We Build What We Believe: The Uglification of Church

In cities and towns across Europe, the soaring cathedrals of the medieval and baroque eras still stand as monuments to the glory of God. Chartres, Cologne, Notre Dame, Saint Peter’s Basilica, and countless others were built not just as places of worship, but as visual sermons—crafted to lift the soul toward heaven through light, proportion, and harmony. These were spaces where beauty and transcendence met. Today, however, many new churches resemble office buildings, minimalist warehouses, or confusing abstract structures. The very spaces meant to point toward eternity now often reflect a culture adrift, utilitarian, and spiritually numb.

This crisis in church architecture is not just about aesthetics. It reveals something deeper: the loss of a shared vision of the sacred, a dulled sense of transcendence, and a rejection of beauty as a pathway to truth. And oddly enough, we can see this same loss not just in religious architecture, but in many secular buildings as well.

Personal Encounter with Sacred Beauty

During my years managing the Shrines of Italy YouTube channel, I had the profound privilege of visiting some of the most breathtaking cathedrals and basilicas in the world. From the majestic heights of the Milan Cathedral to the serene splendor of Assisi, I was constantly in awe of how every column, every vaulted ceiling, every flickering candle seemed to speak of heaven. These were not just buildings—they were encounters with the divine. The sheer beauty of those sacred spaces pierced the heart and stirred the soul in a way that no homily or lecture ever could.

Returning to the United States after that season was bittersweet. The contrast between the grandeur of Italy’s ancient churches and the sterile, uninspired structures that often pass for sacred spaces here was jarring. It weighed heavily on my spirit. I would walk into churches back home and feel…nothing. No sense of mystery. No sacred hush. No vertical pull toward the transcendent. Just carpeted floors, beige walls, and bland lighting. It was as though the very soul of worship had been drained away and replaced with something lifeless; something empty. This personal experience only deepened my conviction that beauty is not optional—it is essential for the flourishing of faith and for the very survival of civilization itself.

The Rise and Fall of Sacred Architecture

The great cathedrals of the past were often built over decades—sometimes centuries—with painstaking attention to every detail. Some, like the La Sagrada Familia in Spain, have yet to be completed. Artisans, stonemasons, and architects worked not only for wages, but out of devotion. Every element served a purpose: stained glass windows taught biblical stories, vaulted ceilings drew the eyes upward, and incense and chant immersed the senses in the divine. These were not just buildings—they were catechisms in stone.

Compare this to many modern churches, particularly those built after the 1960s. Characterized by brutalist concrete, barren walls, and irregular geometries, they often look indistinguishable from secular civic centers. Inside, tabernacles are tucked away, sanctuaries are plain, and the sense of verticality—of reaching toward heaven—is lost. The liturgy, too, often reflects this flattening of mystery: stripped of chant, ritual, and silence, worship can feel horizontal, even theatrical. One walks into such a space not with a sense of awe, but confusion—or worse, boredom.

Beauty as the Language of God

Why does this matter? Because beauty is not vain—it’s vital. As Pope Benedict XVI wrote, “Beauty…is not mere decoration, but rather an essential element of the liturgical action, since it is an attribute of God Himself and His revelation.” Beauty draws the soul toward truth. It softens the heart. It opens us to mystery. In a world increasingly deaf to doctrine and skeptical of authority, beauty remains one of the last universally persuasive forces.

This is why sacred architecture matters. When a church is beautiful, it speaks without words. It says: “God is here. This is holy ground.” It invites even the skeptic to pause. It plants a seed.

Modern architecture often dismisses such beauty as pretentious, inefficient, or superfluous. But this utilitarian mindset is precisely the problem. A culture that no longer believes in transcendence no longer sees the value in beauty that points beyond itself.

The McDonald’s Parallel: Ugliness as the New Norm

Interestingly, this same phenomenon can be observed in our secular world. Consider McDonald’s. In the 1950s and 60s, McDonald’s buildings had distinct, charming designs—golden arches, angled roofs, vibrant colors, and a childlike sense of delight. Today, most new McDonald’s locations look like corporate cubes: gray, minimalist, and stripped of personality. Why? Because uniformity and efficiency have replaced charm and identity. It’s cheaper. It’s quicker. And perhaps most tellingly—it’s forgettable.

The sameness we now see in fast food buildings mirrors the sameness of modern churches. Both represent a culture that prioritizes function over form, speed over soul, and convenience over wonder.

And this is no small thing. Architecture forms us. When we’re surrounded by ugliness, it shapes our expectations. It lowers our gaze. It reinforces the false idea that life is flat, that there is nothing to reach for. When even our churches no longer speak of heaven, how can we be surprised when people stop seeking it?

The Soul’s Need for Transcendence

The human soul craves transcendence. We are made to worship, to wonder, to encounter the divine. When our liturgy and architecture are stripped of mystery and beauty, we become spiritually malnourished. We settle for sentiment instead of sacrifice. We mistake entertainment for encounter.

This is not nostalgia—it’s anthropology. From the ancient temples of Jerusalem to the domes of Hagia Sophia, the human instinct has always been to express reverence through grandeur. The loss of this instinct in our own age points to a deeper spiritual amnesia.

Some argue that simpler church designs are more “approachable” or inclusive. But inclusion should not mean flattening the sacred. Sacred beauty doesn’t exclude—it invites. It beckons the soul upward. It makes heaven feel near.

Signs of Renewal

Thankfully, signs of renewal are emerging. Some new churches, such as the Shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe in La Crosse, Wisconsin or St. John the Apostle Church in Leesburg, Virginia, are returning to classical styles—combining traditional design with modern materials. Young Catholics are rediscovering Gregorian chant, sacred art, and the Latin Mass. There is a quiet revolution taking place: a rediscovery of the power of beauty to sanctify.

As Bishop Robert Barron has often said, “The way of beauty is one of the privileged paths to evangelization.” In a culture fatigued by noise and relativism, beauty can speak directly to the soul. It bypasses argument and awakens desire.

Conclusion: We Build What We Believe

Ultimately, our buildings reflect our beliefs. The cathedrals of the past were not just beautiful—they were theological statements carved in stone. They declared: “God is real. God is glorious. And this world is not our final home.”

What do our churches say today?

And what do our fast food chains say?

When even a hamburger joint no longer sees the value in beauty, perhaps we shouldn’t be surprised that our sacred spaces have lost their soul too. But the Church is not doomed to decay. We are heirs of a rich tradition of sacred beauty. We only need to reclaim it.

The crisis of beauty is a crisis of the soul. And in rebuilding beauty—in our churches, our liturgies, our lives—we might just begin to restore our vision of God.

In the words of one Jeremy Tate, “Modern man is in a terrible predicament. He is helplessly enamored with the beauty of what the old world built, yet despises the beliefs that inspired them to build it.”