Case in point, Jonathan Edwards “beautiful” church — today — “open and inclusive”. It looks pretty beautiful in the pictures, however.

On the second pillar, is there a scriptural basis for wanting to build beautiful buildings? If so, how does it account for the world of finite resources. When I have been a part of church building projects (protestant churches) cost has always been a concern.

On the second pillar, how is it pseudo-gnostic to desire your local church to spend its resources on something other than a multi-millon dollar church building? Systematic support of overseas missions is a relatively modern invention too.

Finally, most modest, modern churches can afford a costco-like steeple. Is the visual reminder of God really worth the extravagant extra cost for a slightly taller steeple?

And the Israelites could have saved themselves a lot of useless labor in the wilderness if they weren’t tickled with the notion of creating beautiful and costly objects for worship.

Let me suggest that the problem with Evangelical churches too often is dissonance between their claim of historic orthodoxy and the use of space that seems altogether modern. The Mormon architecture seems to be a movement in reverse, an attempt to appropriate the architectural signs of continuity for what is a very significant reinterpretation of Protestantism.

What Protestants forget is the link between functionality and theology. Our spaces where we gather express a sort of theology as to what we consider proper to worship. The shape of the room, where and how we enter, the rhythm of spaces as we enter, the arrangement of the chairs ( In a circle or front to back?), the way we honor preaching in this space (pulpit, screens?), all these and more express our operating theology. We do not need to speak of aesthetics, simply the place and shape of things tells the story.

Here the primary critique of evangelical building comes to mind: it too often is simply indifferent to this space, any will do. But it doesn’t need to be that way.

When we build worship spaces that are theologically flat, we speak of a radical incarnation — this is best view of most evangelical worship spaces. God is present. There’s a danger here, with the extension of the space as performance area, where comfortable members sit around a stage (like this). The stage auditorium speaks of another sort of theology, more of the consumer. This becomes a space reinforces a notion of the Christian as passive, perhaps solitary or even subjective — in short, spaces primed for moral therapeutic deism, where no objective claim is made by the space.

The counter to that implicit deism is not to put up traditional structures, but to recognize that the building itself plays a larger role: for the Evangelical the spaces for social gatherings (lobby, halls) are also important. It’s not the worship space that matters but the life that is nurtured throughout the building. This vision necessarily goes against the edifice approach encouraged by more structured worship services (see any number of pre-War mainline churches to get the feel).

Finally, the question of power remains with the Evangelical church. Architecture and landscape — the suburban vocabulary of Edge City power are both available and used by Evangelical churches. Even the big boxes.

I, like Erin, and happy to see such a lucid and coherent apology for the modern church facility/pole barn. I’m still unconvinced that it’s a sound aesthetic philosophy.

First, I’m not convinced that the argument outlined here is even a conscious principle in the building of Evangelical churches. Evangelicals may indeed be wary of corruption in their denomination, or even in their own local body, but do they really build their buildings with the express purpose of denying fuel to that corruption. My observations are limited, but I really find that unlikely. It appears to me that many congregations aren’t really thinking that far into the future when they build, and that itself might actually be a problem.

Second, in response to the argument itself: William Harris stated above that a “theologically flat building” implies a “radical incarnation.” On the other side of that coin, such a space requires radical abstraction in worship. One of the great blessings of worshiping in a beautiful space is the aid given to my thoughts and sentiments through my senses. I see, hear, and sometimes smell beauty and a hint of glory, and thus I can imagine its divine form more precisely, more carefully. This kind of worship–often intimately and naturally connected with prescribed liturgy–remembers that man is not just spirit but also body. The standard evangelical place lacks those aids, at least in any interesting or compelling form; thus, worship leans more heavily, perhaps too heavily, on each individual’s powers of imagination and attention. The only shared thing is the word being spoken or sung, and this already is abstraction. That’s harder than it has to be (though it does seem fitting and natural in churches that rely so heavily on spontaneity).

Yes, it is a bitter truth that lovely things are often twisted and soured by unlovely minds. It’s true that things fall apart, and sometimes–or rather, often–that means the sound doctrine of churches too. But to allow that to diminish our attempt to create a good now, and a lasting good, too, is the wrong response. A beautiful church might not be merely a monument to something good in the present, but a commitment, and one that must be passed down to one’s children, of conserving, of defending, that good into the future. That is beautiful and courageous and compelling, and not haughty but rather humbling.