Behind the Altar

Entering The St. Teresa of Avila Chapel for the first time was supposed to be an exciting moment. Instead I was flooded with disappointment and anxiety. My eyes followed the curve of the rows of soft chairs and climbed the minimalist arches along the walls. The stained-glass windows bore no semblance of the saints or sacraments, only simplistic, fragmented color. The plain brick walls held no ornamentation and reminded me more of a stage than a church. The celebrant's chair was simply another cushy chair taken from the congregation. There was no raised platform for the altar. Instead, it sat isolated in the middle of the carpeted room like a glorified coffee table. I had seen this kind of church before. I’d been taught that the auditorium style is especially common in churches built post-Vatican II. Throughout my life growing up in a very traditional Catholic community, I had also absorbed the idea that this style of church was somehow inferior. What bothered me about the chapel wasn’t its simplicity, it was the story the bare walls and unornamented altar told me. This space failed to communicate that it was a house of God.

I chose to attend Notre Dame in large part because I knew I would have a chapel in my dorm… but this space was not what I had envisioned. I half listened as our Rector called our attention to the stations of the cross, the confessional, and finally a large wall with a crucifix set up behind the altar. This wall especially caught my eye because it reminded me of the iconostasis I had seen in Eastern Rite churches. The iconostasis is a sacred wall of icons separating the sanctuary from the nave (Chizhenko). Traditionally, lay people (all the Church members who aren’t priests or deacons) were not permitted behind the iconostasis except in very special circumstances. My hopes rose at this one resemblance to familiar, traditional Catholicism. “Behind this wall,” our Rector continued, “there are plenty of pillows in front of the tabernacle. It's a nice cozy place to pray if you ever feel like it.” I gagged on the hopeful feeling that had risen inside me just moments before. It took me a few moments to fully register what she had said. Pillows… behind the altar. For someone who grew up surrounded by a very conservative, Latin-Mass favoring perspective on Catholicism, this was deeply unnerving. Suddenly the Lewis chapel communicated not only disappointment, but disrespect.

For some context, Lewis Hall was constructed in 1965 (“Lewis Hall”), the same year as the end of Vatican II, the Catholic Church Council officially called the Second Ecumenical Council of the Vatican (“The Second”). The hall was originally built to house nuns seeking advanced degrees before Notre Dame became co-ed in 1972 (“Lewis Hall”). The chapel was built in classic 60’s post-Vatican II style, emphasizing functional minimalism. This modern framework intended to set more of an emphasis on the congregation, giving the church a more multi-functional feel (Osborne). And of course, the Lewis chapel features that tall, wooden, fence-like structure behind the altar. This wall encloses the tabernacle in its own little bubble, but unlike an iconostasis it allows members of the community to pray directly behind the altar.

Vatican II was originally called by Pope John XXIII. Its most famous goal was to reform the Church to better serve the modern world (“The Second”). The architecture of churches shifted to mirror this change. The solid rows of wooden pews fell out of favor. These were often replaced by chairs and circular seating arrangements like those of the Lewis chapel. The semi-circle style made churches conducive to social gatherings, education, and events rather than solely housing the Mass. Church leaders hoped this change would make Catholicism more appealing to modern audiences who cared more for the community and spirituality of religion than its history and rigid structure (Osborne).

This movement was met with backlash and controversy within the church. Some members began to use Vatican II as an excuse to push the Church towards liberal ideals. Others rebelled against the reforms and clung to old traditions as the “true way.” This led many to believe Vatican II was throwing away centuries of Church tradition in favor of modern popularity. This was not the intention of Vatican II. The reforms themselves are in no way against Church tradition (McInerny). However, much was lost in translation, leading to misinterpretations in both directions.

My own personal community was no exception. In my traditional Catholic high school there were many unspoken rules about what a church should be. From the specific music that could be used during Communion to the position of the tabernacle relative to the altar. Since these rules were rarely spoken out loud, learning them often felt like walking on eggshells. Mind your elbows, no one will tell you it’s disrespectful to let them touch the Communion rail, but they will notice.

Oh they will notice.

Similarly, the current state of Catholicism at Notre Dame did not go unnoticed when I announced my application. I was not so naive that I couldn’t catch the subtle looks when I mentioned my prospects. Many well-meaning friends and teachers asked me if Notre Dame was “really Catholic” anymore. Some with a more hopeful attitude commented that Notre Dame definitely “needed a real Catholic perspective.”

Despite these less than encouraging messages, I was genuinely excited to encounter new perspectives on the faith that is so precious to me. I anticipated challenges with my peers, but I felt prepared to confront others with honesty and curiosity. However, I was utterly blindsided by the effect the Lewis chapel itself had on me. Andrew Ballantyne expresses this phenomenon beautifully in his book, Buildings Have Meaning:

Architecture involves this cultural aspect of buildings, which can range from something very personal and idiosyncratic to something that everyone seems to agree upon. We are shaped by the culture that we grow up in, and by the culture in which we participate, whether we think about it or not – and most of the time we don’t think about it at all. In fact we are least aware of this at home. It is when we travel that we see that other people do things differently, and this can be disconcerting. (21-22)

This passage perfectly summarizes my first encounter with The St. Teresa of Avila Chapel. I now see that my initial repulsion was due to unfamiliarity, not legitimate fear. However, before reading Ballantyne’s commentary, I had no words to distinguish the two.

Nevertheless, I entered this new community with my guard up. I waited tensely for any hint of the “liberal Catholicism” so many had warned me about. Despite its sometimes uncomfortable rules, this was the culture of my upbringing. The St. Teresa of Avila Chapel became a physical representation of my tension. Throughout my first few weeks at school, I was genuinely afraid to enter the space behind the altar. I was uncomfortable with encountering Jesus in a place so many had implied was less than acceptable. Behind that wall was the true presence of the king of the universe, who suffered and died for our sins. In front of him was a messy pile of cushy pillows, just in case someone wanted to take a nap in the most sacred place in existence. I was afraid to draw near to my Lord in such a place… so I drew away.

About three weeks into the semester, I’d had enough. I was overwhelmed. I was sick of caring what everyone told me to do with my faith. I didn’t know what I believed anymore about tradition. All I knew is that I love Jesus, and that he loves me infinitely. So I went where Jesus was… the dreaded Vatican II-style chapel. I went behind the wall. I sat on the pillows. The smell of polyester and shame engulfed me. As the fluffy pillows settled behind me they whispered… disrespect. All my fears were present, but it didn’t matter, because so was my Savior.

That’s when it hit me. While at first I thought I was afraid of being corrupted by the “liberal Catholic perspective,” this fear actually sprang from insecurity in my own faith. My anxiety was not because I was afraid of the pillows, but because I wasn’t focused on what actually mattered. I drew away from Jesus out of fear of disrespecting him. As if I thought approaching him in the picturesque Basilica made me any less of a sinful creature. Cushions or no cushions, altar rail or no altar rail, pews or no pews—I am me, and God is God.

This new perspective on the orientation of the chapel brings a new orientation of our hearts. When you go behind the wall, you are not making a political statement. If you think you are, your head is in the wrong place completely. The true presence of Jesus is right there. There is nothing any human being could do to make that gift more or less powerful than it already is. The humble, modern style of the chapel in Lewis Hall forced me to recognize my own temptation to make myself “good enough” for God. While some may rightly argue that we should strive to be the best versions of ourselves (and that reverent worship spaces reflect this) our effort should be a gift of gratitude, not an attempt to impress. In accepting the Lewis chapel for what it is, a house of God, I learned to accept myself for who I am: a beloved daughter. In the vastness of God’s mercy, there is little difference between the saint and the sinner. In the unreachable infinity of understanding God, the difference in comprehension between the theologian and the atheist is insignificant.

All these revelations have completely changed the way I see The St. Teresa of Avila Chapel. While at first its structure conveyed to me a lack of reverence, I now see it as representing everything that is beautiful about Catholicism, especially at Notre Dame. As the Notre Dame mission statement says, “as a Catholic university, one of its” –our—“distinctive goals is to provide a forum where, through free inquiry and open discussion, the various lines of Catholic thought may intersect.” Regardless of your background, Jesus draws all of us into himself. The circular arrangement of the chapel may not be what is familiar to me, but it reflects our community’s mutual focus on God in a beautiful way. Sitting directly in front of the Blessed Sacrament felt taboo to me at first, but now I pray there every morning. I’m grateful for the perspective I grew up in, because it allows me to appreciate the depth of this new revelation. I would never have discovered this side of God, or myself, if I had been too afraid to venture behind the altar.

Author

Olivia Kutz

Olivia Kutz is a member of the class of 2029 pursuing dual majors in Economics and Studio Art, with a minor in Marketing. She has a passion for the intersection of creativity and business and hopes to bring these aspirations to a career in entrepreneurship. Her essay “Behind the Altar” was inspired by her transition to Notre Dame after growing up in a very “traditional” Catholic community. Through the Lewis Hall chapel, the essay explores how culture, upbringing and circumstances impact faith. It takes courage to see the truth in a different perspective, but confronting internal biases leads to deeper understanding. Olivia is grateful to her family for their invaluable faith formation, and to Professor Thomas for her overwhelming support throughout the writing process and beyond.