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I enjoyed the scholarly smugness in Longenecker’s chapter. He repeatedly pointed to scholars that insisted the cross was not used in Christian art before Constantine and responded with evidence to the contrary. I am very curious about Christian Gnosticism, because I don’t really have any previous knowledge of their theology and cosmogony. Pierce did not recognize these examples of the cross pre-Constantine, only mentioning its use as a symbol of mockery. Also, the language she used in describing the Crusades grabbed my attention, as it seemed decidedly on the side of Christian “liberation” of the “Holy Land”.

The curatorial choices in the gallery we visited were very interesting. I would love to see the gallery as it typically stands, as it was mentioned that most of that gallery is a permanent exhibit. The juxtaposition of European and South American art on the central block was particularly interesting in the development of how people viewed the figure of Mary. The use of the black Madonna by the Mexican artists reflects issues of race and color that must have been present in that colonial society, allowing the divine figures of the Madonna and Child to take on a darker skin tone than Europeans had typically presented them with for centuries. The Peruvian painting also seemed to emphasize the divinity of the Holy Spirit. The dove representing the Holy Spirit was the source of light, rather than the Father, who was also depicted, or Jesus, who was not depicted as it was a scene before his birth. This theological focus on the Holy Spirit is typically reflective of a focus on revelation or inspiration, rather than the Old or New Testament authority of the Father and Jesus, respectively.

Many people experience an emotional reaction to particular aspects of architecture. When a gold-laden room is illuminated by the natural light streaming through the windows, or Gothic spires tower stories above the ground, or intricate details decorate a building with a million little scenes, it is enough to invoke awe in almost any viewer, even one with no relation to that particular building or its history. The ability of architecture to summon these feelings of spiritual transcendence can be seen in the rising trends of religious tourism, as millions flock to sites around the globe that are understood as architectural wonders, attracting guests of all religious backgrounds to bask in their glory. These buildings have such a profound effect on the millions of tourists that come to visit them, so one can only imagine the meaning they hold for those who use these spaces for their religious purpose. However, the ability of architectural design to express sacredness and spirituality is not unique to the grand monuments that tourists flock to. Even simple and modest religious spaces are often designed in such a way as to hold meaning to those that make use of it. From the design and placement of the windows, to the orientation of the building and its major foci, religious buildings are constructed in ways that will add to and enhance the sacredness and spirituality of the space.

            Many religious buildings use explicit religious symbols and stories to adorn their spaces, but the explicit religious representation is not the sole contributor to the experience of sacredness in that space. To some, like Finnish architect Juhani Pallasmaa, it is actually the “artistic qualities, emotions, and associations, irrespective of canonical symbolization,” that cause people to experience sacredness in the space.[1] These artistic qualities that Pallasmaa refers to can include the materials chosen, the purposeful use of both natural and artificial lighting, the symbols and figures etched into the walls, the orientation of entrances, niches, and larger spaces. Such elements can inspire devotion and spirituality in those who view these buildings. According to Kieckhefer, when Russian envoys traveled to Constantinople and encountered the Hagia Sophia in the 10^th century, they proclaimed “we know not whether we were in heaven or on earth. For on earth  there is no such splendor or such beauty, and we are at a loss how to describe it. We know only that God dwells there among men.”[2] The Hagia Sophia, though certainly a particularly extravagant example, is an example nonetheless of the powerful ability of architectural design to inspire feelings of spirituality and sacredness. The magnitude of the building, its towering height, the expansive interior laden with gold and marble that reflect light from the lamps and windows, the artistically decorated domes – all of these elements contribute to how the 10^th century Russian envoys experienced sacredness in that space, an experience likely shared by the millions of people who have entered the Hagia Sophia since its 6^th century construction.

            Some people, like Pallasmaa, might consider the construction of a building, even a religious building, to be secular, making a distinction between explicitly religious symbols and the seemingly secular design elements of light, material, and shape. The Russian envoys, however, point out the religious sacredness of these potentially secular elements. Buildings constructed for religious purposes are built with an understanding that their design will represent aspects of their religiosity. The use of gold and lighting in the Hagia Sophia was likely intended to invoke the divine. When it comes to spaces that are being designed and built today, we have the fortunate opportunity to understand the religious symbolism of the design according to the architects themselves. Siamak Hariri, designer of the South American Baha’i House of Worship in Santiago, Chile had an entire book published documenting the process of constructing the temple, using photos and his own words to describe the inspiration behind every choice in the process.[3] He took the notion of “embodied light”, which he derived from Baha’i writings on prayer, and he used that idea to guide his choices of materials, structure, and shape.[4] Thus, the temple is able to physically capture and “embody” light, as a practicing Baha’i would experience when their prayers are answered. This demonstrates how the artistic qualities of a religious building’s architecture are specifically chosen in order to reflect religiosity and sacredness as it is understood in that tradition. Even without explicit religious narratives or symbols adorning the space, it meant to invoke specific feelings of sacredness in those for whom it is built.

            The notion that the artistic elements and beauty of a space affect people’s religious experiences is corroborated by many traditions that encourage the beautification of religious spaces and objects. Judaism’s formal name for this idea is Hiddur Mitzvah, understood to mean enhancement or beautification of the divine commandments.[5] According to Hiddur Mitzvah, a person should go beyond the formal demands of the law in order to follow commandments with intentionality and thoughtfulness. The glorification of mitzvot with beauty is meant to demonstrate a commitment to God, derived from Exodus 15:2, which states, “this is my God and I will glorify him.”[6] Judaism is not the only tradition where this notion is seen, as we have already seen through the Hagia Sophia and the Baha’i House of Worship how design and art can demonstrate aspects of a relationship with the divine. Therefore, Pallasmaa’s idea that “the actual experience of sacredness usually arises from artistic qualities, emotions, and associations, irrespective of canonical symbolization,” is easily refuted.[7] The artistic qualities may inspire experiences of sacredness, but they are not devoid of canonical symbolization. It may be more subtle and implicit in the design choices, but the architecture of a religious space is purposefully imbued with religious meaning in order to inspire people to devotion and commitment to their religion and their ideas of divinity.

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[1] Juhani Pallasmaa, “Light, Silence, and Spirituality in Architecture and Art,” in Transcending Architecture: Contemporary Views on Sacred Space, edited by Bermudez, (Washington D.C.: Catholic University of America Press, 2015), 21.

[2] Richard Kieckhefer, “Architectural Expression and Ways of Being Religious”, in The Oxford Handbook of Religion and the Arts, edited by Brown, (New York: Oxford University Press, 2014).

[3] Hariri Pontarini Architects, Embodied Light: The Baha’i Temple of South America, (Boston: Walter de Gruyter GmbH, 2017).

[4] Hariri Pontarini Architects, 20.

[5] “Beautify (Hiddur) Mitzvah”, Jewish Learning Matters, accessed February 22, 2020. https://www.jewishlearningmatters.com/AC1-Beautify-%28Hiddur%29-Mitzvah-1191.aspx

[6] Exodus 15:2

[7] Pallasmaa, 21.

During class, Professor Albert kept coming back to Pallasmaa’s quote: “Thus, religious sacredness implies the encounter of a space, object, or ritual which has been specifically named or designated sacred beforehand. The spirituality invoked by a secular artistic work is a personal and individual existential experience which obtains its aura and impact through the inherent nature of human experience itself without any explicit religious symbolization, connotation, or designation.” This quote implies a separation between religion and spirituality. I think what Pallasmaa misunderstands is that the spirituality that he is describing as being entirely secular would be interpreted, by many religious people, as religious experiences. Pallasmaa mentions that these secular artistic works that invoke spirituality lack any explicit religious symbols, and that is what makes the experience a secular spirituality. However, many people do not need a symbol to be explicitly religious in order to interpret it through that lens. Take light, for example. It is not an explicitly religious phenomenon. However, if someone understands light as the presence of the divine, or a sign from a god, a beacon or a guide, or even just an example of divine creation, then their experience of light is both spiritual and religious. The fault in Pallasmaa’s words lies in his assumption that religious sacredness relies on things that are specifically designated as religiously sacred. Religious sacredness does not rely on specific naming as such, but through individual’s interpretation of a space, object, or ritual.

I was surprised in doing my research for this class how little information I could find relating to how the architectural design of a religious space impacts people’s spiritual experiences. Perhaps I was simply not using the right keywords. But personally, I am always awe-stricken by particular pieces of architecture, how the light will shine through in certain ways to illuminate the space, how the grandiosity of the building can overwhelm a person and set the tone of their experience. I find myself, while traveling, taking many photos of buildings as I walk by them, or designs on the walls and windows that capture the eye. I included many photos in this week’s sources, because I feel like words can only do so much to convey the effect these buildings can have. The Hagia Sophia was a good example, because as soon as I looked up photos, both the exterior and the interior made me gasp. To conduct ritual in a space such as that must have a strong effect on one’s religious experiences.

I think one of the most interesting points that came up in class is how we often treat Religion Studies differently than other fields. It is considered a sensitive topic, largely because of how complex and ingrained religious identities are. Because of this sensitivity, it is treated differently than Biology, or Physics, or even other Humanities fields such as English or History. But the case is that diversity is needed in all of these fields. No one field should be made up entirely of people whose identity is so strongly ingrained in what they teach that they cannot teach it from a secular, academic perspective. If Islamic Studies or Jewish Studies or any other field is made up of people who identify with that people and bring that identity into all of their work, then we struggle to help others learn about that group and how it genuinely functions. You run into the risk of teaching theology more than religion. You do not need to be an outsider to study a certain group within the field of religion, but you should be able to put on your “outsider” hat in order to observe how that group functions and takes its place in the larger scheme of humanity.

When I first read and thought about Heschel’s choice of an orange instead of bread as a symbol of lesbians within Judaism, I agreed wholeheartedly. It seemed offensive to me to equate bread on Passover with lesbians in Judaism, symbolizing transgression and violation of Judaism. But as we discussed it further in class, I began to realize that, like any newly-founded tradition, the orange would lose its radicalism over time. It would cease to spark discussion about what it represents. Therefore, if we are looking for a symbol that would more strongly stand out and provoke conversation, bread on the Seder plate fits as it will always be out of place, left uneaten on this occasion, different from all other nights. It is more symbolic of the struggle of marginalized people, as to many their existence is just as shocking and transgressive as putting bread on the Seder plate. By choosing to include the bread, a person is recognizing and including those marginalized people that it represents. However, does that mean that those same marginalized people are truly out of place, like the bread would be? The bread is jarring and would spark discussions, it would never feel normal on the Seder plate because of its nature as that which is not eaten on Passover. Are we thus keeping marginalized people on the outside of acceptance? Are we equating them as being against the rules, as bread is against the dietary rules of Passover? While the transgression of bread at the Seder might provoke questions, that same transgression could be offensive to a marginalized person who is looking for acceptance, to belong at the Seder like everything else.