Abandon All Hope

In case you haven’t been keeping up with the latest development in new church super-buildings in the United States, you missed a doozy opening up Sept. 2 in Los Angeles.

The new Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels opened on Labor Day (what an odd day for an church opening…why not say, Christmas?) and, although I haven’t been in it, I can certainly say that the building will put the fear of God into people, or at least suck what’s left of their post-9/11, post-Forever War on Terror, post War on America’s 401(k), pre-Operation Bloody Mess in Iraq hope from their souls.

You can see a picture of it here.

For a house of God, the building contains cold, loveless precision-made corners, a flat brown color of mud mixed with that brown toxic cloud that’s set up shop over south Asia. It carries the grim visage found in Quake deathmatch levels. It’s a church with a grudge on its face, inspiring not wonder but a cold conformity. The walls of the church match the office-park-themed courtyard, which looks like it’ll be one hell of a skate park when mass isn’t in session.

Churches should be intimate, yet inspiring venues. As Martha Stewart and Penn and Teller know, presentation is everything. Make a warm, cozy atmosphere that invites safety and contemplation and you can make church a welcoming sanctuary.

There was a neat Catholic church I used to go to when I lived in Eastern Washington. The head priest was Father Tom, a nice as a guy you’d ever want to meet. Gave wonderfully concise and thought-provoking sermons. Had a sense of humor and didn’t take himself too seriously, a welcome contrast to the horror stories of abuse that is strapped to the Catholic Church these days.

The church itself was a small affair, maybe room for 150 people at most. Gorgeous wood-paneling that gave it a ski lodge feel, a tucked-away family area for crying kids and a slim but comfy balcony seating section. It was a small, safe place and maybe the most tranquil house of God I’ve ever been in.

Sure, it didn’t have the towering spires of the old European Gothic cathedrals (which were, I’m guessing, at the time used to show off the church’s wealth and intimidation skills.) or even the beauty of Holy Name Cathedral in Chicago, but it still carried with it a certain humanity…a beaconing which whispered that here was a humble, but true temple to use as a place to open yourself up to the Good Word or (if you weren't a believer) you could still find solace under the leaf-covered spire.

But this new one in Los Angeles (the City of Angels, remember)? Forget leaves or flowers. The trees are sparse, forced out by tan concrete and a Lego block window that juts out of one side like a boil on a cheek. The other windows are obscured or are tall, vertical slits. I can't see any benches for the elderly to rest on or verdant knolls ready-made for Easter Egg hunts. The doors are tucked away, maybe to deter the messy and the troubled from soiling the nice new carpet when they need to seek refuge.

Looking at it, I can’t help but be amazed that church designers have found a way to draft up something uglier than the glass and steel hothouse preaching stadiums used by tele-evangelists to bilk money from the old and scared in their video congregation. Seeing this new house of God, this drab sandy-colored fist coming out of the ground, it hit me: It’s God as a gated community. It’s Mall of America God. It’s God’s castle with a concrete moat.

It’s a fortress, not a house.