Attending a wintertime worship service at the Church of the Light – the famously ‘empty’ edifice by Neo-Modernist architect Tadao Ando (1941-), at Ibaraki (Osaka), Japan – I was struck by thoughts of Modernist architect Richard Neutra (1892-1970).1 In particular, I recalled one of Neutra’s clients retelling a possibly mythical but nonetheless pertinent anecdote:
[Neutra] studied architecture at the [Vienna University of Technology], and the senior students always visited St Stephen’s Cathedral. Neutra’s class went and came back. The professor said, ‘What did you think?” And, Neutra said, “It was beautiful, but there are three things wrong with it.” No one had ever before found fault with St Stephen’s. The professor said, “Oh? What is possibly wrong with St
1
Coincidentally, Ando received the 2012 Neutra Medal for Professional Excellence, awarded by Cal Poly Pomona, Department of Architecture, where Neutra once taught.
Stephen’s?” And, the young student said, “Well, it was so dark, I couldn’t see. The acoustics were so bad, I couldn’t hear. It was so stuffy, I couldn’t breathe!”2
Myth or not, the story presents the spectre of criticising the seemingly un-criticisable – the ‘perfect’. The young Neutra’s critique does not dismiss the ascription of beauty generally accorded to the historical edifice. Instead, it honestly calls attention to deficiencies that may go unnoticed or unnamed in connection with legendary architectural ‘greatness’. In essence, the critique suggests that the architectural grandeur of St Stephen’s does not come without certain – and significant – experiential costs.
It is tempting, also, to see perfection in the Church of the Light, particularly in what appears to be architectural purity. But, like St Stephen’s, it too can be critiqued – even while appreciating its widely-revered status – because Church architecture must be assessed not only on the basis of espoused and ascribed aesthetic theories but also on the basis of a building’s capacity to fulfil its commission; to respond fully to its situation. Ando describes his Church of the Light as “a space of nothingness” and as “spatial emptiness,”3 phrases readily adopted by professional and lay observers in expressions of
both praise and disapproval.4 Prominent amongst professional observers is Jin Baek, who, in his analyses of the church building and Ando’s theories about it, offers generous and deserved praise for the architecture, while also advancing a commonly discussed link between the Japanese religio-philosophical tradition of “nothingness” and Christian kenosis.5 In that light, it is reasonable and worthwhile to critically consider (1) the situation’s potentiality to instantiate kenosis; (2) the building’s receptivity – its kenotic openness – to the church’s kenotic purposes; and (3) the creativity with which the architecture’s conception is approached, and the extent of kenosis evidenced therein. Insofar as such consideration reveals imperfections and irregularities – as would be expected in all creations – a further and final question is raised as to whether and how imperfection influences valorisation.
To effect the proposed assessment is to search for the building’s character – not in its myth, but in its maturation. Philosopher Walter Benjamin suggests that “historical
2
R. Schuller, "Reflections on the Crystal Cathedral," Faith & Form: Journal of the Interfaith Forum on Religion, Art and Architecture XVII(1984): 20.
3
J. Baek, Nothingness: Tadao Ando's Christian Sacred Space (New York and Abingdon: Routledge, 2009), 195.
4
A. Kroll, "AD Classics: Church of the Light / Tadao Ando," ArchDaily (6 January, 2011),
http://www.archdaily.com/101260. Kroll notes that this project has been dismissed by some as "nothing more than six [planes]," but counters by suggesting that "there is a whole level of design aesthetic implemented by Ando and his contractors that is misread and unrecognised by the occupants."
5
Kenosis, as a concept in Christianity and other faith traditions, is discussed more fully in Chapter 2. Baek's discourse, positioning the Church of the Light within Nishida's philosophy of nothingness (and the correlation of Nishida’s philosophy with kenosis) is found in J. Baek, "Empty Cross: Nothingness and the Church of Light" (University of Pennsylvania, 2004); J. Baek, "Kitaro Nishida’s Philosophy of Emptiness and Its Architectural Significance," Journal of Architectural Education 62, no. 2 (2008); and Baek, Nothingness: Tadao Ando's Christian Sacred Space.
‘understanding’ is to be viewed primarily as an afterlife of that which has been understood; and so what came to be recognized about works through the analysis of their ‘afterlife’, their ‘fame’, should be considered the foundation of history itself.”6 Or, as
Graeme Gilloch interprets Benjamin: “the modern reveals itself as ruin” and truth only appears through gradual demise, a “destruction of deceptive appearance” that “facilitates a process of reconstruction.”7 This interdependence amongst apparent contradictions is
analogous to that of kenosis and skenosis, and the paradox of weakness producing strength (discussed in Chapter 2). It may seem premature to speak of the Church of the Light in terms of ‘ruination’ or ‘demise’, but, like all finite creation, it has begun its march in that direction. With more than a quarter-century of ‘fame’, it is better positioned to be more self-revealing – more self-emptying, or kenotic – and to submit to fresh critical analysis that benefits from the intimacy of greater distance.
Potentiality
The kenotic potentiality of a situation rests, first, in its very nature and, second, in that which is brought to the situation by those who are already part of it and will respond to it – particularly, in this case, the church congregation and their chosen architect. Each aspect warrants exploration. The nature of this situation can be seen in its genealogy. At a global scale, the mere notion of a Christian church on Japanese soil – where Buddhism and Shintoism are predominant – holds inherent kenotic potential. In fact, the proposition fundamentally relies on at least some measure of mutual opening-up. Then, as mentioned, the Japanese tradition of nothingness – grounded in Buddhism and revived in the twentieth century by Kitarō Nishida and his Kyoto Philosophical School – establishes a connection between Buddhism and Christianity, notably by way of kenosis. Such can be seen not only in Nishida’s writings but also in a considerable volume of subsequent and continuing discourse that posits kenosis as an important, if imperfect, model for interfaith relations.8 Influenced by such tradition and philosophy, Ando uses the Japanese terms mu (nothingness) and ma (interval or in-between) to discuss his aesthetic theories,9 and he expresses an unequivocal intention to further the interfaith connection. It is his hope that the deployment of an architecture “that seeks to embody
6
W. Benjamin as quoted in Gilloch, Myth & Metropolis: Walter Benjamin and the City: 111.
7
Ibid., 14.
8
Discourse connecting Japanese 'nothingness' with Christian kenosis also includes: Cobb and Ives, The Emptying God: A Buddhist-Jewish-Christian Conversation; and Odin, "A Critique of the 'Kenōsis/Śūnyatā' Motif in Nishida and the Kyoto School." The concept of kenosis as a model of interfaith missiology is found in Frederiks, "Kenosis as a Model for Interreligious Dialogue."
9
Baek, Nothingness: Tadao Ando's Christian Sacred Space: 196. The term mu is merely the Japanese rendering of the Chinese term wu, which is used to describe this same sense of emptiness or nothingness in the Chapter 2 discussion of Buddhism.
the spiritual realm, explained by the religious and philosophical notion of nothingness, will bridge Buddhism and Christianity.”10
Accordingly, Baek can adopt Nishida’s philosophy as an interpretive framework for the Church of the Light,11 and that allows him to posit:
The molding of the church is a creative linguistic event of interpretation, arising from the common ground between nothingness, on which Ando stood, and the God of Christianity, as re-introduced to East Asia with the inception of modernization during the second third of the nineteenth century.12
By his own comments and through his participation in Baek’s project, Ando at least tacitly accepts this portrayal. He also strengthens the link with kenosis, stating that his interest in spatial emptiness goes beyond the perceptual and is meant to convey the concept of sharing,13 which is an aspect of kenosis. Going further, Baek specifically correlates Nishida’s theory of self-negation with Christian kenosis, and associates both with Ando’s religious architecture.14 Although the genealogy may appear somewhat circuitous, the relationship between kenosis and the situation that produces the Church of the Light is clearly established as one of potentiality.
Presented is nothing less than the potential for East-West exchange – between Buddhism-via-Nishida and Christianity – with Ando as chief envoy. Notionally, the exchange relies on similarities in the Buddhist concept of sunyata – central to Nishidan philosophy – and the Christian concept of kenosis. The potential of the exchange is made richer and more entangled by Ando’s acknowledgement that he is also influenced by Shintoism; not so much a religion, but a polytheist spirituality, which, unlike Buddhism and Christianity, is indigenous to Japan. Such a confluence of traditions only reinforces Ando’s observation that the “co-existence of religions is a very important part of Japanese spirituality.”15 So, it would seem that – at least in theory – the situation of the Church of
the Light holds the potential to concretise an avenue of interfaith dialogue. However, two important questions arise, asking, first, whether such dialogue is kenosis and, second, whether kenosis can be seen as an aspiration of those who commissioned the project. Regarding the first question, it is important to appreciate that although dialogue can be kenotic, kenosis is not mere dialogue; nor is it simply the discovery of comforting but possibly naive analogies, or ‘common ground’. Open-ended, kenotic dialogue requires
10 Ibid., 188. At the same interview, immediately following Ando’s statement, his wife, Yumiko, amplifies the
kenotic connection: "The negation of self, or nothingness in Nishida's philosophy, seems to remain as the point of common ground between the two religions."
11
Ibid., 8. It should be noted, however, that Ando also points to the significant influence of philosopher Tetsuro Watsuji: “For architects, I think Watsuji's philosophy is more accessible than Nishida's. In contrast, even though I also tried to read Nishida’s books, they were extremely difficult to understand.” See ibid., 176.
12 Ibid., 8. 13 Ibid., 195. 14 Ibid., 141. 15 Ibid., 183.
“entering into relationships that go on raising questions about the adequacy or otherwise of the terms [the conversers] use,” relationships that are allowed to “challenge any sense of self-sufficiency” and “confront the edges and boundaries of the known.”16 Hence, the
extent to which this situation’s potential can be actualised is held in the second question; one contingent upon the willingness of the project’s commissioners to open-up and give the building over to that end, to challenge and be challenged, and to risk the possibility of partially becoming the other. Exploration of that question requires some understanding of the commissioning Christian denomination, as well as the potentiality of its relationship with the traditions at the other end of Ando’s ‘bridge’, particularly Buddhism.
The Church of the Light is the worship centre of a local congregation of the Kyodan, the United Church of Christ in Japan (UCCJ). The UCCJ was formed in 1940-41 as an evangelical union of all formerly independent or denominational Protestant churches – more than thirty at the time.17 While the union created an ecumenical and globally-engaged organisation, the UCCJ Constitution is unambiguous about the authority it finds in the God of Christianity:
God, summoning from every land and people those whom, in Christ, it pleases Him to call, consecrates these people and reveals to them His grace and truth, bestowing upon them the fellowship of the Holy Spirit. This, then, is the holy catholic Church.18
The Constitution and its companion documents, the Confession of Faith and Guidelines for Christian Living, are silent on the subject of interfaith dialogue, but the language in each is unwaveringly self-sufficient; a fact that may not jeopardise religious co-existence but, if taken seriously, could stand in the way of more meaningful exchange. Indeed, such doctrine can be read to suggest that the embrace of religious pluralism and interfaith dialogue would necessarily rely on some form of “sameness universalism,” whereby the in-principle equality of other faiths is recognised, but without the obligation to open-up to their possible influence – particularly influence seen as challenging to existing doctrine.19
One might speculate that, in practice, the UCCJ is less rigid than its doctrine, and that congregational latitude is likely and tolerated. However, a 2008 disciplinary case, in which the UCCJ – prevailing over lay and clerical pleas for greater charity – admonished
16
M. Barnes, "The Intimacy of Distance: On Faith Learning from Faith," Spiritus: A Journal of Christian Spirituality 6, no. 1 (2006): 63-4.
17
"A Brief History of the Kyodan," (The United Church of Christ in Japan, 1968). Kyodan history notes that although union had been a topic of earlier discussion, its enactment coincided with government pressure for consolidation.
18
"Kyodan Constitution," (The United Church of Christ in Japan, 1946, amended 1994).
19
J.H. Fletcher, "Religious Pluralism in an Era of Globalization: The Making of Modern Religious Identity,"
Theological Studies 69, no. 2 (2008): 400-01. Here, Ulrich Beck defines 'sameness universalism':
"Universalism obliges us to respect others as equals in principle, yet for that very reason it does not involve any requirement that would inspire curiosity or respect for what makes others different. On the contrary, the particularity of others is sacrificed to an assumed universal equality which denies it its own origins and interests.”
and eventually dismissed a local minister for administering the sacrament of communion to unbaptised worshippers, provides evidence that doctrinal exclusivity is real, and enforcement is strong.20 In the confident espousal of represented, metaphysical ‘truth’, to the exclusion of other interpretations, there is, arguably, a sense of clinging or grasping that is antithetical to both Buddhist sunyata and Christian kenosis. Found therein are barriers to the metaphor of church building as interfaith bridge.
It is not only the client, however, presenting such barriers. In certain ways, Ando does as well. Indeed, there is a part of Ando’s thinking that seems to impact the situation’s kenotic potentiality, well before the conception of a building. Acknowledging that “religion is a very difficult issue for me,”21 Ando’s self-described approach to religion
reveals what I consider to be two noteworthy biases. Although perhaps predictable, understandable, and benign, they are nonetheless barriers to kenosis. They manifest in Ando’s inclination toward Buddhist-inspired thought,22 and in his disinclination toward
liturgy. The latter is discussed in the next section of this chapter, but the former I discuss here, beginning with Ando’s view of nature, God, and where God supposedly exists:
God (kamisama), to the Japanese, exists in nature. I do not know whether this would be an acceptable view in Christianity or not. Many people think that god exists outside the self. But, a god who exists in nature is also in one’s mind (kokoro). In this sense, my intention in church architecture is to lead one to the awakening of the mind as the locus of god. God does not exist in the church itself, but the architecture rekindles the callous mind from the everyday life into the locus of god.23
Additional insight comes as Ando compares his churches to those of Rudolf Schwarz and Sigurd Lewerentz. “I believe that God exists inside one’s self and my churches reflect this, while I think Schwarz and Lewerentz each intended to create a church as the domus of God.”24 Marking a similar distinction, Ando sees Kenzo Tange’s
well-known St Mary’s Cathedral, in Tokyo, as being “Western,” insofar as it “expresses the moment of moving toward heaven, symbolising heaven as the locus of God.”25
Perhaps Ando’s assessments stem from his basic view of nature, which is, according to Kenneth Frampton, “oriented towards an ineffable manifestation, bordering on the
20
"Executive Council Votes to Admonish Pastor, Abolish Mission Commission," Kyodan Newsletter, 22 October 2008. The pastor was eventually dismissed in 2010.
21
Baek, Nothingness: Tadao Ando's Christian Sacred Space: 187.
22
As discussed in Chapter 2, there are many apparent commonalities between Buddhism and Christianity, particularly when viewed kenotically. Nonetheless, there are fundamental theological differences leading to practical liturgical differences. Since Ando’s project is strictly Christian – albeit situated in a Buddhist/Shinto context – such differences cannot be overlooked since they affect any kenotic potentiality that the project may present.
23
Baek, Nothingness: Tadao Ando's Christian Sacred Space: 188.
24
Ibid., 191-4. At the time of this interview, Ando had completed two buildings intended as Christian
churches. Other religious projects included Christian-like wedding chapels (for use by all, and not to be seen as Christian churches) and Buddhist temples.
animistic.” Or perhaps they are grounded in what Frampton describes as Ando’s “basic concept of creating introspective microcosms to stand against the urban chaos of the late modern world.”26 Indeed, Ando seems to confirm the latter suggestion, saying, “In our
contemporary culture, where all of us are subjected to intense exterior stimulation, especially by the electronic environment, the role of architectural space as a spiritual shelter is crucial.”27 Notwithstanding their sincerity and merit, Ando’s views find him
aligned with two aspects of Buddhist thought that most separate it from Christianity. First, his view of nature sits comfortably alongside the absence, in Buddhism, of theism and all centricisms, especially anthropocentrism; an absence that allows the suchness of everything to be realised. But this is in contrast to a theocentric, christocentric, and historically anthropocentric Christianity, which, even while acknowledging the immanence of God in nature, first sees nature as evidence of God’s exclusive power to create it – originally from somewhere outside itself – and to cause its ongoing existence. Second, Ando’s view of God is in accord with Buddhism’s rejection of “the notions of a transcendent ruler of the universe or of a savior outside one’s self,” but it is in sharp contrast to Christianity’s emphatic embrace of precisely those notions.28 (In separate
comments, Ando curiously seems to deny this fundamental difference, saying that Christianity and Buddhism “are similar in that Sakyamuni [Buddha] and Jesus are each presented as the paradigmatic representative of humanity and as savior.”29 But that
paints only part of the picture. In Buddhism, Sakyamuni is actually quite unlike the human-but-divine Jesus, since Sakyamuni is presented as “none other than a person