Sacred Geometries

Proverbs 8:22-9:6

by the Rev. Dr. E. Scott Jones

First Central Congregational Church

10 November 2024

In the mountains of southeastern Turkey lies the archaeological site Göbekli Tepe.  A Neolithic site around 11,000 years old and maybe the oldest example of monumental human architecture that’s been discovered.  UNESCO describes it as follows: “this property presents monumental round-oval and rectangular megalithic structures erected by hunter-gatherers . . . . These monuments were probably used in connection with rituals, most likely of a funerary nature.”

The first excavator of Göbekli Tepe, Klaus Schmidt, called it “the world’s first temple,” an idea later dismissed.  But it is still a site that stuns, to think of hunter-gathers, at the dawn of the age when human settlements began, were already erecting monumental structures that would persist for thousands of years. 

In her book, Reality is Broken, the video game designer and theorist Jane McGonigal describes Göbekli Tepe:

[which]  features an intricate series of passageways that would lead visitors through the dark to a cross-shaped inner sanctum, almost like a labyrinth.  This particular architecture seems designed intentionally to trigger interest and curiosity, alongside a kind of trembling wonder.  What would be around the next corner?  Where would the path take them?

            And McGonigal draws upon some research in Smithsonian Magazine that suggests that instead of complex, settled human societies giving birth to monumental architecture, that maybe it was the reverse that happened.  Humans first came together to build monumental architecture and the effort involved in doing that gave birth to settled, complex human societies.  McGonigal draws the conclusion that these works “actually inspired and enabled human society to become dramatically more cooperative, completely reinventing civilization as it once existed.”

            Whatever could have inspired neolithic hunter-gatherers to build monumental megalithic structures?  McGonigal believes it was the human need for awe, which she describes as “the single most overwhelming and gratifying positive emotion we can feel.”  We are drawn to awe because it makes us feel so good and also because it provides us a “potential source of meaning,” to be a part of something larger than ourselves, a collective human action.

            She writes that humans need and desire “epic environments” that she defines as “vast, interactive spaces that provoke feelings of curiosity and wonder.”  These epic environments then make space for epic projects, the massive, cooperative tasks of humanity that are carried out over the long-haul.  And these then become part of the epic stories that we tell to connect ourselves to something much bigger than ourselves.

            These ideas resonate with what Susan Sink writes about today’s scripture lesson, in which Wisdom builds herself a house.  Sink writes, “Wisdom is with us and beyond us, accessible to humans in the world around us but also greater than our minds can grasp.”  We build ourselves epic, awe-inspiring spaces to inspire us to wisdom, to become part of epic projects, that bring us adventure and meaning.

            The next wonder of life that psychologist Dacher Keltner discusses in his global study on awe is the awe we experience from visual design—designs in nature and of human creation in art, architecture, movies, and even video games. 

            He writes that “there is transcendent, even spiritual, feeling found in seeing the deep geometric structures of the world.”  Think of the fractal shapes of a nautilus shell or the complexities of a dandelion puff.  Have you ever found yourself staring at the intricate shape inside the bloom of a flower?

            Keltner opens his chapter on visual awe by describing the first time seeing that scene in Jurassic Park when the brontosaurus appears.  And then the shot pans out to the valley filled with dinosaurs.  Remember how thirty years ago we had never seen CGI like that before?  The awe was multi-layered, right?  Awe at the artistic and technical wonder that went into creating the film.  Plus the awe of being transported for the first time into what it might actually feel like to encounter such massive beasts.  A few years ago when I rewatched the film with Sebastian, I was amazed at how well that moment holds up over time.  It still brought me chills and goosebumps and absolute delight.

            Keltner draws upon the work of philosopher Iris Murdoch and proclaims that good art allows us to delight in what is excellent while also giving us “a new way of seeing the world.”  Such moments of visual awe allow us to transcend our selfishness and join “with others in an appreciation of what is meaningful and live-giving.”  He summarizes these ideas by declaring “In good art, there are so many opportunities to reach the highest part of the soul.”

            I hope you’ve been to the newly reopened Joslyn Museum.  If not, you really should.  The new building is a marvel of design and sacred geometries, while also allowing us to see the old building in fresh and new ways.  Much less the art, including so much new art, that graces the exhibition spaces.  I’ve been three times already, and there’s one particular room in the Schraeger collection that I find to be a meditative, spiritual space.  The walls covered in abstract paintings, mostly fields of color.  The response it elicits in me reminds me of visiting the Rothko Chapel in Houston.  Another place you should visit if you ever get the chance.

            According to the latest science of awe, viewing excellent and beautiful visual designs and art stimulates the dopamine network in the brain leading to greater wonder, increased creativity, more inspiration, improved problem-solving abilities, and “openness to others’ perspectives.”  As Keltner writes, “Art empowers our saintly tendencies.”

            While working on this sermon, I thought back to Holy Week 2019 when the cathedral of Notre Dame burned in that catastrophic fire, compelling a global grief.  At the time I talked about how the Gothic architecture pioneered in the cathedral and the art and music it inspired were ancestors of our own sanctuary and the music and art of our worship. 

            So many read deeper meanings into the destruction of the cathedral. 

            John Pavlovitz blogged, “Watching the flames swallowing up such a universally beloved testament to the staggering creativity that humanity is capable of, we recognize how tethered to each other we are, how fragile and fleeting everything here is—and how starved for beauty we all are these days.”

            Historian of religion Jean-François Colosimo described the scene as ‘images of the end of the world’ that communicated ‘the extreme fragility of our situation.’”

            The art critic Jonathan Jones wrote:

A cathedral can endure the loss of its stained glass and other fineries . . . .  It’s precisely this endurance that makes medieval architecture so special. Almost a thousand years after its original creation Notre Dame still speaks to us. Like cave paintings, it connects us with some primal aesthetic urge. Now our time faces a challenge. . . . If we can reawaken the creativity this building embodies it will be a great moment of artistic renewal . . .

            And it seems that that renewal is underway.  The Paris Olympics this summer gave us glimpses into the grand and glorious work that is being done.

            Another thing John Pavlovitz wrote at time was this: “We all belong to one another.  The more we remember that, the more beauty we will make together in this place.  And the world needs beauty now more than ever.”

            Wisdom reminds us that we are part of something far larger than ourselves.  Something bigger than the times in which we live.  An on-going human project that spans the aeons. 

            We are invited to be a part of that collective project.  Enjoying the awe and wonder and helping to create it and maintain it, for the good of all.  For the beauty we crave is the beauty that can touch our souls deeply, inspiring our imaginations, leading to transformation.

            Let me close, for the second time this autumn, with the invitation that Divine Wisdom offers to us:

Wisdom has built her house;
she has hewn her seven pillars.

She has slaughtered her animals,
she has mixed her wine,

she has also set her table.
She has sent out her servant-girls,
she calls from the highest places in the town . . .
“Come, eat of my bread
and drink of the wine I have mixed.
Lay aside immaturity, and live,
and walk in the way of insight.”