Ceiling Unlimited (2 of 2)

Look it up.

In a way, I envy people who don’t have personal philosophies. I don’t wish to and couldn’t imagine being like that, but I guess it’s probably one less thing to worry about in life. But then, what sort of life are you having not caring about things?

                I positively struggle with my personal philosophies. I find myself constantly shifting definitions, sifting through them, adjusting them to find what best suits me. I often find myself on the line between camps of ideas, and I suppose this sort of searching, compromising, and readjusting can look like indecision, as my friend said like I’m looking for something. I am, but she mistakes a questioning nature for a lack of conviction. The wondering wanderer (or the wandering wonderer) plagued with doubt is typically the sort of person the church gobbles up.

                That’s not me. Though I’m constantly redefining what I am, I know what I am not.

                I’m not a humanist in the strictest sense. I once thought so, because as a rational man I’m all for the celebration of humanity’s accomplishments. I find myself rooted in the thinking of Renaissance Florence, not First Century Judea. And yet, I’m not a strict atheist, and only looking at the accomplishments of humanity ignores the artistic and philosophical triumphs of the spirit, and their monuments that so enthrall and confuse me. As someone smarter than me once said, “Atheists ain’t got no songs.”

                I suppose I see myself as more of an individualist, but that’s a term we must be careful with because it’s one as misinterpreted and misaligned as agnostic. As an individualist, I am not a Randian objectivist or a libertarian. I’m suspicious of both of these philosophies for they are essentially dangerous or at the very least anti-social, and I am a very social (and often socialist) being.

                I’m an individualist in that I strive to make myself a better person, the best person I can be. An individualist celebrates the accomplishments of others as well, celebrates others who succeed, push themselves, make themselves better. Something evolved, something elevated. But not at the expense of anyone, and my moral code has me celebrating when this individual accomplishment can benefit others in some way, even just through inspiration. Can one be as oxymoronical as a socialist individualist? Not to sound hipster, but maybe there’s no term for my philosophy . . .

                Back to the beginning. If I enter the architectural triumph that is a cathedral and I find peace and I am able to elevate myself, I may also feel a desire to celebrate the people who created the place.

                Those that dreamed it, those that built it. Not those who hallowed it or the god and saints to whom it’s dedicated. Some view such places as wasteful, but they grant peace and elevation of the self, even on the heathen level.

                And very often I leave them with a better sense of who I am and what I think. 

Ceiling Unlimited (1 of 2)

Up. Way up.

When I travel, I take a lot of pictures of ceilings. Particularly church ceilings.

              I’m sure this is nothing special. There must be books dedicated to church and mosque and cathedral and synagogue ceilings, just as there are books of doors and windows and toilets around the world. I’m not thinking that it makes me especially unique that when I enter a church it’s instinctive for me to look up, nor is it especially unique that I take a next step of capturing what I see as some form of art. In fact, that I do it means I’m part of the masses—pun partially intended—for a functioning house of worship is figuratively and literally serving its purpose if it’s figuratively and literally making you look up.

              No, where the conflict resides in me is resolving this pious up-looking with my own secular heathenism.

              I was gently offended recently by a friend who happens to be a born-again Christian. (From the perspective of the comfortably faithless, there’s nothing worse than the born-again. It's like someone who's never eaten asparagus has it once at a restaurant, loves it, and insists on it at every meal. Then all they can talk about is asparagus. You've eaten it and it's not for you, but they just have to tell you about asparagus. Over and over. Like you're going to come around and like it just because they have.) She offended me by saying that she thinks my love of churches and my moral code are signs that I’m searching for something. That my attraction to churches in general and the fact that I'm a decent guy means I'm a Christian even and simply haven't realized it yet. Bothered me to be so simplified.  She could only define this search by her own standards. It downplayed my nature because she could only measure it by her own ruler. Or crucifix.

              But back to my love of churches. I adore them. I love the peace and the smell and the stained glass and where things are stored. I love the sounds and the way the light comes in them and the way it doesn't. Love everything about them. How each is its own story, a corner of a community, unique and stuffy and lovely. They’re usually the best part of any urban area, city or small town. When I travel somewhere new I always mentally note churches and pubs; it's subconscious. 

              They are the highest combination of irony. I don’t buy what they’re selling—not directly, anyway—and yet they are made of and containers for art.

              Art is humanity’s greatest expression, the sign of a high-achieving society. When a society starts to falter, when the mob begins to reign, that’s when art fails. Religion on the other hand is the most basic of creations. The most basic society invents a god to thank, blame, and appease as soon as it gets its collective head together. Religion is humanity at its simplest.

              Art is greatness, religion is baseness, and church is where the two meet.

              On a particularly hectic day in Aix-en-Provence, France, just before I entered the cathedral, a friend of mine commented on the building’s combination of Gothic and Romanesque architecture.

              “Gothic,” she said, “like many other styles implores us to look up to God, to the heavens.”

              I was surprised to hear this coming without pessimism from my atheist friend. I thought about how I was always drawn up to the ceilings, to the bottom of the top of these buildings.

              “When you go in think about that,” she continued. “think about elevating yourself. To some this means in the Christian sense, or at least in the faithful sense. To others it’s in the secular sense, in the raising of self. If nothing else, it’s a place to gather yourself in peace. Take a moment, breathe. Think about the how you can rise, ascend as a person. Raise yourself by whatever means you define it.”

              See, despite it being art dedicated to humanity’s most basic creation—religion—it’s still some of our greatest art. And the greater the church, the greater its architectural art.

              I’m glad they exist, even if I don’t use them as they were intended. Yes, the resources could’ve been better spent feeding, clothing, educating people. The same could be said for the money spent on sports stadiums, shopping malls, and office towers. Sometimes it’s just good to be awed by a thing. I suppose that sounds like a rationalization, but we need to be impressed at times, and maybe you’re not always on the ocean or beside a mountain.

              And unlike stadiums, malls, or towers, a person can enter most churches at most times and just be. Experience and elevate.

              Faith aside, I’m glad churches exist. Faith aside, I love everything about them. Faith aside, it’s still possible to be elevated in them without strict faith inside.