Readings

Sacred Spaces

by Rick Dietrich

Caroline Humphrey and Piers Vitebsky, Sacred Architecture. Thorsons, 2003. (First published in the United States in 1997 by Little, Brown & Company).

One of the handsomest books to come across my desk in recent months is Caroline Humphrey and Piers Vitebsky’s Sacred Architecture. Humphrey and Vitebsky are social anthropologists, and their book is a study, by means of short essays, diagrams, and pictures — hundreds and hundreds of pictures — of “the symbolism and significance of sacred architectural forms . . . and how different cultures translate their . . . beliefs into physical structures.” It is not for all that — its handsomeness, the pictures on every page — a big, heavy book. It is manageable, in size 51/2 x 8 inches and under 200 pages, and in its essay format. It’s good bedtime reading.

The book is divided into six main sections, which make a continuing argument, though one that is not afraid to take tangents and turn back on itself. The first section, “Architecture and the Cosmos,” describes how we human beings strive continually “to reproduce the patterns, structures and alignments of the universe” in our sacred structures. The second section, “Sacred and Social Dimensions,” acknowledges how the structures of the societies in which we live influence how we construct our religious buildings. “Ritual and Ceremony” depicts the different ways we use space to communicate with the divine, and about the divine with one another. “Types and Traditions” suggests how much our religious thinking is affected by local technologies — of all sorts — and what they are able and not able to do. “Boundaries, Thresholds and the Centre” describes how we separate sacred space from secular-more about which in a moment. The argument concludes with “The Architecture of the Afterlife,” which is concerned with our quest for permanence. But the book doesn’t end there, for there follows a very interesting section on “techniques of building,” as well as a glossary (from “apse” to “ziggurat”), and several pages of suggestions for further reading.

So, the more about “Boundaries, Thresholds and the Centre,” which typifies Humphrey and Vitebsky’s use of their material. The authors’ aim — in every section — is to uncover what our sacred buildings, ancient and modern, Eastern or Western, have in common: they are, almost without exception, spaces in which we hope to encounter the divine. Therefore, we set these spaces apart from common usage; we separate them from ordinary space. We do this by creating various “boundaries.” We build our sacred buildings apart, in difficult to reach spaces: the Orthodox monasteries on Mount Athos. Or we put them behind high walls: the fortified monastery of Mont St. Michel off the coast of Normandy. We may do both: the monastic city of Gyantse, Tibet, built on a rocky outcrop and protected by a fortified wall.

Still, these are spaces to be entered — at least by some. So, there must be entryways: gates, doors, windows. These are points both of vulnerability and control. Open, they invite us in. Closed they seal us out. Consider the massive doors of many European churches, reinforced with iron — fortified! — though they serve no military purpose, the doors of the medieval cathedral on which even the archbishop must knock if he would enter.

Once inside, the archbishop is invited to journey further; the door leads to a pathway guiding him, or us, along — or, more often, into — a spiritual journey. Thus, the narrow nave of Canterbury Cathedral with its lines of columns, standing like trees along an avenue, create a pathway that leads both the eyes and the steps of the worshiper toward the altar.

Not every pathway is straight, however. And Humphrey and Vitebsky include here a fascinating sub-section on labyrinths and spirals. These forms are particularly interesting because of their varying cultural associations. The earliest known labyrinth “dates from the 19th century BC in Egypt, where it represented the path through the underworld.” Labyrinths are also known in Asia, “in Buddhist thought, where they are intricate paths to enlightenment.” So, they may lead through or upward. “But the archetypal labyrinth for European culture is that built, according to Greek myth by Daedalus for Minos, King of Crete.” Here the labyrinth is also a maze, “a disorienting tangle of paths,” though it also contains a true path that leads to its center. At the center, however, is the monster Minotaur, who devours young men and maids (offered in sacrifice). Still, Theseus, with the help of the king’s daughter, Ariadne, is able to solve the maze’s confusion and escape its dangers: he penetrates to the center, kills the monster, and escapes whole.

In early Christian thought, Humphrey and Vitebsky tell us, “the maze was a symbol of the path of ignorance, leading away from God.” Only later did it come to have positive associations with the path of the pilgrim toward God. Thus, the labyrinth became part of the floors of many medieval cathedrals, including Chartres, where it is located at the beginning of the nave as a kind of inner boundary, an “initiatory barrier” to the altar beyond. It is also placed so that, if the west wall, containing the rose window, were hinged at the ground so it could be folded into the nave, the window would cover the maze — exactly! Thus, the maze with its winding path to the center and the window representing the light of resurrection and new life come together.

Humphrey and Vitebsky are anthropologists. That means we may not always agree with their conclusions. I am not one who frets over the future of the Presbyterian Church (USA). If God has use for it, it will continue; when it is no longer of benefit in God’s plan, let it die — and, let us not mourn. But do the “ruins of numerous civilizations testify to the eventual demise of all specific religions and values”? In the name of the One who is raised and brings new life, I trust not.