Article
Awe and wonder
Culture
Film & TV
5 min read

Why you need more cathedrals in your life

A TV tour of the ancient landmarks showcases their relevance to today.

Pat is vicar of St Peter’s Notting Hill and author of A Pocketful of Hope

A vicar stands arms in front of himself, behind him is a cathedral
Channel 5.

There’s a moment I love every time I drive down to visit my mum. It comes on the A30 heading south towards Salisbury. You come over a brow and round a bend and then there she is, the 123m tall spire of Salisbury Cathedral. Regal, majestic, aloof, dominant. So many words to describe this glorious building. And I remember remarking to my brother one time, who doesn’t share my Christian faith, as he sat in the passenger seat, how amazing it is that without saying a word, the architecture itself bears witness to the reality of another world, another Kingdom. Proclaiming a message to that city. A lighthouse of sorts, continually pointing people to God as they sail on rough and secular seas. 

For me personally, it was a real joy to get to visit six of our most stunning Cathedrals for a two-part series I presented for Channel 5 called, Britain’s Great Cathedrals – To the Glory of God. It comes at a critical moment as cathedrals now face potential financial ruin due to the Government’s recent decisions concerning National Insurance and the Listed Places of Worship scheme. Thrilling I hear you say, but before you scroll on by, suffice it to say that these developments could see the closure of many of our nation’s most magnificent landmarks! This would be a disaster, not just for the soul of the church, but also for the soul of the country. I want to suggest three reasons for that being the case, which are their unrivalled ability to inspire (pardon the pun), inform and include. 

The truth is, whether you’re a person of faith or none whatsoever, you can’t help but be inspired when you see or enter one of these buildings. Whether it’s the glorious facade of Lincoln, the expansive nave of Canterbury, or the sheer strength and grandeur of Durham, these edifices were built to amaze and generate awe. Why else would I say ‘wow’ almost 900 times in just two episodes?! Take it from me, you run out of adjectives pretty quickly. But that’s precisely the point. They were built to lift the mind and soul from the drudgery of what was all too often a pretty grim existence and place their thoughts firmly on higher things. Whether they make it all the way to Heaven itself, or go no further than a vaulted ceiling, the primary mission to inspire is achieved. Would I rather someone is impacted more by the Spirit behind the stone, or the grace behind the glass, of course I would. But would I take the needle of someone’s thoughts and worldview being moved even a fraction, as they perhaps ponder, ‘what moved these people to build this? What did a society and culture believe to prioritise and shape such real estate?’, then yes, I’d take that in a heartbeat. There’s nothing in all of Britain to rival our cathedrals to inspire. 

But it’s not just that. It’s the simple truth that so much of our heritage and history is tied up in these monuments of stone and glass. Artistry developed, architectural techniques advanced, and our cathedrals were undeniably and unavoidably central to the life of the nation. As such, their ability and value to inform a people about who they are and where they come from is unmatched. People might not like it. They may even push against it. But for good or ill, it’s what made us who we are. And look a little closer, and you quickly discover that most of the values that we so embrace and espouse today herald directly from the faith proclaimed in and by these architectural marvels. Secularism has done its best to sever such values from their source, but as the historian Tom Holland has demonstrated, seeking to do so is about as logical as trying to claim that the apples on the branch of a tree have nothing to do with its roots. The facts simply don’t bear it out. And what greater facts can a city proclaim than its skyline, so often dominated by ecclesial geometry. Our cathedrals are filled with the history not just of people, but the ideas that moved them and shaped Western Civilisation. Long may they continue to inform. 

One of the biggest building projects we read of in the Old Testament is Noah’s building of the ark. A behemoth of a boat, big enough to house and include all. And it’s that final idea of inclusion that perhaps speaks most powerfully today. We hear it used a lot, but all too often it’s become a synonym for an approach that has no shape, no constitution or actual covenant of belonging. What draws me to the faith behind these edifices is precisely that even as the invitation goes out into all the earth, just as Noah’s did to all creation, we only enter on God’s terms. He’s the One who calls us in and gets to name and define us all. Whilst this may at first sound narrow, it is in fact the way to liberation. Joined by common bonds and values, held together by the One to whom these buildings point. The sheer vastness of cathedrals conveys there’s room indeed for all, just as the ark had space for its guests as it made its way to a new world. The invitation of our cathedrals, both in form and opening hours, goes out into all the world declaring, ‘Come! Whoever is thirsty, let them come; and whoever wishes, let them take the free gift of the water of life.’ For the message in stone for even hearts of stone is that in Christ, all can be included.  

 

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Column
Books
Culture
Music
Space
6 min read

Magnificent or mundane: how do you react to the overview effect?

Creators of a book, an album and a game, can’t agree.
A small white space capsule orbits around the earth.
A SpaceX Dragon capsule orbits above Earth.
NASA.

As I write this, two Nasa astronauts – Suni Williams and Butch Wilmore (possibly the most USA-sounding name imaginable) – are preparing to leave the International Space Station to return to Earth. They were supposed to stay on the space station for eight days, but a technical problem with their spacecraft meant they’ve been stranded in space for nine months.  

Nine. Months.  

It sounds like the premise for a horror film. Two stranded astronauts slowly descend into madness as they become increasingly isolated and cut off from humanity. Written and directed by M. Night Shyamalan, probably. 

That’s a lot of time to be stuck orbiting Earth, gazing at the pale blue dot, contemplating our little corner of the universe. There’s a phenomenon called the overview effect: a shift in thinking astronauts go through when they see Earth from space. Putting the planet into the wider context of the entire cosmos leads observers to rethink humanity’s place in the universe, and what it means to be human.  I imagine Suni and Butch have had quite a bit of time to do just that in recent months.  

And the overview effect is currently having a bit of a moment in wider culture, too.  

If you went into any bookshop in the weeks before Christmas, you likely saw stacks of Samantha Harvey’s novel Orbital. It tells the story – although there’s not much by way of traditional ‘story’ in Orbital – of six astronauts on the International Space Station, pondering the nature of humanity from their lofty vantage point. 

Having won the booker prize, booksellers were keen to encourage readers to buy Oribtal. Praised by the Booker Prize judges for its “beauty and ambition”, I was looking forward to reading it, when I could. (And, let’s be honest, it’s a short book, which probably helped sales. Who has the time to read Ulysses or Infinite Jest in between school runs and weekly shops?) 

When I finally read it in January, I was left disappointed. I found a surprising lack of humanity in Orbital. With the exception of one astronaut – who spends her time mourning her recently deceased mother some 250 miles up in the sky – the characters feel somewhat paper thin; barely human. As the story meanders from person to person, never really settling on one character long enough to really develop them, it feels a bit … insubstantial?  

Maybe it’s a victim of its own hype. Maybe the not-quite-humanness of the astronauts and the listless quality of the narrative are intentional, designed to capture the ungrounded nature of life in space in both form and content. Maybe that’s being generous. Either way, I was left closing the book and shrugging my shoulders. If Orbital was supposed to offer a glimpse into that overview effect, it left me nonplussed. 

By coincidence, Steven Wilson has just released his eighth solo album: The Overview. Who is Steven Wilson, you ask? Only “probably the most successful British artist you've never heard of” according to The Daily Telegraph. With Wilson’s album currently sitting at #1 in the UK album charts, it doesn’t seem an unwarranted title.  

In The Overview, Wilson explores the overview effect across just two lengthy pieces of music. In the first, Wilson contrasts the mundanities of life on Earth with the chaos of space, calling us to attend to miracle that is humanity, thanks to lyrics written by the annoyingly talented Andy Partridge of XTC: 

“And there in an ordinary street  

A car isn't where it would normally be  

The driver in tears, about his payment arrears 

 Still, nobody hears whеn a sun disappears in a galaxy afar.” 

With Partridge’s help, Wilson manages to capture that humanity so sorely lacking in Orbital. Amid a sea of seemingly barren space, there is life here on this small, pokey planet, and the dramas and stresses of a man fretting about his debts don’t seem out of place, even when compared to the implosion of a star on the other side of the universe.  

All this makes a recent interview with Wilson all the more odd.  

When speaking about the overview effect, Wilson says “Your life is futile, it’s meaningless – and isn’t that a wonderful thing?” before doubling down: “And I do mean that. We spend so much of our time anxious, stressed, worried about things that sometimes we just need an injection of perspective.” 

For Wilson, this perspective – this overview effect – is liberating. It allows to stop navel-gazing, to pick our heads up and to realise our freedom to do whatever we want. After all, everything’s just matter in varying different arrangements:  

“The clouds have no history 

And the sea feels no sorrow 

The oxygen recycled 

And the atoms are just borrowed,”  

At the climax of the album’s second epic, Wilson sings – with more glee than it warrants –  

“There's no reason for anything  

 Just a beautiful infinity 

 No design and no onе at the wheel.” 

 Cheery stuff. 

It's easy to see why, in the same interview, Wilson rails against the concept of religion: “Religion is a classic manifestation of cosmic vertigo … To even understand even the very simplest, most basic facts about space, should be enough to disabuse anyone of the notion of God. But apparently it doesn’t.” 

It all sounds a bit like an angsty teenager encountering the New Atheists for the first time. And this edge to Wilson’s work jars uncomfortably with the humanitarian streak that runs through his music. Wilson wants (rightly) to celebrate the mundane, the ordinary, and the human. And simultaneously wants to tell us that we’re just … stuff. Just atoms arranged in one way or another. Wilson pays lip-service to the humanity missing from Orbital, but it’s superficial.  

And all this reminds me of my favourite video game ever: 2019’s The Outer Wilds. (Not to be confused with 2019’s also-space-based-but-decidedly-mediocre The Outer Worlds). In The Outer Wilds, you play as an alien with a ramshackle spaceship who sets off to explore their solar system. Except every 22 minutes, the sun explodes. When it does, you wake up on your home planet and start again. 

You use these 22-minute loops to explore the solar system, flying manually from planet to planet, and exploring every nook and cranny of them in the process. You see awe-inspiring sights and are confronting with the absolute otherness and horror of the vastness of space.  

And yet. As you explore, you come across notes left by long-forgotten civilizations. Mundane lists and frustrated exchanges between colleagues. You come across life, in other words, even if you don’t meet many other actual people. I can’t say much more than this without ruining the game: The Outer Wilds depends on your real-world knowledge to progress, and so, the more I tell you, the more I ruin.  

But, suffice it to say that this is exactly what is missing from Harvey and Wilson’s work. While they both ostensibly want to remind us of the value and the miracle of humanity, both leave me feeling cold. Both leave me with the impression that life is little more than atoms arranged one way and not the other. Just stuff.  

But in The Outer Wilds, the sun’s implosion – and all that is lost with it – is a genuine heartbreak every single time. I think about all the stories I’ve read, and the people I’ve met, and how it’s all about to be lost as a bright supernova washes over me. And then I wake up again at the start of the cycle, relieved that all is not lost.  

If you can, you should play The Outer Wilds. It’s beautiful. Really, really beautiful. More so than Orbital or The Overview. Our place in the universe can be overwhelming; we’re small, and the universe is strange and scary. But we’re not just insignificant stuff. Our stories and the people we share them with matter. And Outer Wilds captures this tension impeccably. Only it captures life’s miraculous nature in the way it deserves. 

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