How the Church has changed the world
byANTHONY ESOLEN
Immensity cloistered in thy dear womb
Now leaves His well beloved imprisonment;
There He hath made Himself, to His intent,
Weak enough now into our world to come;
But oh, for thee, for Him, hath the inn no room?
— John Donne, from La Corona
Behold two tall buildings. One is an inn for God and man, and one is not.
One is what used to be called the Sears Tower, in Chicago. It's no longer called by that name, because the business in question is nearing its final dissolution, and its place already knows it no more. The tower is more than 1400 feet high. It is a titanic feat of engineering skill, and the most popular site for tourists in the city. People ride to the observation deck on top, whence they can look out upon several states and the vast waters of Lake Michigan below. The tower is gray, glossy, steely, straight-lined, unadorned, massive, and cold.
It is something made by man, but not for man; rather for the rich and powerful few whose offices are located in it, and for those tourists who will look not so much at it as from it. It does not elevate the ordinary. It ignores it. It may be a source of employment for many janitors and repairmen, but it cannot be an object of their devotion. No old man will say to his grandson, "Come, Billy, let's take the elevator to the ninetieth floor, so I can show you the waste-baskets I used to empty."
The Sears Tower is not an ugly place. It is not really a beautiful place. It is hardly a place at all. It is more like a negation of place; it might as well be in Singapore, or Shanghai, or São Paulo, for all of its aloofness from the human world around it. It is untouched by the ordinary people's slightest whimsy or care or love. Some people might call it art. No one would dare to call it folk art.
Now let us look at the glorious cathedral at Chartres.
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