Breaking Into the Light

Exploring the "miraculous" within the Sagrada Familia

“In the Sagrada Familia, everything is providential”—Antoni Gaudí

It’s perhaps the most visited monument in the city of Barcelona, not to mention, the world. La Sagrada Familia (which translates as “The Holy Family”) might easily be the most photographed, the most misunderstood, and the most iconic Roman Catholic churches on the planet, next to the Notre Dame in Paris.

Having visited the unfinished Basilica on several occasions, I would urge anyone coming to explore the city for the first time especially, to make an advance reservation to visit this bonafide masterpiece. Antoni Gaudí, also known as “God’s Architect,” left his unique legacy to the people of Barcelona and to the world, upon his death in 1926, after being struck by a tram. Once considered somewhat of a “dandy,” Gaudí neglected his personal appearance in later years, preferring a semi-hermetic life. Until his untimely passing, he devoted himself to developing the still unfinished, la Sagrada Familia, while embracing the passionate views of a devout religious mystic.

(Antoni Gaudí (1852-1926) left a prominent mark on the public face of Barcelona, having worked on celebrated city projects such as Park Güell, Casa Vicens, and Casa Batlló, to name a few.)

Gaudí has become internationally recognized as the vanguard of Catalan architecture. It would be nearly impossible to leave Barcelona without some tangible evidence of his prowess. Enchanted by nature, there is a clear parallel in his work between his adoration of organic design and modernism. However, his exceptional genius made him the originator of an incomparable architectural vision that even today defies complete classification.

(On a sunny day, light streams through the interior chambers of the often crowded Basilica, highlighting the inside pillars and walls, and gracing the visitors with a spectrum of heightened color.)

To begin to understand Gaudí is to engage with the concept of light. Gaudí was quoted as saying, “Glory is light, light brings joy, and joy is the joy of the spirit.”

When I first encountered the mesmerizing illumination of la Sagrada Familia, I was in my twenties. Like so many others, I came, not fully comprehending, what approaching the monument would actually feel like. One can opt into a guided group tour that will offer historical explanations of various exterior chambers, or one might simply read a manual to begin to understand the incredible craftsmanship that has gone into perfecting an iconic temple of this grandeur.

From a distance, I was held spellbound by the massive towers that seem to twirl as they gently poke into the sky. Getting closer, the massive exterior of the Basilica is quite impressive itself, laden with fashioned wrought iron and numerous stone carvings of religious figures, Biblical episodes, and glorified saints, all complimented by detailed engravings of the natural world: grapevines, flower petals, veined leaves from tree branches, roaming wild animals and so on. Gaudí understood that in his day, many devotees would come to the church unable to read. So he visually depicted the life of Jesus Christ on the walls of the temple. Visiting the site is like opening a storybook Bible made of granite and sandstone and Italian glass.

(Exterior sculpture on la Sagrada Familia of Herod’s soldier killing the babies of a weeping mother—all ensconced in images of the natural world.)

But it isn’t until I crossed the threshold of the great church doors that I began to be swept into the vivid imagination of Gaudí himself, "the architect of God.” I grew up in the Catholic faith and attended religious grade school for nine years. Entering la Sagrada Familia, I was led back into my childhood where I often knelt in reverence to images of apostles, martyrs, and haloed saints.

Before the church of my youth was renovated, the ceiling was painted with bulbous angel-inhabited clouds, set against a starry and stormy blue background. I remember being throughly humbled watching my older brother Duane, (who later became a deacon in the Catholic Church), reverently serving the attending priest, by lighting candles and preparing the altar. The choir singing in Latin and the smoky scent of burning Frankincense, are elements that took me to a place where the gold-leaf angel wings painted above my head, would seemingly vibrate.

(Gaudí used a particular geometric form throughout the Sagrada Familia—here the stained glass windows offer a glowing, penetrating light.)

It is perhaps this kind of awakened experience, an actual personal encounter with the miraculous Divine, that Gaudí was hoping each visitor might be met with, even and especially, the non-believer. My own initial approach to the Basilica is one that is starkly unique and one I wouldn’t necessarily wish upon anyone, but I believe it consecrated my calling to seek out a deeper, more meaningful type of travel—one kindred with spiritual pilgrimages and inner transformations anchored in visiting new places.

During my first visit in my mid-twenties, I remember becoming quite infatuated with the intricate designs that bloomed toward the high ceilings and the way the light coming through Venetian glass spread out over the entire Cathedral. I think gazing for so long, head upward, mouth agape, led me into a kind of stupor, a particular lightheadedness, that I carried with me into the upper chamber. I don’t believe the upstairs lookout I entered remains open for guests today. What I sharply remember is I was following a rather large group of visitors onto an outdoor terrace with magnificent views of the city. As I stood on a block of dusty, ancient sandstone and leaned over to place my arms against the overlook’s wall, the perch beneath me crumbled and I went falling nearly two feet onto the hard pavement.

A dizzying pain shot up from my ankle to my thigh and I began to moan. My companion helped me down to the main floor where it became clear I needed some assistance with walking, as no weight could be leveraged upon my quickly swelling foot. I was placed in a sequestered, roped-off area near the altar, where I could attempt my shallow breathing through the fire of an injured ankle. Maybe I blacked out momentarily from the agony, or maybe it was that kind of searing, mounting pain coupled with my collusion with the diffused light—the amber and green and fiery reds dancing over the trencadís mosaics, that allowed me to eventually enter into a rarefied tranquility—a calming and satisfying inner peace that’s hard to expand into words.

(A younger version of myself, in complete repose, against the swirling light beams.)

As Gaudi reminds us, “light brings joy.” Bathing in that unearthly light filtering through the polychrome Murano glass panes, looking up at the kaleidoscopic, geometric forms, seemingly shape-shifting between abrupt afternoon shadows and sudden bursts of Barcelona sunshine, I was suspended in time. Alone and vulnerable, spread out in the first row of pews in front of the altar, I slowly but firmly discovered my own equilibrium. But more than just composure, I took away the kind of abiding reassurance that life is indeed joyful, more precious than anything.

And to be alive in light, even in the grip of a throbbing torment that seemed to invade every nerve end in my body, it is still better to be breathing through it, letting it go. The acute suffering will eventually subside, but if one opens up to a force beyond one’s own singular life, the mystery held within the architect’s mystic vision and one that is staunchly embedded into this temple, then there can be an actual shift towards liberation, a metamorphosis that is offered to the kind of wounded traveler, who makes room for it.

Coda:

This particular experience, or conversion if you will, has anchored me for nearly forty years. It has gilded me with the kind of mindset and disposition that has allowed me to go into the soul of many sacred places around the world, with an openness and decisive willingness to take in whatever mystifying light forms abide there. My ongoing journey and travels to unknown destinations, keep me ignited enough to want to keep sharing my stories of intuitive journeys and personal sojourns right here on the Spontaneous Me travelogue.

When Gaudí observed that everything in La Sagrada Familia is “providential” —I do believe he was referring to the notion that certain locations, like this particular Basilica, remain sacred. Some renown temples can provide an entry point into the miraculous, and for a traveler passing into this space known as la Sagrada Familia, there is a very real likelihood that the notion of Providence or Destino or Fate or the grand mystery of it all, might conspire to invite the visitor to take on a more mindful approach to life, a more awakened state of being, or in my case, the grace to be more sublimely at peace.

And maybe that’s something one doesn’t necessarily bargain for when paying for the price of admission to Barcelona’s top attraction—to be moved by the intention and genius of “God’s architect.” But it’s a possibility that mightily exists.

Resources:

If you’re planning a visit to this famous monument, you don’t want to overlook the valuable resources that are laid out on the official website. La Basilica de la Sagrada Familia is one attraction that you simply don’t want to skip over if you’re visiting Barcelona. Get your official tickets to enter the Basilica here (prices vary depending on what kind of tour you’re looking for) and even sign up for mass (which is free). There are also numerous activities and lectures that can enhance your experience of this great, yet still unfinished, Basilica.

Find the official website here.

(all photos by Gerard Wozek or in alignment with Creative Commons)