published in magazines, newspapers and books over the last ten to twelve years, it becomes clear that, despite the fracturing of religious sentiment and despite post-modern historicism, modern sacred buildings continue to evoke considerable public interest. Whilst the welfare and social work undertaken by both of the larger churches is without question highly valued, the building of sacred spaces represents another, more central form of presence in the world for Catholics and Protestants. In short, the church is a cherished part of both the city and the country. Given the numerous architectonic approaches, denominational manifestations and ecclesiastical groups, it is necessary to first consider the context in which a building will be seen by its users and the function it is to fulfil for its congregation, before embarking on any plan. This applies likewise to churches that are yet to be built, as well as to existing churches, whose conversion and adaptation to contemporary uses is becoming an ever more relevant task.

The Church in the City

The Image of Heavenly Jerusalem

The first Christians dwelt in the countryside. However, the missionary activities of the Apostles soon brought the new doctrine to the cities. Already in the early scriptures, the earthly Jerusalem was confronted with the heavenly Jerusalem. In the “Secret Revelation” set down by John the Apostle in Patmos, the city of Jerusalem was described as an elevated city of pure gold arranged within a square plan. Considering the eloquence of the text of the Apocalypse and its powerful imagery, it is little wonder that believers from Classical Antiquity to the Middle Ages were presented with the image of Heavenly Jerusalem again and again. It was evident in the churches of both the Romanesque and the Gothic periods, through their position on a hill, above a river or the market, through the towers at the church’s intersections and corners, through their length, breadth and height and through their scintillating diaphonic windows, which also served as a biblia pauperum (poor man’s Bible). The baldachins over statues of the saints on the west portal or on the pillars within often took the form of a city. Ultimately, every church was said to embody the image and appearance of Heavenly Jerusalem. Even the bronze Pentecostal doors beneath the Gothic canopies and pointed arches on the south portal of Cologne Cathedral, a work by Ewald Mataré from 1953, convey this same message. At the base, the city of Cologne burns, flames leaping from the houses. Only the cathedral withstands the inferno. At the top is a quadratic plan referring to the Heavenly Jerusalem.

Eastward Orientation

Cologne Cathedral undoubtedly occupies a prominent position on the banks of the Rhine. Its location is, however, no exception. In the Middle Ages, churches stood in the centre of the towns and cities. This was the case not only for cities with cathedrals, whose towers on the west end dominated the urban skyline until the advent of high-rise building in the 20th century. It applied to almost every town, even when in Renaissance society the city halls, guilds and palaces began to vie with the church for attention. The eastward orientation of the churches – the altar always pointed towards Palestine, the “Holy Land” – also offered orientation in the literal sense of the word. In cities such as Lübeck, the entire spatial organisation of every square metre of the city centre is determined by its church. It is impossible to lose one’s way – the church towers serve as a point of reference and provide an immediate indication of where one is. Even in the late 19th century, the large churches erected in the new quarters outside the avenues and boulevards of the urban ring provided a similar focal point, often seating up to 1000 persons. Whilst these neo-Gothic or neo-Romanesque churches did not enjoy the same status as a cathedral – this role was now shared between the factories as “cathedrals of work”, the railway stations as “cathedrals of transport”, and the department stores as “cathedrals of affluence” – they nevertheless represented the focal point at the centre of their district.

Alfred Mahlau, “Lübeck” poster, 1934, detail

The Centre of an Urban District

Today a modern church rarely enjoys such a dominant position in the urban realm, and when it does, it is most commonly of symbolic significance, such as Rudolf Reitermann and Peter Sassenroth’s Chapel of Reconciliation in Berlin (2000), which stands on the former highly-guarded strip between East and West Berlin. Besides such symbolic churches, new parish churches are also still being built in the centre of new urban districts. Of this type, often to be found in nondescript surroundings, the following five German churches are exemplary: Laurids and Manfred Ortner’s Catholic St Edith-Stein Church and Protestant Emmaus Church in Bonn (1994); Augusto Romano Burelli’s and Paola Gennaro’s Church of Reconciliation in Potsdam, Bernhard Hirche’s St John’s Church Centre in Kronsberg, Hanover (2000); Johannes Kister, Reinhard Scheithauer and Susanne Gross’ Church of St Maria Magdalena in Freiburg im Breisgau; Florian Nagler’s Catholic St Florian’s Church and Protestant Church of St Sophia in Munich (2005). Four of these churches are paired: whether, like in Bonn, two distinct churches, each with a cut-off elliptical plan positioned on the edge of a larger complex with other municipal buildings; whether, like in Potsdam, one church on the narrow side of the market square with a single space that can be divided for two parishes; whether, like in Freiburg am Breisgau, a concrete sculpture, the folds of which envelope two churches, uniting in a single flowing construction; or whether, like in Munich, a rectangular complex, which at first glance is concealed behind a 10 metre high wall, but which upon closer inspection leads to a tower and square, from which two separate churches can be reached, each of which reveals itself as such only from within.

The fact that, with the exception of Bernhard Hirche’s church, all of the aforementioned buildings were erected as double-churches testifies not only to more widespread ecumenical practice, but also to the need to combine forces to make the most of limited budgets, and, despite adverse conditions, to create a strong symbol in the urban context, even to build bell towers. To this end, parishes team up with municipal or independent projects and develop a joint concept, which may contain sacred as well as secular uses, before finally commissioning a building. In Potsdam, for example, the complex contains spaces for the city and state libraries, an adult education centre and cafeteria; in Hanover the complex incorporates 16 dwellings.

The spaces used for the services themselves, whether for Catholic or Protestant services, are no longer the aesthetically neutral spaces they once were in the parish centres of the 1960s or 1970s. Instead, they now have an exclusively sacred function, a space dedicated to celebrating that “wholly other”. However unremarkable the pure white exterior of St Florian’s Church in Munich may appear, its interior is wondrous, in particular the play of glass and light in the 17 by 7 metre large yellow resurrection window behind the altar, created by the artist Hella De Santarossa.

Ecclesiastic Architecture from the 4th to the 19th Century

Axial and Radial Arrangement / The Development of Catholicism

A Ritual of Word, Bread and Wine

In contrast to the Jewish or Moslem rituals, where the act of worship is conducted solely through the spoken, read or chanted word, the Christian ritual has a dual character. It celebrates the “sacrifice” of Jesus and encompasses both communion in word and the receipt of bread and wine. The communion in word is expressed through the “proclamation” of the message of Jesus: firstly, through passages from the Gospels according to Matthew, Mark, Luke and John; secondly, through passages from the Epistles, letters from the Apostles to younger congregations in the Orient and Occident; thirdly, through a sermon by the priest in which the texts are “interpreted” theologically. The Holy Communion is expressed through the partaking of bread and wine, a symbolic re-enactment of the Last Supper, which Jesus shared with the disciples on the night before his death in Jerusalem. According to the Apostles Luke and Paul, he tells the disciples to “Do this in remembrance of me”, as a form of eternal commemoration.

The dual character of the Christian ritual outlined here briefly – known as the “Holy Mass” among Catholics or “Church Service with Holy Communion” among Protestants – creates tensions between the spatial and built arrangement of almost any church. In the interior, the tension is between the focal elements, between the ambo or pulpit for the spoken word and the altar for the consecration. With regard to the plan, the tension is one of an axial versus radial architectural arrangement, between a longitudinal and transverse rectangle on the one hand and an oval, circle, octagon, hexagon, pentagon, square and triangle on the other. In terms of practice, one can associate the communion in word primarily with the spatial typology of the “lecture hall” and the communion of bread and wine primarily with that of the “dining hall”.

The House-Church

The opposition between “longitudinal” and “circular” plan arrangements began already in the early 4th century. Until then, Christian believers, who were persecuted under Roman rule, met to celebrate Communion in anticipation of the resurrection of Christ in the homes of their more well-to-do fellows. Some of these residences later became house-churches, for example in the years 232-33 in Dura Europos, in what is now Syria. In a converted building near the city wall, a 13 metre long and 5 metre wide hall was created with a raised pedestal in front of its east wall that must have been used by the Bishop, the pastoral head of one or more congregations, as a “cathedra” or official chair or seat.

House-church, Dura Europos, 232/233, plan

Longitudinal Arrangement in the West Roman Empire

The secrecy of the Christian gatherings vanished after the year 312 when the Roman Emperor Constantine put an end to the persecution of Christians, declaring his political allegiance with the rapidly growing Christian community. Large churches began to be erected in cities throughout the Roman Empire. They took the form of a longitudinal market hall or “basilica” – a high central nave with aisles to the left and right, separated by columns, and an apse, a semicircular protrusion in the centre of the end of the nave. This form was deemed especially suitable since, unlike the temples, they had no previous religious significance and were therefore not associated with rituals that the Christians may have regarded as “idolatrous”. An institution that had hitherto been under the threat of law and forced to operate in hiding, the church now expanded rapidly to become a pillar of the Empire, and in 380 under Emperor Theodosius, the Christian belief in Jesus as the “Messiah” or “Christ”, as the “Lord’s Anointed” and redeemer, was declared the official state religion. By 440, four main basilicas had been erected in Rome and dedicated to the Apostles John, Peter and Paul and to the Holy Mary. San Giovanni in Laterano, San Pietro in Vaticano, San Paolo Fuori le Mura and Santa Maria Maggiore – also known as the Patriarchal Basilica – are works of imperial architecture; their form with three or five aisles is a product not of liturgy, the conduct of religious worship, but of the will of the Emperors to demonstrate their sovereignty over the West and East in stone, and to openly declare their claim to eternity.

San Giovanni in Laterano, Rome, 324, plan

San Pietro in Vaticano, Rom, 326, view of its appearance in the early Middle Ages

Circular Arrangement in the Eastern Roman Empire

The Hagia Sophia in Constantinople (537), designed by the mathematician Anthemius of Tralles and Isidore of Miletus, is an inspired gesture with which the Byzantine Emperor Justinian hoped to eclipse all that had gone before. The central space measures exactly 69.86 by 74.70 metres. The central dome rests on pendentives carried by four piers, each 31 metres apart. The outward thrust of the dome is supported by the buttresses of the aisles to the north and south, and by two half-cupola to the west and east.

Anthemius of Tralles, Isidore of Milet, Hagia Sophia, Constantinople, 537, exterior view and plan

The Hagia Sophia marks a shift in the east from the “longitudinal” to the “circular” configuration. Not that all circular buildings necessarily have to be built on a circular plan; rather, they are characterised by a centripetal and centrifugal energy. Buildings of this type were also erected in Rome around the same time as its four Patriarchal Basilicas, for example Santa Constanza (ca. 360) and Santo Stefano Rotondo (ca. 470). However, both churches served not as places of communal worship but as a mausoleum and a baptistery, as places of burial and of baptism. From early on, a centralised architecture was more dominant throughout the entire Eastern Roman or Byzantine Empire – an empire ruled from Constantinople that evolved from the collapse of the Roman Empire and whose cultural roots were more strongly influenced by the Greek than the Latin. Here the old churches have a cruciform plan but with arms of equal length crowned by a large dome, sometimes one large and four smaller cupola. With the emergence of the Eastern Orthodox religions alongside Western Catholic Christianity, the circular form became more widespread and can be found today from Serbia to Syria, and even in far-off Armenia and Georgia.

Pilgrimage Church of St Simeon, Qal’a Sim’an, ca. 500, exterior view and plan

St Gayaneh Church, Echmiatsin, Armenia, 640, exterior view and plan

From the Romanesque to the Renaissance

In the meantime, the basilica flourished in its own manner throughout western Europe. In the transition to the Romanesque, a transept was added at right angles to the nave, the choir was placed behind the altar and the ceiling received a vaulted treatment.

Church in the Benedictine Abbey, Cluny, 1135, exterior view

The Gothic period refined the Romanesque even further, replacing the many towers with one or two principal towers and giving the heavy flat surfaces a light and sinewy character. A pure rotunda was uncommon. The crusading Order of the Knights Templar, who in the 12th and 13th centuries took it upon itself to assume custody of places of pilgrimage in Palestine, based its own buildings in London, Paris, Tomar and elsewhere on the octagon of the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem and the circle of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. In the circular construction of the Church of Our Lady in Trier (ca. 1250), the axial and the radial characteristics conflict with one another; for the reconstruction and renovation of the church in 1953, Rudolf Schwarz chose to heighten this paradox still further by adding a new island with altar and tabernacle.

Church of Our Lady, Trier, ca. 1250, plan

Similarly, the chapels arranged radially around the choir of cathedrals – for example the early 14th century polygonal arrangement of seven chapels around the high altar and the Shrine of the Three Kings in Cologne Cathedral – also belong to the category of centralised architecture, even though in the case of Cologne Cathedral access to the choir, which has a crystalline or crown-like appearance when seen from the banks of the river Rhine, was limited to the clergy until well into the 19th century and so thus not intended for communal use.

Cologne Cathedral, view of its appearance in 1322

The conflict between the longitudinal and the circular configurations reached a new level with the advent of the Renaissance. The discovery of perspectival representation of space and buildings, and the enthusiasm for Greek and Roman Antiquity, both of which should be seen in the context of the anthropocentric character of the time through its utopian vision of uomo universale, led to a renewed interest in buildings with a circular, oval or quadratic plan, often superimposed or in combination. Giacomo Barozzi da Vignola and Giacomo della Porta’s Chiesa del Santissimo Nome di Gesù in Rome (1584), the mother church of the Jesuits that served as a model for many churches to come, sought to mediate between the two plan forms. The directionality of the axis from the portal to the altar is broken at the crossing where two smaller altars, the tambour and dome, direct one’s attention to the left, to the right and upwards.

Giacomo Barozzi da Vignola, Giacomo della Porta, Santissimo Nome di Gesù, Rome, 1584, isometric projection

The pilgrimage church Santa Maria della Consolazione in Todi (1608), designed by local architects and evidently influenced by Donato Bramante, could hardly be more different. Located just outside the city, surrounded by the green Umbrian countryside, the radial arrangement of the church follows a cloverleaf or quatrefoil plan with a large central dome and, as if to eschew any kind of axiality, three smaller entrances not directly oriented towards the altar – the axis from the city-ward door points westwards past the altar into one of the recesses.

St Peter’s Basilica

The conflict between axial and radial arrangements was most extreme in the construction of San Pietro in Vaticano, a process so rich in conflicting conceptual intentions that it took from 1506 to 1626 to complete. From Donato Bramante via Giuliano da Sangallo, Raffaello Santi, Baldassare Peruzzi, Antonio da Sangallo, Michelangelo Buonarroti to Carlo Maderno, it was a process that involved much argument and intrigue, amounting to an ongoing productive destruction and a veritable battle between the principles of radial and axial architecture; ultimately, the figure of the Latin cross with arms of different lengths, triumphed over that of the Greek cross, with arms of equal length.

San Pietro in Vaticano, Rome, five projects, plans

From left to right:

Donato Bramante, 1506

Raffaello Santi, ca. 1516

Antonio da Sangallo, 1537

Michelangelo Buonarroti, 1547

Carlo Maderno, 1607

In the 16th century, St Peter’s Basilica was one vast building site. Right in the middle of this period – from 1545 to 1563 – the Council of Trent took place: this event marked the Catholic response to the theological and ecclesiological challenges of Protestantism and the beginning of the Counter-Reformation. Rome fought the “word” of the new religion using the “imagery” of the old. It is in this period that Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio’s powerful scenes from the life of Jesus and his disciples were painted, so dramatic, even erotic, in their imagery that they shocked, even frightened, those who first saw them. In addition to Sant’ Ivo alla Sapienza’s triangle and hexagon (1660), San Carlo alle Quattro Fontane’s longitudinal oval (1667) and Sant’ Andrea al Quirinale’s transverse oval (1671), this period also saw the dynamism of Francesco Borromini and Giovanni Lorenzo Bernini’s duelling architectures, with their alternately convex and concave forms.

Francesco Borromini, Sant’ Ivo alla Sapienza, Rome, 1660, schematic plan

Francesco Borromini, San Carlo alle Quattro Fontane, Rome, 1667, schematic plan

The church of the baroque became a throne hall, holding the layman at a distance, a place of Real Presence, the actual physical and literally shining manifestation of God on earth. The pious knelt in front of a monstrance made of precious metals, the centre of which they believed held the Body of Christ in the form of a consecrated wafer or Host.

Liturgy and Function / The Development of Protestantism

In the Service of the Congregation

It is well known from the history of San Pietro in Vaticano that St Peter’s Basilica was financed in part by “letters of indulgence” sold by the Dominican friar Johann Tetzel in German cities on behalf of the elector and archbishop Albrecht of Brandenburg. The ability to purchase absolution for such serious sins as theft or manslaughter led Martin Luther to protest openly against such practice. His “95 Theses”, written in autumn 1517, mark the beginning of the Reformation. To begin with, they were a criticism of the “papal” institutions of Catholicism, for example the role of the Pope, whose imperious manner was also evident in the character of St Peter’s Basilica. Certainly, Luther regarded St Peter’s as a symbol of the corruption of true belief. Why build new churches, when there was no lack of churches? Accordingly, architecture played no noteworthy role in the unfolding of the Reformation, in which power and belief were later to enter into a new, uneasy relationship. Nevertheless, one can conclude from Luther’s writings that every church is a function of its liturgy. The space of the church is for the communion of the congregation, for listening to the word of God, for praying and singing, for the sacrament of baptism and the Holy Communion. There is no church building that is holy in and of itself, or built with the intent of being holy. Luther did not share the view of the Benedictine abbot Bernhard of Clairvaux that “trees and stones will teach you what you can never learn from masters.”

The Chapel at Hartenfels Castle in Torgau

The first church to be erected according to the Lutheran notion of liturgy was built a quarter of a century after the beginning of the Reformation. It does not stand in the centre of a city, it is not freestanding and its purpose is not apparent from the outside. Nevertheless, the chapel at Hartenfels Castle – on the banks of the Elbe outside Torgau – was to remain a model for church building until well into the 19th century. It reflected the relationship between the Elector Johann Friedrich I of Saxony as client and Luther as an “adviser” on the liturgical concept of the building. Its form is a response to the experience of the divided medieval church service in which the lay congregation and clerics were separated: in the cities most churches were divided into three sections, the nave, the transept and choir, the latter of which was concealed behind a barrier and platform known as the rood screen. The congregation was allowed access to the nave and transept, but was barred from entering the choir; in front of the rood screen there stood a small altar, around half the normal height, and a pulpit next to one of the pillars. Men, women and children sat on chairs, turning to face alternately the altar or the pulpit. The sermon would often continue for a full hour. To fully comprehend Nickel Gromann’s chapel at Hartenfels Castle in Torgau (1544), one should bear this image in mind.

In Torgau, one enters from the courtyard through a portal and turns left into a 23 metre deep, 11 metre wide and 14 metre high room with a ground floor and lower and upper galleries that extend around all sides of the room. The strong delineation of the segmental arches, the diagonal-ribs and umbrella vaulting dispel the sense of a static space. The altar stands centrally in front of the narrower northwest end, while the pulpit stands in the centre of the long side to the northeast. One is aware of an attempt to arrange the congregation so that it faces one or the other place of focus and yet – although it forces the congregation to direct its attention to different places during the service – the galleries help to make both part of the same space. The seating in the lower and upper galleries surrounds the altar and pulpit on all sides; the removal of the choir put an end to the privilege of the clerics; the congregation shifted from the edges to the centre, the communion and word, sacrament and sermon took place in the centre; Luther was fully aware of all these Protestant innovations when he dedicated the chapel in the autumn of 1544.

Nickel Gromann, Chapel at Hartenfels Castle, Torgau, 1544, interior view with altar and pulpit

However, one contradiction remained. Whilst the focal elements of the new church were represented primarily through their sculpted imagery – the altar through the retable, the pulpit through its relief – Luther swore by the word. “My dear friends,” began the opening words of his sermon, “we are now to bless and consecrate this new house to our Lord Jesus Christ … you [the gathered assembly] too, should take hold of the asperginum and the censer, in order that the purpose of this new house may be such that nothing else may ever happen in it except that our dear Lord Himself may speak to us through His holy Word and we in turn respond to Him through prayer and hymns of praise.”

The Gallery around the Altar and Pulpit

Whichever buildings the Protestants were able to use after the Peace of Augsburg in 1555 – whether Basilica with low side aisles, hall churches with side aisles of equal height, or aisleless hall churches – they initially used them as they were. Figures and likenesses of benefactors on altars that did not serve the “Praise of God” were soon removed. More major alterations ensued as the size of congregations grew to exceed the available space. Balconies and galleries were installed, often with little regard for the existing architecture, crossing windows and pillars; Gothic stonework and wooden baroque were thrust into at times bizarre coexistence. The often unhappy relationship between the focus of the sermon and the Eucharist was first overcome in the 17th century with the Protestant high altar. With the altar below and the pulpit above, this solution offered a single point of focus from which the galleries could extend on both sides, enclosing the room in a square, circle or oval. Friedrich Wilhelm Diterichs’ Bethlehem Church in Berlin (1737) was such a church that could seat up to 600 people. George Bähr’s Church of Our Lady in Dresden (1743) also belongs to this type of church. Although, strictly speaking, it does not have a high altar, the ambo, font, altar and organ all lie on the same axis and can be seen simultaneously. The four liturgical elements are placed on a raised dais behind steps with a sweeping balustrade. It is almost as if the cathedral choir had made a return, as if the Lutheran ideal of the church service had given way to the appeal of the aesthetic synergies of Catholic origin. Was the Church of Our Lady in Dresden a Protestant reaction to the Catholic Counter-Reformation?

George Bähr, Church of Our Lady, Dresden, four designs, 1722 to 1726

The Different Paths of the Reformed Church

Although the earlier German Reformers would probably have deemed the splendour of the Church of Our Lady in Dresden “papist”, they were not entirely hostile to the use of religious images. Luther may have been icono-critical, but he was not iconoclastic, as can be seen in the interior of the chapel at Hartenfels Castle in Torgau. The altar is decorated with a retable by Lucas Cranach the Elder, and the pulpit with several reliefs. The engravings have a specific purpose and are intended to illustrate and clarify the core elements of Lutheran theology – “through word alone”, “by grace alone”, “through faith alone” and “through Christ alone”. In contrast, the Calvinist Reformation in France, Switzerland, Scotland and Holland rejected any form of idolatry, leading to a wave of iconoclastic destruction of statues and images in churches during the third and sixth decades of the 16th century, most notably in Scotland and in Holland. Whilst the Lutheran church attempted to achieve a balance between the altar and the pulpit, placing greater emphasis on the sermon, for the Calvinists the pulpit had absolute priority. Instead of altars in the sense of a place of offering, Calvinist churches had the “Lord’s Table”, which is used only for the Sunday church service and Communion.

The French reformers, better known as the Huguenots, with their trust in the scriptures and obedience to the word, built their “temples” in the form of lecture halls. In the course of the bloody persecution of the French reformers in the second half of the 16th century and again from the end of the 17th until the end of the 18th century, most of their temples were destroyed, including the Temple de Paradis, the Temple de Lys and the Temple des Terreaux in Lyon, a Huguenot stronghold. Fortunately, an authentic perspective attributable to an architect remains, namely Jacques Perrissin’s Temple de Paradis in Lyon (1564). It shows a plain round building, walled on the outside with a timber interior, its roof structure visible from within. The audience sits on simple benches. A balcony runs at half-height around the room. The pulpit is raised not quite in the centre of the room but visible from all sides. The service itself appears strangely relaxed with men and women coming and going. Even a dog has found a place to rest on the floor of the Temple de Paradis.

The Quaker Meeting Houses

Of all the cults and rites, the rituals of the “Religious Society of Friends”, which split from the Anglican Protestant Church around 1650, appears even further removed. Known as “Quakers”, originally a derogatory name given to them for their fearful awe of God, this Christian faith employs neither altar nor pulpit. The rooms in which they meet for an open ceremony without protocol are simple, empty and white. For their often silently conducted prayers they need only chairs or benches. As such, little mention has been made of their buildings in the history of architecture. This is an omission, as a visit to Trevor Dannatt’s Friends Meeting House in Blackheath, London (1972), or to Leslie Elkins’ Live Oak Meeting Home in Houston, Texas (2001), quickly shows. Both buildings have a large central skylight. In London it is an impressive “lantern”, in Houston it is a “Skyspace” by James Turrell.

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Originally published in: Rudolf Stegers, Sacred Buildings: A Design Manual, Birkhäuser, 2008.