I have never felt at home in the Cathedral Church of St. John the Divine. To me it has always seemed needlessly massive, incoherent, uninspired, and, perhaps worst of all, uninspiring. The questions I am inclined to contemplate when there are not eternal but rather historical ones, such as: How did this Church come to be what it is? Thus, when we were asked to choose a building to research for our Morningside history project, I naturally chose this one.
I went on a wonderfully instructive tour of the Church today (“Within the Walls: Exploring Hidden Spaces”). We went up spiral staircases at both the eastern and western ends of the Church and down into the crypt, which had been the first space of worship inside of the Church. I had just read Andrew Dolkart’s treatment of this Church in his Morningside Heights book, so I was especially attentive to questions of architectural history. Where did the work of the original architectural team, Heins and La Farge, leave off? And where did the work of the architect Ralph Adams Cram (who was appointed after the death of Heins and the dismissal of La Farge) begin?
Those questions are rooted in my initial offhand impression that the Church is an incoherent space, an impression that turns out to be amply justified by its history. Heins and La Farge had designed and begun building a Romanesque interior. Cram’s plan was Gothic inside and out; although he was thoughtful enough to blend the two styles a bit in the east-end dome behind the Romanesque arch that Heins and La Farge had built. My overall impression is that Heins and La Farge were men of genius, whereas Cram was merely a talented craftsman with a strong belief in the supremacy of the Gothic style.
My views of these architects’ accomplishments are no doubt influenced by my bias in favor of a Romanesque style for modern church architecture. The true Gothic style was a vigorous and authentic expression of Medieval spirituality; but the Gothic Revival style of the 19th-20th centuries is another thing entirely. As John Henry Newman put it: “[Gothic] was once the perfect expression of the Church’s ritual in those places in which it was in use; it is not the perfect expression now.” (Quoted in Michael Hall, “What Do Victorian Churches Mean? Symbolism and Sacramentalism in Anglican Church Architecture, 1850-1870,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians, Vol. 59, No. 1 (Mar., 2000), p. 80).
Now, when I go to the Cathedral Church of St. John the Divine, I am no longer overwhelmed by a feeling of incoherence. I walk to the east–where the sun rises, where some of the Romanesque work of Heins and La Farge can still be seen, and where the intricate tile vaulting work of Guastavino is most plainly visible. I pass through the long Gothic nave, and find myself in the dim, unfinished crossing, with its rough-hewn beauty and great rounded dome, or in the ambulatory behind the main altar, with its richly decorated floors and ceilings. Here, at the Church’s east end, I can see inspiration. I feel at home and think of the church that might have been.
