Once a week I sing with a community choir that rehearses inside a local church’s sanctuary. The building is relatively new because it was reconstructed after a fire, but it has several features that harken back to a Gothic cathedral. Sweeping timber arches spread across the lofty ceiling like the hull of a ship. Three tall and stately stained glass lancet windows make up almost the entire wall behind the choir loft. The high ceilings and the bare floors create amazing acoustics, and our choir sounds angelic as the music fills the space.
Entering that sanctuary makes it feel exactly that—a sanctuary from the ordinary, from the mundane, from the darkness in the world. I realize that God is not confined to the walls of a church building, but somehow, when you enter that place, He feels closer. In a world that no longer builds cathedrals or creates ornate architecture, a sanctuary like that feels special. We build church buildings today that are utilitarian. In fact, some actually shun building beautiful churches because it might seem too extravagant; money in that amount could be better spent on meeting the needs of our communities and sending missionaries overseas.
Full disclosure: I am a member of a church that is modern in appearance. In fact, it used to be a prescription drug warehouse. It’s been renovated and redesigned to accommodate our growing church. When our congregation was small and didn’t have a lot of resources, it would have been too costly to build a “traditional” church building. Our church is special because of the people that make up the family of God which worships there. But, our sanctuary does not feel like a sanctuary. It’s more like an auditorium. I’d say many church buildings today have corporate worship spaces that are akin to auditoriums or multi-purpose rooms. They don’t take your breath away when you enter.
When David wanted to build a temple for God, he said, “‘Behold, I dwell in a house of cedar, but the ark of the covenant of the Lord is under a tent” (1 Chronicles 17:1). David’s son Solomon was the one who ultimately built the tempIe; it was a sight to behold! The finished temple was extravagant—filled with gold, fine cedar, carvings, and artistry, all dedicated to the Lord. And the Lord did not condemn it. He did not rebuke Solomon for such a magnificent building. When Solomon built it, he described it as “great, for our God is greater than all gods” (2 Chronicles 2:5). The gold, the carvings, the music—all of it was worship.
There’s something about beauty that naturally draws us to worship. It stirs awe and wonder in the same way creation does. Sacred architecture once lifted our eyes upward—literally and spiritually—to remind us we were stepping onto holy ground.
I’d been pondering these ideas for a while and then I heard a guy on Catholic radio talking about inviting people to church, particularly people who are completely unchurched— who have no experience with church at all. He said that he believes it is easier to invite someone like that to attend a Protestant Evangelical church. The music style is usually more familiar, the atmosphere feels less formal, and the order of service is simpler to follow. There’s less worry about when to stand, kneel, or respond, and fewer boundaries around who can or can’t participate in things like communion. In contrast, while evangelical Protestant churches vary widely, they often feel far more casual and approachable at first glance.
I started thinking, “Should it really be that way?” Christians are called to be set apart in every aspect of our lives. Everything about us should look different from the world (1 Peter 1:15-16, Leviticus 11:44-45). When people step into a church for the very first time, do they really expect things to be familiar? Surely they expect to be a bit confused by what is going on. Maybe reverence, mystery, and holiness are supposed to feel a little unfamiliar—especially to someone whose life has never brushed against sacred things before. Perhaps that was one of the drawbacks to the “seeker sensitive” movement from years ago; the well-intentioned efforts to encourage more people to come to church actually sanded away and ultimately erased the very mystery that leads to wonder, reverence, and praise. In our attempt to make God relatable, we’ve risked remaking Him in our image. We tried to bring Him down to us, instead of calling people up to Him.
These two ideas may seem unrelated at first—worshiping in a beautiful church building and worship that feels different from the world. But I think they are related. They’re connected to the part of me that longs for more beauty, more light, more transcendency in this world—music and architecture and liturgies that point to something higher. I suspect most of us have a similar longing (whether or not we recognize it) because we have been made for eternity by the Creator of the universe who also formed us in our mother’s womb (Psalm 139:13).
It’s the idea of truth, beauty, and goodness—a school of thought made popular by ancient philosophers Plato and Aristotle, but which is ultimately rooted in the idea that those are the communicable attributes of God. The Church has long understood that truth, beauty, and goodness are not three competing virtues, but three reflections of the same divine light. A beautiful building draws us in by capturing the senses and stirring our souls. Truth anchors beauty because truth is not an abstract, fluid idea, it is a person–Jesus Christ. Goodness flows from the other two as they impact and recreate our hearts.
You may not be familiar with Plato or Aristotle, but you are likely familiar with the more recent “philosopher” C.S. Lewis because of his “Chronicles of Narnia” series. He summed it up well. “Truth is good and beautiful; goodness is true and beautiful; beauty is true and good.” Each reflects the others, and all three reflect the glory of God.
