“Cathedral Building” is a term that has been appropriated by the business world to reference a type of long-term building strategy. Employing this strategy may require the sacrifice of some of the program or business strengths in the immediate term, in exchange for a grander vision–something that may take years or decades to achieve.

While this may mean dollars and cents in today’s world, it has not always been so. “Cathedral Building” referred to a commitment that artisans would make. If I agree to become a Cathedral Builder, I really agreed to 150 years worth of my family laboring as Cathedral Builders, as well. I was pledging the labor of generations of my family. Not just my own 30 or 40 years.

What did all of these Cathedral Builders make? What were goals that the architects of those churches were trying to achieve? What did the church fathers want the followers to feel? (By the way, I am wholly convinced that if there had been church mothers, we would much different architecture in those buildings.)

Many of the Catholic Cathedrals were designed to feel strong. In the medieval times, the church was the place where you hid from the invaders. The architecture made sure that the villagers felt safe, and encouraged them to not bother hiding anywhere else. The walls were built of huge, hand-cut stones, and the ceilings had large, exposed, solid beams across the top. There was a lookout tower of some sort, that served as a handy place to hang a bell–an early warning sign for trouble, and a reminder for Sunday services.

The Spanish Missions of California ironically resemble forts, as well. The influence of the Spanish architecture is evident in their designs: rounded window tops, and the thick white walls. Again, there are the exposed beams and giant, wooden doors that are testaments to the military value that was placed upon these buildings by the designers.

St. John’s Episcopal Church in Denver, Colorado was quite a sight. It is located in the downtown area of the city, and I had the rare pleasure to attend the singing of “Dixit Dominus,” by Handel. At the time, the choir at this church was the most-recorded choir in the World behind only the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.

When I looked up, I found myself in almost a state of vertigo. The heights were dizzying–or, at least the church was designed to feel that way. Tall spires are placed at frequent intervals throughout the center room of the church, and they all converge together hundreds of feet in the air. The visual effect was caused by hundreds of floor-to-ceiling lines that lead your eye to the roof. And, every Sunday, it was designed to remind you of the dizzying power of God.

The Cathedral of Notre Dame was another experience altogether. Famed for its flying buttresses (I have wanted to type that word for years, and never found the right excuse.) and gothic style, it was designed to be another experience altogether. My timing was absolutely perfect when I walked through it last January. Although I thought the architects had originally intended the dramatic effects of this Cathedral to be a visual one, my opinion was changed after the tour.

While walking through the church, I watched a small procession of choir singers disappear into a room in the center. They were smiling and chatting, quite like most other choir singers that I have encountered. There was a performance scheduled for several hours later that evening, and they were rehearsing one last time.

As they started to sing, the sound did something I never expected. I lost track of where the voices originated, and ultimately, it sounded as if the very air inside the church was singing. It conjured imagery of angels (I even looked) singing the music. While the architecture is visually impressive with all the gargoyles and saints on the outside, I would argue that the designers wanted auditory effects with this church.

My favorite of all the churches I have visited, however, was the 1626 Domincan Abbey in Oaxaca, Mexico. This church WAS the military building of the region when it was built. On the outside, it was a giant, 12-foot high, walled compound, bordered by a huge plaza. The church had gigantic wooden doors.

On the inside, however, something different happened from all of the churches that I have seen. When you walk in (through the tiny wooden doors that were built into the giant ones), the first thing you see beyond the rows of pews is the altar. The wall behind it was solid gold–from floor to ceiling. It was ornately carved, encrusted, and everything else that you could imagine.

To set off the “goldness” of that back wall, the ceiling was painted a deep, azul-blue with the exception of the hundreds of white, cherub faces carved right into the ceiling. Behind me, and facing the altar, was a huge rose-colored stained-glass window. Again, having good fortune smile upon me, I happened to walk into the church as the afternoon sun moved into the correct position.

In that church in Oaxaca, the setting sun streamed through the windows. Between the color of the glass, and the gold wall behind the altar, the air itself turned a golden-orange color. Above hovered hundreds of cherub-faced angels in a sky of dark blue.

In it, I had a moment of clarity. The testament of that church was not about the strength or power of God. It was not designed to make you feel dizzy, or small. It was not designed to reassure you, or make you feel safe. It was about the love that Humankind has for God. It was simply about the strength of Faith.