Come. Sit a spell. Imagine you are standing in the Sistine chapel, gazing upward, studying Michelangelo’s The Creation of Adam. In his guide to the treasures of the Vatican, In the footsteps of Popes, Enrico Bruschini describes the scene for us on p. 166.

“Against the sky the powerful Creator sits to one side with his angelic court; on the other side lies Adam – nude, unmoving, waiting. The inert hand of the first man, created a moment before and lying without strength on the earth, waits faithfully for the invisible spark that will issue from the finger of God.”

Keep that picture in mind, and follow me to the October 30 issue of The Arts section of The New York Times. There, in living color, in a three-column spread, is a photograph of the New York architect Richard Meier in front of Dives in Miserricordia, Church of God Our Merciful Father, a church he designed in a working-class neighborhood of Rome.

In the background, Meier is shown against three soaring “sails” of concrete, bathed in clouds, with his right hand extended upward, reminiscent of Michelangelo’s Creator’s extension of his right hand to Adam.

Whether planned as a reference to Michelangelo’s work or not, any sensitive editor would have cut such a self-serving photo, which only ignorance prevents from being labeled “sacrilegious.”

In another picture below, high rise apartment buildings can be seen beyond the church’s parking lot, attesting to the fact that this 50th church, built with an undisclosed price tag among ordinary working class people, is to serve as a powerful symbol of renewal.

Renewal by what means, we must be forgiven for asking. By inspiring and training evangelists to go out among the people, and call them back from leisure pursuits, restaurants, opera houses, etc., reminding them about how much God loves them and longs for their return to Sunday worship and daily practice of the Gospel? For this, new hearts, not a new church, would have been the order of the day.

Meier, a Jewish architect, was chosen from among six architects, and spoke of the relevance of religion to the project: “Regardless of one’s religion, I think most of us acknowledge that there are things in this world outside our realm. When I think of a place of worship, I think of a place where one can sit and be reminded of all the things that are important outside our individual lives.”

The problem, Meier, is that the poor have a difficult time considering what is important outside their lives. Weariness and hunger, children and illness have a way of distracting them, which is why they invite God into their lives. And that’s a bit easier when the architecture mirrors their lives, by offering beauty and reverence on a scale that is not extravagant.

The progress of the building was delayed for want of funds, which led the archdiocese to seek donations of materials from builders and suppliers, making difficult an assessment of the actual cost of the building, according to reporter Alan Riding. (Good for public relations – )

I cannot help but wonder how many of the parishioners were asked over and over again to contribute to the building that was beyond anything they could have imagined being built in their name.

The writer tells us that Meier’s design, “combining curvilinear and rectilinear shapes, also posed challenges. The three soaring sails sweep over a side chapel and half of the nave. A glass roof connects to a community building, which includes a four-story atrium, living space for the parish priest, a community meeting room, classrooms for catechism lessons and a tower with five, vertically placed bells. Typical of Mr. Meier’s designs, the entire building is white and bathed in light.”

The sails are freestanding, and are designed to withstand heat, wind and earthquakes. Each is made of 12-ton blocks of precast white concrete, and were put in place by a huge skeletal machine, that moved on rails as it gradually lifted the blocks into place. The machine was invented by Grupo Italcementi, one of the project’s main corporate sponsors.

The faithful enter through large doors within a glass facade. Riding tells us that, “the interior of the church presents an intriguing blend of sophistication and simplicity: to one side, the largest sail reaches 88 feet above the nave, creating an almost Gothic form; the opposite wall is made of vertical wooden slats; the organ pipes at the rear resemble silver; the church’s floor, altar and baptismal font are pale travertine. Hanging above the altar is a single large crucifix.”

Meier shares his philosophy in the planning of the church: “The central ideas for creating a sacred space have to do with truth and authenticity, a search for clarity, peace, transparency, a yearning for tranquility, a place to evoke otherworldliness in a way that is uplifting. And to express spirituality, the architect has to think of the original material of architecture, space and light.”

This is all very nice, but when I consider the fifty churches that were built in Rome during the last 10 years, where only three percent of the people attend Sunday Mass, I can’t help but wonder about the search for “truth and authenticity.”

Why was not the time, money and effort put into creating the living churches Paul kept reminding his people about, Catholic Christian evangelists, on fire with the knowledge and love of Christ, who would preach the Gospel, and prompt the converted to fill up the empty churches Sunday after Sunday, rather than build 50 more churches to stand virtually empty?

The other day, while walking about here and there, I tried to think of a way to make Meier’s work serve the purpose of “truth and authenticity,” and I came up with the idea of surrounding the church with statues of saints, canonized and otherwise, whose lives remind us about lived “truth and authenticity.”

St. Francis came first to mind. I’m afraid to hazard a guess as to what he would say about Meier’s tribute to the Gospel message in glass, concrete sails and travertine flooring, to say nothing of that 88 foot sail rising above the faithful, threatening to smother out any effort of simple prayer.

Francis was a man of peace, but we know he had a temper, and nothing raised his ire so much as abuse against poverty, and failing to care for the poor. Without the aid of a sophisticated personal computer, he would have been able to look at the working poor in the neighborhood and decide Meier might have been a great architect, but he was a poor transmitter of the Word, whether from the Old or New Testament. He should have spent a year praying in and studying the architecture of San Domiano.

We Catholics have not been well served by Meier and his supporters, whether clergy or lay. A year from now, I hope Riding will give a report on the use of the Church of God Our Merciful Father. I have a feeling Divine Mercy will be called for to forgive the financial costs and expenditures in talent and labor, to the neglect of God’s people.

This extravagance among little people is called a “scandal.” Among the sophisticated, of course, it is great art. And it well may be. Give me Francis and San Domiano any Sunday of the year. Weekdays, too, for that matter.

God bless us all. And peace.

Home

Archives