The mineral universe has always exerted a mysterious and paradoxical fascination on humanity. Man is incomparably nobler than stone, which is lifeless and has no movement; however, the same attributes that make it inferior to us confer upon it a form of superiority: because they are immobile, they become in a sense immutable; being as dead, they are endowed with permanence.
Consequently, since time immemorial, man has sought to immortalize himself in monuments. A certain classical author was right when he stated that architecture was, from the origin of civilization until the 15th century, “the great book of humanity.”
Like all works of collective authorship, this book presents a notable diversity of styles. On its first pages, there are only scattered letters: to commemorate an event in Antiquity, a simple stela was erected. But these isolated hieroglyphs gradually came together and, according to the natural development of each nation, formed sentences, paragraphs, entire chapters: thus emerged the pyramids of Egypt, the Parthenon of the Greeks and the Temple of Solomon.
However, there is a curious thing about the “book of humanity”: although varied, it maintains the same language throughout all its pages. Ironically, there was no Tower of Babel for buildings. They have always communicated and still communicate today in a single language: that of symbols. Each of these constructions represents a conception of life, of the universe and – above all – of God, who, at His own time, is set by man in His rightful place in history.
The Temple of Solomon had its day, but it had to bow before the Babylonian ziggurat. Later, we see the Greek Parthenon prevail, succeeded by the Roman Pantheon. The latter was also swept away in its turn, and on the ashes of Latin glory, the Romanesque emerged.
Now, every narrative has moments of climax. If we can compare the history of architecture to a book, the period that followed the Romanesque was undoubtedly one of those peaks. Throughout Europe, light and colour burst forth from the dark walls of churches: stained glass windows. The arcades, gaining height and lightness, blossomed into structures that pointed to the sky. The same thing happened to Christian architecture as had once happened to St. Joseph’s dry staff: a miraculous flowering of lilies. That is why Raoul Glaber, a contemporary of these events, stated in admiration: “It was as if the world, shaking itself, cast off its old garments to clothe itself in a white cloak of churches.”1
The Gothic style was born, the combined work of a people. There, sculpture, painting, music, in short, all the arts joined forces in the service of architecture, for the latter served God. It was a perfect symbol of medieval society, when the human hierarchy collaborated to better dedicate itself to the Almighty and “States were governed by the philosophy of the Gospel.”2 The cathedral was theocracy embodied in a building.
It would seem then that the architectural fabric of humanity had reached its peak. After all, Christ’s Kingdom had been established within it. However, the vital course of Gothic architecture was interrupted. From the sixteenth century onwards, architecture became a bland classical art, inspired by pagan Greece and Rome. The phase of decadence called the Renaissance began, the sunset that many take for dawn.
Yes, sunset, because from that point on religious architecture gave way to profane. Little by little, the phase of churches ended and that of palaces began. Buildings turned to this world and forgot about Heaven. They would soon remember it again, it is true; but with hostility instead of love. They rose skyward, no longer to reach Paradise, but to attack it: the era of skyscrapers arrived.
If the Renaissance was a twilight, the contemporary era is the dead of night. If this trend continues, what is next? One would say that the book of humanity could only end in tragedy; it would seem better to interrupt its writing as the lesser evil. But no.
Suddenly, on a continent where the Gothic style was unknown – or at least unknown as a living reality – we witness a phenomenon even more admirable than that which marked the medieval period. Next to one of the largest cities in the world – the São Paulo of oppressive buildings, cacophonous avenues, concrete, asphalt, soot and smog – what is this edifice full of colour, light and life? Mirabile dictu, it is a church.
Similar structures are multiplying at an astonishing rate throughout Brazil and beyond: construction sites are emerging in America and even in Africa! It could be said to be a kind of fire, like the new fire that spreads during the Easter Vigil ceremony. How can we define this phenomenon? A rebirth? No. A resurrection.
The genesis of the architectural style of the Heralds of the Gospel could be described in a thousand ways. But it would be impossible to begin without first mentioning Msgr. João, who – actualizing the wish of his spiritual father and master, Dr. Plinio Corrêa de Oliveira, to see the birth of buildings that would somehow reflect the graces won by the Immaculate Heart of Mary for her Reign – was able to conceive and set in motion this titanic work, being present at every step, directing, perfecting, stimulating, and inspiring. Without a doubt, the shapes, colours, and designs all originate from his bold heart.
Since every cause is greater than its effect, it seems logical to conclude that these marvellous temples are spreading throughout the world today because at their origin lies a soul “greater than the temple” (Mt 12:6). However, this statement is only part of the reality. If we stop there, we will see the genius, but forget the fighter; we will have the visionary, but miss the prophet.
“Le ciel est gothique – Heaven is gothic”, our founder stated analogously in 2013, in an interview with a certain French magazine, when asked about the reason for our style. If the world thinks that it has managed to bury the supernatural, sealing its victory with a slab of concrete, there are those who proclaim the opposite.
But words are not enough. They are fleeting, and someone may pretend not to have heard them. Well then, let the challenge be written on rock: there is a Heaven, and the day will come when it will transform the earth. Thus, the response to the insolence of this world becomes the harbinger of a new order of things. And the buildings conceived by Msgr. João become gigantic prophecies in stone. ◊
Notes
1 RAOUL GLABER. Historiarum sui temporis. L.III, c.4: PL 142, 651.
2 LEO XIII. Immortale Dei, n.21.
