The Architecture of Awe

We recently returned from our trip to Spain, and I keep thinking about two places in particular that we visited. 

The biggest tourist attraction in Spain turns out to be a church. It also recently became the tallest church in the world. They've been building it since 1882! What's crazy about this is that the architect Antoni Gaudí knew his design would take numerous generations to build. This makes me wonder how much better the world would be if we all had the mindset of creating things that future generations (and not us) would benefit from. 

This building, located in Barcelona, is called La Sagrada Família. It is stunning to see both from the outside and the inside. It has the most beautiful stained glass windows I've ever seen (they're not in the traditional style). Being inside the building, feeling small in comparison, and watching the way the light shone through the windows was otherworldly. It was easy to imagine having a profound experience with Jesus in this space.

This wasn't the only time I felt like this on the trip.

But other time I felt it... I wasn't standing in a church.

That happened days later when we were a few hours north (by both car and train) in the town of Perelada. There's an old castle there, and near the castle is the site of the ancient cellar dating back six centuries. Except that they've built a new cellar where the original one used to be.

And when I say that they "built" a new cellar, I mean they spent forty-six million dollars to create what I can only refer to as the Cathedral of Wine, involving a massive underground cellar with an immersive tour that lets you walk through it. The entire experience was an artistic overload of brilliance and attention to detail. It's called the Perelada Winery.

The feeling I had touring this winery was similar to what I felt in La Sagrada Família.

It made me wonder how many times we've attributed spiritual experiences to famous Cathedrals when, in reality, we are often moved by the space itself. 

Which feels like a pretty depressing insight, right?

Especially if, like me, you've had spiritual experiences in different places.

However, the more I've reflected on this, the more I'm convinced the insight isn’t depressing at all; it’s liberating. It unhooks us from the idea that Jesus ever hoped we’d spend centuries perfecting architectural flexes to prove our devotion. If anything, Jesus seemed pretty uninterested in the religious structures of his day and far more invested in opening people’s eyes to what was already happening around them. He spent very little time telling people where to encounter God and a whole lot of time helping them notice who was in front of them.

And this challenges one of the big assumptions many of us were handed: that God is most available in the places we designate as “holy.” But what if God has been flooding the world with beauty since the beginning, and the cathedrals we built were our way of trying to capture the experience?

Because once you start paying attention, you realize beauty isn’t scarce. The scarcity is in our willingness to notice it.

A winery can become a sanctuary the moment you realize the craftsmanship, the patience, and the artistry required to transform fruit into something transcendent. A serene lake at sunrise can become a thin place not because water plus sunlight equals holy, but because you finally stopped long enough to see what creation has been preaching for millennia. A sunset over the ocean can feel like a hymn because its beauty overwhelms your defenses and reminds you you’re part of something bigger than your schedule.

Even more disruptive: sometimes the cathedral is a person.

Someone so good at their craft that watching them work feels like witnessing a kind of liturgy. Someone who chooses kindness when ego would have been easier. Someone who offers a moment of compassion that rearranges the emotional weather of an entire room.

These moments don’t require stained glass or soaring ceilings. They don’t require million-dollar budgets or centuries-long construction timelines. They require one thing: attention. 

If beauty is everywhere, then the issue isn’t access to God. It’s awareness of God. And that’s a much more uncomfortable conclusion, because it means we can’t blame the church building (or lack thereof) for our spiritual dryness. The burden shifts back to us to slow down, to tune in, to let the world speak.

If Jesus is always with us, then the cathedrals were never the point. They were just one more attempt to help us see what’s been true all along.

God is not hard to find. We are hard to awaken. It turns out we don't need millions of dollars or hundreds of years to make a Cathedral. 

Cathedrals are all around us, and Jesus is next to us moment by moment, inviting us to see more.

Photo by Sung Jin Cho on Unsplash