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The Role of Government in Laudato Si'

By William L. Patenaude Pope Francis issued his second encyclical Laudato Si’ in June 2015. This encyclical, with the subtitle “On Care for Our Common Home”, focuses on the earth’s urgent environmental challenges. The Holy Father not only enjoins individuals to come together to shape the future of the planet but also places demands on governments to do their part.  In praising international agencies and non-profit organizations for their work in the Amazon, for instance, Pope Francis rightfully applauds efforts to ensure that government fulfills “its proper and inalienable responsibility to preserve its country’s environment and natural resources, without capitulating to spurious local or international interests.” (LS 38). He also makes a general call for pressuring governments to “develop more rigorous regulations, procedures, and controls” for the protection of local, regional, and worldwide ecosystems (LS 179).   To be fully appreciated, however, these expectations require a complete reading of Laudato Si’ with its Christian understanding of the human person and its “everything is connected” call to nurture and protect both our common home and each other. The role of government must certainly include rules and regulations and the will and means to enforce them. But Catholic environmental advocates must pray for and work towards something greater—something that cannot be legislated or litigated—a culture in which all people, including those who govern, can hear, embrace, and apply Pope Francis’s call for encounter, dialogue, and, ultimately, the Christian understanding of love.  “Today, there is urgent need for politics and economics to enter into a frank dialogue in the service of life, especially human life.” (LS 189) Pope Francis also elaborates on the public-sector implications of this in Fratelli Tutti, his encyclical on fraternity and social friendship, which proposes that government leaders should “be the first to make the sacrifices that foster encounter and to seek convergence on at least some issues. They should be ready to listen to other points of view and to make room for everyone.” (FT 190)           Elected officials and government staffers—including environmental regulators, such as myself—rarely receive education in the philosophy of governing. Moreover, expectations within the environmental regulatory sector are generally driven by the intersection of the natural sciences and the legal profession, which are then amplified by the demands of external entities such as the media and advocacy groups. What can result is a culture that seeks merely to strictly enforce rules and regulations. But enforcement taken with no prior effort to know and support the regulated community can be a self-defeating strategy.  Early in my career at the Rhode Island Department of Environmental Management, I was assigned the management of a federal technical assistance program. This immersed me in what today I understand as a culture of encounter. As I collaborated with other state training colleagues who were also embedded in regulatory programs, as well as those within my own agency, I soon took for granted a particular goal of this dual enforcement/assistance approach, which is to inspire regulated communities to do what is right even when no one is looking.   Looking back on three-plus decades regulating the men and women of the water-pollution control industry, I can attest that oversight agencies that provide robust training and development opportunities (or, as I like to say, that provide inspiration and familiarity with concepts such as the common good) position themselves to become better stewards of their fellow human beings and thus better stewards of whatever resource they’re charged to protect.   In Laudato Si’, the Holy Father is calling us to such heightened stewardship but by loftier means than secular realms may think to embrace. Ultimately, Laudato Si’ urges us to move beyond mere technical or litigious approaches to environmental and human crises—approaches that can compartmentalize individuals and even whole sectors of society. Rather, our goal must be nothing less than a culture that offers the knowledge and inspires the choices needed to save ecosystems, families, and, most especially, souls—and to do so, with the grace of God, one encounter, one relationship, and one conversation at a time.    William L. Patenaude is a mechanical engineer who has worked for the  Rhode Island Department of Environmental Management for thirty-two years. He is a board member of the Saint Kateri Tekakwitha Conservation Center and a founding member of the Global Catholic Climate Movement.   

Holy Reminders of What Really Matters

by Emily Jaminet   “Sacred Heart of Jesus” Copyrighted Classic Image by Adolfo SimeoneUsed by permission from Cromo NB Italy   When we graduated from college, my three roommates and I received a unique gift from my parents—beautifully framed, matching images of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. As each of us headed off to new cities, started our careers, and got married, this image served as a powerful reminder of what would always ground us in our life journeys: a desire to follow Jesus. At the time I was most grateful for the check that was in the envelope with my gift, but over the years what remains is the artwork that now hangs in my home. It is a constant reminder that my greatest desire should be to have a heart like Jesus. Sacred artwork serves as a holy reminder of what matters in our lives. You can learn a lot about people by what they choose to put on their walls. Over the years, I have developed a collection of beautiful artwork that is strategically placed throughout my house to inspire, remind, and invite my whole family to pray. The Sacred Heart of Jesus image I received at graduation now hangs in my bedroom to remind me to pray my morning prayers each day when I wake. I also have lovely images of the Sacred Heart of Jesus and the Immaculate Heart of Mary in my front room where I like to sit and pray in the midday sun. These images are more than a hundred years old and were once in a Catholic school in Cincinnati before making their way to an antique mall and then to me. In my home office, I have a huge painting depicting the story found in Matthew 19:14 where Jesus says, “Let the children come to me.” In it, Christ is holding an infant and reaching out to a throng of small children clamoring to be close to him as parents attempt to hold them back. As I work each day, this painting serves as a constant reminder of both how I should approach my relationship with our Lord and how I should parent my children, always endeavoring to focus first on fostering their spiritual development and love for God before worrying about all the other things which can distract me. Through the ministry work I do to promote enthronement to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, I have been privileged to visit many homes where families have chosen to welcome the Sacred Heart into their lives. In Columbus, Ohio, alone we are aware of more than 2,750 homes who have done this Christian ceremony and welcomed our Lord. The objective of this powerful outreach program is to promote the practice of placing an image of the Sacred Heart of Jesus in homes as a way of honoring our Lord, welcoming him into everyday life and developing a deeper, more personal relationship with him. St. Margaret Mary Alacoque received visions from our Lord starting around 1673 in France. In those visions, our Lord expressed his deep love for mankind and how devotion to the Sacred Heart of Jesus could offer new graces and hope. The promises shared with St. Margaret Mary are summarized in “The Twelve Promises.” The promise that pertains to this act of enthronement is “I will bless every place in which my image of my Heart is exposed and honored.” This promise is especially important now since the sacraments are not readily available to us because of COVID-19. Sacramentals such as holy images and icons are wonderful holy reminders that elevate us and prod us to not forget the faith we are called to live out.  One thing that has surprised me while visiting homes of faithful Catholics to witness enthronements is that while many Catholics have an abundance of good reading materials, Bibles, or rosaries, most don’t display any religious art at all. In fact, many who had thought about enthroning their homes to the Sacred Heart held off for years because they didn’t know where to place the image. For many it is a big decision to welcome our Lord into their home in a formal way and take the step of displaying the image and allowing others to see it. Doing so means stepping out of your comfort zone and making something often viewed as private or interior (faith) into something open for all to see. While this is certainly understandable, I would encourage anyone who is hesitant to consider it. Overwhelmingly those who do so confess that despite having hesitation, they now can’t imagine not having these sacred images present to inspire them. Additionally, when we display sacred artwork we are choosing to not only give a physical witness to our faith, but we are inviting our Lord into our lives to offer a new means of sanctification and grace. It has been said that Catholics ought to strive to make our home another Bethany—to welcome Jesus into the ordinary moments of our lives right in our homes with the people we love, just as Jesus’ friends Mary, Martha, and Lazarus did in theirs. When we place these holy reminders throughout our home, we elevate our minds toward the sacred in the midst of the daily tasks that sanctify us. Emily Jaminet is the executive director of the Sacred Heart Enthronement. She is the author of the forthcoming Secrets of the Sacred Heart (fall 2020) and coauthor of the bestselling and award-winning Divine Mercy for Moms, The Friendship Project, and Pray Fully. Inspirethefaith.com.

Your Art, No Matter How Good, Communicates God to Others

by Ali Hoffman Five years ago I started an Instagram account, The Oodles of Doodles, as a new year’s resolution to get better at hand lettering. For years, in my personal prayer time I loved to make Scripture look as beautiful as the words. What started as a silly resolution has now turned into a ministry of art, beauty, and marrying the idea that beautiful design can allow the viewer to be brought to a deeper level of wonder and awe. Hand lettering by Ali Hoffman Super simple, right? My intended goal wasn’t to convert anyone, force my faith down anyone’s throats, or boast about my skills. It was to share what the Lord was speaking to my own heart and to encourage those viewing that he or she was absolutely loved. In the past five years I have learned many lessons of what it means to be an artist and the weight that carries. Mainly I’ve learned that I have been given unique gifts and talents for now, 2020, than anyone else in the world. There’s a reason why I’m living now and not a hundred years ago, or even a thousand years ago. I was created for now and I reveal a different characteristic of God the Father as Creator. It is also the same for you: Just by your very life you reveal a different facet of God to the world that is needed. In paragraphs twelve and thirteen of St. John Paul II’s letter to the artists, he speaks about the Church’s need for art and the artist’s need for the Church. It’s a symbiotic relationship that ebbs and flows and communicates to one another. Have you ever been in a truly beautiful church, maybe somewhere in Rome, Vienna, or Assisi? These ancient churches were built to reflect the wonder, awe, and majesty of God and to draw whoever is in attendance into something, namely someone bigger than themselves. I’m not building churches, but I am creating pieces that hopefully are drawing the person into something beautiful. Hand lettering by Ali Hoffman So many people have told me that they can’t be artistic because it’s just not for them and that they can’t draw. I respond that they don’t have to be a trained artist to communicate the creative nature of God. I have a four-year-old niece who is just learning to draw. She draws with such dedication that I can’t help but pin all of her artwork on my refrigerator so I can frequently look at them with joy. Would they be considered precious to an art gallery or be worthy of hanging in St. Peter’s in Rome? Probably not (although they are absolutely amazing and an art gallery would be privileged to hang a Madelyn original, in my unbiased opinion). I know that Madelyn is showing how much she loves me through her art. I know that Madelyn isn’t worried that her birds look like pointy Ms, or that her trees are misshapen blobs. I don’t tell Madelyn that she should probably stop creating because her doodles just aren’t good enough. I don’t compare her to a Michelangelo or Giotto painting because horses don’t have nine legs. I just love her. Because God created you, he has given you a unique ability to communicate to the rest of the world his love, mercy, compassion, and goodness in your own way. Maybe you’re creative in a different field. I have a friend who has the most amazing administrative gifts. She’s an Excel wizard and loves to organize, plan, and execute beautiful ideas so that conferences and retreats can flow seamlessly. That reflects the precision of God. I have another friend who loves to speak. She tells the most amazing stories with such detail that I feel as if I’m a child again, listening in delight. That reflects the richness of God in his words. Finally, I have a friend who loves to bake. Her treats are given to people in need, reflecting the generosity of God. Hand lettering by Ali Hoffman You are so needed and my prayer for you is that you find that God-given passion and desire to use for the glory of God; to show that his kingdom is here and now. Ali Hoffman, a youth minister in Carrollton, Texas, does hand lettering at TheOodlesOfDoodles.

Sacred Art is Ever Ancient, Ever New

by Daniel Mitsui “The Glorious Mysteries,” Mysteries of the Rosary, Daniel Mitsui   In the year 787 an ecumenical council was held in Nicaea, the same city where the Creed had been formulated and the Arian heresy condemned more than four centuries earlier. This Second Council of Nicaea was concerned with a different heresy, iconoclasm, that accused the faithful who venerated holy pictures of idolatry. The council fathers established the rightness and necessity of sacred artwork and articulated important principles for making it. One of these principles stated: “The composition of religious imagery is not the painter’s invention, but is approved by the law and tradition of the Catholic Church. The tradition does not belong to the painter; the art alone is his. . . . True arrangement and disposition belong to the holy fathers, who established it.” In other words, sacred art is not something that can be made up at whim by an imaginative artist; it has an objective content that has been handed down through the centuries. It is necessarily traditional and one of the ways in which the ancient memory of Jesus Christ’s revelation endures. For example, in almost any painting or carving of the Crucifixion from the Middle Ages or before, Jesus Christ faces the viewer. The wound is in his right side. Mary stands to his right. The good thief St. Dismas is also to his right and the bad thief to his left. If the darkened sun and moon are included, they are respectively to his right and left. The skull of Adam is at the foot of the Cross. This arrangement is not coincidental but full of meaning. According to Church Fathers such as St. Augustine, Jesus Christ is the new Adam whose death redeems the original sin. Just as Adam’s bride came forth from his right side while he slept, so the Church—the bride of Jesus Christ—came forth from his right side when he died on Calvary. The blood and water that flowed from there represent the Sacraments of Eucharist and Baptism. Tradition holds that the skull of Adam was indeed buried on Mount Calvary, put there by Shem after the Great Flood. The right hand of God, throughout Holy Scripture, is associated with mercy and the left hand with justice; it is for this reason that the emblems of the New Testament, the covenant of mercy, are gathered to the right side of the Cross (from Christ’s perspective). An artist who would arrange Mary, St. Dismas, and the sun in another way would fail to communicate this meaning. That being said, religious artists should not fall into an opposite error of seeing the requirement of tradition as an instruction to make their pictures and statues the same again and again with no improvement upon the artistry or compositions of the past. The wisdom of the Church Fathers is nearly inexhaustible; they wrote voluminously on the symbolic meaning of every passage of Holy Writ and on the symbolic meaning of God’s created world, manifested in the behavior of plants and animals, the properties of stones, the sums and products of numbers. So much of this wisdom has yet to be incorporated into sacred art. And so much more insight into the mysteries of both the Bible and nature is yet possible by looking to them afresh with the same kind of consideration that the Church Fathers had. The idea that sacred art was perfected at some previous time in history treats sacred art as a completed and completable task, which nothing sacred can ever be. It denies that the ultimate source of art and beauty is heavenly, denies that to make truly sacred art is something toward which an artist must strive all his life and toward which artists collectively must strive for all of history. Many religious artists have come to this realization gradually over the course of their artistic careers, starting at a stage of simply knowing what they like, whether that be Gothic panel paintings or Baroque oils or Byzantine icons, and what they do not. Eventually, they come to believe that the art they admire and imitate owes its worth to something more than subjective taste. They try to understand the principles governing it. They try to articulate its rules. They seek the influence from works of art that follow these rules and block the influence of works that break them. The resulting artwork here is usually not bad; it usually can be described as just good enough. It might satisfy the basic instruction laid down in Nicaea in 787, but it does not truly impress. Real progress happens when the artists advance to a new stage, one in which they have come to understand the governing principles so innately that they no longer need to regulate themselves constantly. The question that they ask themselves about other works of art is not “Does this follow the rules or not?” but rather, “What can I learn from this?” The entire world and all the art in it then becomes a possible source of inspiration. And that is when sacred art that is both traditional and interesting, both ancient and new, both familiar and surprising, comes into being from their hands.  Artist Daniel Mitsui specializes in ink drawing. He has been commissioned by the Vatican to create a new edition of the Roman Pontifical. Mitsui has three coloring books created with his religious artwork published by Ave Maria Press.

Faith Shines Forth

by Jen Norton “Hail Mary, Full of Grace,” Jen Norton, 2013   I never set out to be a Catholic artist. I didn’t even know that was a thing. Probably like you, my exposure to religious art consisted of work by old, dead European masters and church bulletin graphics. But they say when God calls you to a mission, you will know it. My unexpected venture into and success with Catholic art is proof that is true. As a child, I was painfully, debilitatingly shy. I didn’t possess any stand-out artistic talent. Rather, art was a safe place for me to be myself. When the outside world was too overwhelming, I could always retreat to my own space and draw, read, listen to music, and just dream. I was not conscious of it, but I now know that God was always with me in those seemingly silent moments. I have always found comfort in the silence where I am allowed to live a robust life inside my head, pondering and connecting thoughts until they make sense. As a wise friend once commented, “Art was my first language; English came second.” It wasn’t until my mid-40s that God called me to create specifically Catholic work. Our daughter went through a difficult time in her early teen years. She has a learning difference we were unaware of and it was causing huge amounts of disruption and stress in her life and ours. I remember pleading to God and for Mary’s intercession to help her. I became devout in praying the Rosary, the one thing that kept me from feeling helpless. Underneath all the chaos, I started to hear the words “Let it be,” meaning “Don’t worry, it’s going to be OK.” As I let go of my fear and trusted, God countered with solutions and inspirations. Art is emotional energy and mine was exhausted during this time of trial. Normally a focused worker, I was unable to create any art for more than a year. As the stress subsided, I felt called to paint my “Hail Mary” piece, my first specifically Catholic painting. The great response I got to it encouraged me to look more closely at my Catholic tradition as a subject matter. I wasn’t a Catholic-school kid, so some of the prayers, traditions, and saint stories weren’t part of my daily vernacular. As I started to fill out this new body of work, beginning with the sacraments, each piece taught me more about my faith. I began to experience the depth of our ancient tradition. My desire to share our ancient faith in a new, fresh, and modern way grew with every painting. Engaging in any creative activity is like prayer because it teaches us how to find order amidst chaos. With each new idea, I must fight through fear of the blank canvas, which is really a fear of self-worth. I must learn to trust in the process and the discipline, just as one would in becoming proficient in a sport or a musical instrument. I have to let go of total control and open myself to unexpected surprises. If I get stuck in my own ego, judging my work “good” too early just because I made it, I might end up with lesser work. I must be patient, letting myself take the time it takes. I must let go of the fear of wasting time—and paint—and be open to changing course if needed. I must learn how to edit the elements of the work without self-judgment to achieve the best outcome. Like prayer, each painting is a petition and each piece reveals deeper meaning as it is created. Both making and viewing art can teach us how to hear God amidst life’s distractions because it puts us in touch with our emotional selves. It is essential to our peace of mind and life purpose to be able to discern truth and beauty in a noisy world. Art gives us a safe place to explore our feelings without the usual level of judgment and censorship. As you participate by viewing my interpretation of our common stories, my wish is that you can pause and listen with a softened heart and new eyes. I hope when you look at my work, you know these truths and this beauty are for YOU too! When you study any art, it’s important to go beyond the subjective judgment of “good” or “bad” and consider how it makes you FEEL. Is it comforting or challenging? Don’t stop with a simple answer; try to discern why. What was the artist’s motivation? What story were they trying to tell at the time they created the work, and why was it authentic to them? Can you look beyond your first impression for a deeper meaning? Do you find connection with it? Do you have your own creative inspirations you are holding back out of fear? Ask yourself how might God be asking you to use your talents to connect with others. If he is calling you to a creative life, he will help you find it! Jen Norton is an award-winning painter whose work has appeared on the cover of books including Word by Word and The Catholic Mom’s Prayer Companion. She was also the author and illustrator for Surrender All: An Illuminated Journal Retreat through the Stations of the Cross and Arise to Blessedness: A Journal Retreat with Eight Modern Saints Who Lived the Beatitudes. View more of her work at JenNortonartstudio.com.

Dreaming a Catholic Aesthetic

The Power of Art to Transform by J.D. Childs “Beauty is a key to the mystery and a call to transcendence. It is an invitation to savour life and to dream of the future. That is why the beauty of created things can never fully satisfy. It stirs that hidden nostalgia for God which a lover of beauty like Saint Augustine could express in incomparable terms: “Late have I loved you, beauty so old and so new: late have I loved you!” —Pope John Paul II, Letter to Artists, 1999  I am a Catholic because I see the world with God-soaked eyes. For me, the world is a place of infinite possibility for encountering God. Ours is a world of grace. Physical reality can convey the goodness of creation and demonstrate the majesty of the Creator by expressing beauty, power, and might. Beauty puts us in touch with that longing within ourselves to be made whole. Beauty’s power—through sounds and words, colors and shapes—opens new worlds and reveals those hidden depths. Through its impact on us, it italicizes that we are bodies and souls. We are flesh and we are spirit, destined for newness of life. I remember first learning from my friend and mentor Br. Michel Bettigole, O.S.F., about Andy Warhol’s devotion to the Eucharist and belief in the Real Presence through his extended treatment of the Last Supper, especially his Wise potato chip version (view the artwork here.) We learn in school that daVinci’s The Last Supper captures the moment when Christ says, “This is my body.” And so, when we see Warhol’s depiction of that famous moment, replete with superimposed commercial images, our first thought may well be sacrilege. But Warhol believed one of the purposes of art was to help us see with new eyes. By taking a familiar image and making it different, even shocking, he knew that he could invite us to see the image with a new sense of curiosity and wonder. The Wise potato chip logo on the Last Supper is a reminder to avoid allowing our religious symbolism to become stale. Maybe it is an invitation to engage with our religious ritual in way that imbues meaning and purpose, even devotion, far beyond our everyday eating. Perhaps it invites us to consider the ways that we choose to be nourished through consumerism or through the precious and sacred. Maybe it shows us to learn to look past banal distractions in order to access dimensions of meaning that instruct and inspire, challenge and provoke, asking us to inquire whose body it is and for what purpose? The burning of the Notre-Dame Cathedral last April had precisely that same impact on me. I first studied elements of French gothic architectural style, especially the transcendent cathedral in Paris, as a freshman in Fr. Bly’s high school religion class. In the wake of the fire, I read more about the cathedral’s art and reflected on its architectural forms, provoking my mind to rise through its material goods to apprehension of the divine. I encountered the immense beauty of the structure as a paean to the Divine, as a revelatory vehicle, in my shocked rereading of articles in The New York Times last April. I saw that ecclesial monument anew for the first time in thirty-six years because I was seeing it differently. It challenged and inspired me in new ways only after being destroyed. In a speech called “Beauty Will Save the World,” given when he accepted the Nobel Prize for Literature, Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn reflected that beauty “is like that small mirror of legend: you look into it but instead of yourself you glimpse for a moment the Inaccessible, a realm forever beyond reach. And your soul begins to ache.” In attempting to describe the salvific dimension of beauty, especially as expressed in a work of art, Solzhenitsyn identifies its uncanny power, pointing out that beauty “prevails even over a resisting heart. In vain does one repeat what the heart does not find sweet.” I surround myself with beautiful things and especially those that hold personal memories. Typically, these are objets d'art that I have purchased on a trip or an adventure. Oftentimes, items I collect have religious significance. But the connection among the item itself, the religious symbolism it conveys, and the story that is able to emerge is powerful for me. The items are like talismans that transport and connect me to lessons and truths borne of my experiences. They hold power to facilitate reflections that enrich my moral and spiritual life. I think of a metal cross I once purchased at a monastery in Iowa, or an artifact from the Catacombs of Priscilla in Rome, or a fluorescent chalk drawing of Jesus given to me by a former student, or an icon of Mary given to me by my late mother-in-law, or a crucifix my wife and I chose after Mass in a small Mexican village a few years back. I live in Oakland, California, and love to take visitors and guests to Mass downtown at the Cathedral of Christ the Light. For me, the architecture and the theology are profoundly provocative. That Cathedral is just so different that it captivates my imagination. My mind and vision is elevated in the Cathedral, where I pray as if I’m immersed in the tomb of Jonah’s great fish, longing for release in the Eucharistic resurrection. I’m confronted by the gigantic Omega window presenting a foreign image of Christ, an image at once elusive and older, inviting me to reconsider my assumptions, hearing Christ whisper, “who do you say that I am?” And all the while, breathing light, bathed in light, eyes uplifted, longing in that lighted space praying before Christ the Light. Interior of Cathedral of Christ the Light, Oakland, CA, Skier Dude, 11/05/2008   Last Christmas, I purchased a piece of art called Supermadone by a French artist named Christophe Stouvenel (view the artwork here).The underlayer is comprised of a collage of images from the news that indicate war and strife. Overlaid on the stories and images is a spray-painted, stenciled blue Madonna emblazoned with the red and yellow ‘S’ from the famed caped crusader. This is superhero mythology and power from comic book culture, where good battles evil in modern-day morality plays stamped on deep religious reflection about the power of Mary, Theotokos, precisely in her prayerful and humble origins. Rays of grace echoing the typology of the Virgin of Guadalupe surround her, the rays of the miracle at Tepeyec, the first indigeneous representation of Mary, rays overriding and overlaid atop the media warnings. A stenciled HOPE, hidden amidst the rays, reminds us of the conviction we share in faith that the superpower of humility and authenticity always conquers prolific violence in the end. I never cease to be transported by my reflection upon and appreciation of this compelling work of art, SuperMadonna. Beauty’s effects on us disclose our spiritual destiny. Art that conveys beauty uplifts our sensibilities, inspires our apprehension, provokes insight, mediates encounters, maddens, heals, gladdens, reveals, discloses epiphanies, and uncovers longing. Art that conveys beauty provides powerful experiences to deepen our faith and grow in our interior spiritual lives. In a Homily on Love (Homily 8, “Such Love), St. Bonaventure indicated that just as a mirror reflects whatever likeness approaches it, the human soul, like an angel, is transformed into whatever it gazes towards. In other words, what we focus on—how we spend our time and our attention—indicates profoundly who we become in life. The soul is transformed into whatever it looks upon. And so it is a profound opportunity in life to seek connection with works of art that have the power to convey meaning and grace, that hold revelatory power, and facilitate an encounter with our living God who gives us eyes to see and makes us new. J.D. Childs is a veteran educator and president of Bishop O'Dowd High School in Oakland, California.

The Church Building as a Sacred Place

by Duncan G. Stroik We say that a church building is “sacred.” Why do we call it that? Perhaps it is because a church is a place of prayer, a place where we feel inspired, and where we receive the Sacraments. As I write this, public Masses have been suspended in the United States and many parts of the world to stop the spread of a virus. And perhaps we are appreciating the sacredness of our church buildings in a new way as we experience not being able to gather in them for Mass. Sacred places are given pride of place in all cultures, but especially in Roman Catholicism, due to the presence of Christ in the Blessed Sacrament, and our theology, which sets these places apart for divine use. When we consider the great riches of our sacred patrimony, what are themes which seem to be consistent across time and county? I want to focus on three: transcendence, directionality, and beauty. Transcendence Our Lady of the Most Holy Trinity Chapel,Thomas Aquinas College in Santa Paula, California,Photo credit schafphoto. The experience of transcendence lifts us up beyond ourselves and puts us in awe of the Divine. How can the design of a church express transcendence? Through verticality. Verticality does not just mean how tall the ceiling is, but rather the proportion of the building, which will affect how we experience the space. Historically, the nave, or main portion of the church, would be at least one and half times as tall as it is wide. Sometimes churches were built twice as tall as they were wide. During the High Gothic period, cathedrals were built that were three times taller than their width, which is why they seem so transcendent. Verticality can also be expressed in individual elements of a church. Towers and domes on the exterior are visible from afar and mark the presence of the church. A canopy or baldacchino over the altar gives it a special prominence, and an altarpiece with statues or paintings above an altar can draw the eye upwards. Directionality Christ Chapel,Hillsdale College, Michigan,Photo credit Hillsdale College. Pilgrimage is a central theme of Christianity, rooted as far back as the Old Testament. We think of Abraham’s journey to a new land, the Israelites’ exodus from Egypt and entrance into the Promised Land, Christ’s journey to Jerusalem and Golgotha, and many references in tradition to the Church as a “Pilgrim People.” All of us are on a spiritual journey and church buildings are signs along the way that assist us in our pilgrimage toward Heaven. The church building can also be seen as a microcosm of our earthly pilgrimage (CCC, 1198). How can this be expressed in architecture? There should be a sense of procession and a destination where we arrive. A longitudinal nave, often with a series of columns or arches on either side, directs our attention down this main axis. This procession happens liturgically as the priest and servers enter the church for Mass and proceed to the sanctuary. It happens on other festive and sacramental occasions as well, such as a bride processing down the aisle to her bridegroom. When we enter a church, we can imagine ourselves as that bride on a spiritual procession toward the Heavenly bridegroom who awaits. The destination of these processions within the church is the sanctuary. It is the central focus of a church building—where the Word of God is proclaimed, the sacrifice of Christ is re-presented on the altar, and where his presence dwells in the tabernacle. Architectural articulation of the sanctuary as the destination include elevating it on steps, using an altar rail to mark the threshold into the sanctuary, and using noble material and fine decoration for the walls, floor, ceiling, and windows, as well as the altar, tabernacle, and other furnishings. Church buildings should remind us, through their layout and appearance, that our lives are a pilgrimage and that the journey has a destination and a completion. Beauty Beauty Chapel of the Holy Cross,Jesuit High School in Tampa, Florida, Easter 2019,Photo credit Jesuit High School, Tampa. Finally, churches should be beautiful. This is both a reflection of God, who is Beauty, and an offering of the best of ourselves. We give God what he is due by giving him our best. Like Mary of Bethany, we pour out the expensive ointment on his feet and adorn our churches with rich materials and high-quality artwork and music. The artwork can be instructional—for instance, paintings and statues that depict Biblical stories or scenes from the lives of saints. The particular iconography chosen can reflect the patronage of the building (i.e. a church dedicated to Our Lady, the Sacred Heart, St. Joseph, St. Matthew, or any saint) as well as local devotions. The artwork can also be an outreach of evangelization, as the church gives to all an experience of beauty that many seek in a museum or concert hall. But above all, the beauty of a church is meant for the glory of God. Transcendence, directionality, and beauty are elements that are found universally in church buildings. There is no limit to how these principles have been expressed in various times and places, and we can look to the great examples of the past as we strive to build sacred architecture today.   Duncan G. Stroik is a professor of architecture at the University of Notre Dame School of Architecture and founding editor of the Sacred Architecture Journal.

St. Peter's Bones and the Beauty of the Catholic Faith

by Deacon Andy DeRouen After two years of architecture school, countless turns of the pencil sharpener and bottles of clear tacky glue emptied between the joints of chipboard models, I was knee-deep in a career crisis. Sure, I’d be able to design a hospital or an airport one day and perhaps it would be the most efficient design the world had ever seen, but what would it mean? Could I ever design something that meant more than just an arbitrary dance of light upon the walls or an expansion of space here and there to change the way people move inside? What makes a building meaningful at all? I lost sleep over this dilemma, but as an architecture student, that’s not saying much, until one day I mustered the gumption to storm into a professor’s office with the outburst, “Tell me about beauty!” Much to my surprise, this secularly-minded professor at this secular institution handed me a book on the aesthetic theory of St. Thomas Aquinas. I didn’t know what to say. As a twenty-year-old college student, I was only distantly familiar with the guy. He was smart and he wrote some things, but what could he possibly teach me about architecture? Did the Church of my upbringing really have the answer to my problem? In the months that followed, I discovered this hidden treasury of church architecture, a form that had unfolded for centuries with the development of Catholic theology, liturgy, culture, technology and art. Walls were not just walls, but a reflection of the firmament of heaven (Revelation 21). Light was the medium of catechesis: the light of reason became something literal and tangible through the stained glass windows of Gothic churches. The edifice of a church, unlike anything else, represented something timeless not according to mere style but rather by the eternity to which it pointed. Needless to say, I was enthralled. But if I was going to build real Catholic churches, I’d have to know theology first. And this was how God enticed me to become a priest. Beauty is particularly effective for the mind searching for truth and the heart searching for goodness. After four years of living and studying in Rome, where beauty abounds in the architecture, the landscape and the language, I have much to miss. Most especially, I will miss my time working and praying at St. Peter’s Basilica, where Christian architecture demands the attention and reverence of the world. As a guide to the excavated Necropolis, or Scavi, I had the opportunity to lead pilgrims not only through 1500 years of constructed history but also directly to the Apostolic foundation of our faith: the bones of St. Peter. Beautiful? Yes. But how when there seems to be so much less splendor in a collection of bones than in something man can build with grandeur? The Scavi taught me that beauty is so much deeper than what appears pleasant on the outside. Peter’s bones, fragmented and decayed as they are, are beautiful because they are true and good. The truth that they belong to Peter, that they’re old enough to be his, and that they were found beneath the basilica strengthen my faith more than if the bones were pretty. The chance to reverence his bones in such a tangible and personal way is one of the greatest goods the Church has given to her pilgrim children. It fosters in us the gifts of awe, piety, fortitude, and understanding more concretely than a picture does. When we hunger for beauty, nothing short of truth and goodness will satisfy. Look at what we value as beautiful in design today: It’s no longer the drama of a colonnade or the audacity of a flying buttress. Instead, modern architects fawn over the cleanliness of lines, the unobstructed framing of a view, or the ability to disappear in a landscape. Our understanding of beauty has been sanitized. If architecture is a response of every age to the beauty of creation, the reality of God and the value of man’s thoughts, then modern architecture is a grave departure from history, whereby the natural world is the only thing worth capturing because God doesn’t exist and man has nothing valuable to say at all. Beautiful design has become almost exclusively synonymous with efficiency, flawlessness, and automation. But our Catholic faith is strongly and paradoxically against this. Faith accounts for man’s flaws and turns them into something redeemable. There’s nothing efficient about a collection of bones and yet faith interprets it as a sign of hope in the Resurrection. Faith looks up at Jesus dying on the Cross and calls it beautiful precisely because man lacks the autonomy to save himself. I’ll never forget when one professor said to me, “Architecture is the built form of philosophy.” It changed my life. What he said was true, and for Catholics whose faith enriches natural reason, this is also good. If we believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of God, that he walked the earth, endured his Passion, died for the sins of all humanity, and rose victorious on Easter Sunday, then don’t we have something beautiful to proclaim to the world? Shouldn’t the churches we build reflect the faith we embrace? Shouldn’t our very lives radiate that same beauty? Deacon Andy DeRouen will be ordained a priest of the Diocese of Lake Charles on June 27, 2020. Prior to entering the seminary, he studied architecture at Louisiana State University, eventually moving to Rome to study theology at both the Pontifical Gregorian University and the Pontifical University of St. Thomas Aquinas.