Defenceless Churches, Priceless Value

On Thursday, July 17, a meet and greet took place in the Jacobikerk in Utrecht with the internationally renowned artist and writer Makoto Fujimura. He is a pioneer in the world of art and theology. In his work, Fujimura connects aesthetics with a deep spiritual awareness, inspired by the Japanese tradition of Nihonga. Fujimura’s books, including Art + Faith and Silence + Beauty, have touched artists, theologians and believers worldwide. The evening in the Jacobikerk was organized by ViaJacobi, the Theological University of Utrecht and KokBoekencentrum Publishers. During this meet and greet, Makoto Fujimura shared his perspective on art, theology and the interplay between them, and there were various reflections on his work. One of these reflections was given by Willem Jan de Hek, a theologian, architect and pastor at Jacobikerk.

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“Everything of worth is defenseless,”ⁱ a Dutch poet once wrote. Some things are simply priceless. And hence, we should treat them with care. I often think of this when it comes to our church buildings. “They’re just stones,” some people say. But imagine a world where all those beautiful churches were turned into bowling alleys or shopping malls or even worse. The idea is terrible. And only then do we realize how precious those stones really are. Church buildings carry a value that goes far beyond bricks and mortar. But what is that value, exactly? Well, to explore this, we can turn to the work of Fujimura. Because he shows that the value of some things lies precisely in their vulnerability. In his book Art + Faith, Fujimura connects the Christian faith with the ideas of mercy and beauty. He explores the role of the arts, including architecture. In a sense, every believer is an artist – called to create. How? By offering an artistic response to the brokenness around us. At least two connected ways lie before us: the path of mercy and the path of beauty – not solitary roads, but ones that often meet and move together. I want to briefly explore both of them.

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Mercy

Fujimura sees mercy as a central theme in the arts. He connects it to his own creative work. Art can be a powerful way to express compassion and empathy, especially in times of pain and imperfection. Take the example of Kintsugi, the practice of repairing broken pottery with gold or silver. Whereas the cracks remain visible, and are even highlighted, the damage becomes part of the beauty. And I think it is not too hard to apply this idea to church buildings. Yes, they are vulnerable and there are cracks, but, “Everything of worth is defenseless.” And yes, maybe theyeven bear some scars. But could we, with creative imagination, find a way forward? How might those golden lines become visible in the architecture of our churches?  Is that possible? To make healing visible?

Let me give one example. How can our church buildings through their architecture reflect the diaconal care that they often offer to people in need? Think of food banks that operate inside our churches, or street ministry in the big cities. Let’s make it visible! Let the building itself show what the church is doing. Sometimes this can be simple and even on a small scale. Last year, in the Jacobikerk, we opened a neighborhood pantry along the street. It’s a little cabinet that church members and neighbors work together to keep stocked with food, toiletries, and other essentials. And soon, we’ll be adding flower boxes to the church’s exterior as well – as signs of mercy; We have something to offer.

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Beauty

But there’s more. Alongside mercy, Fujimura also speaks of beauty. Which is a powerful and transformative force. Beauty isn’t just something merely aesthetic – it’s also spiritual and ethical. Real beauty touches us deeply. It can help us see the world with new eyes, from a more hopeful and transcendent perspective. Beauty reflects the creative work of God. And so, mercy and beauty always go hand in hand in the arts.  

But is that also true in church? I might be wrong, but I get the sense that in many Protestant churches, we’ve developed the path of mercy far better than the path of beauty. That’sunderstandable, especially considering the history of the Reformation. The Jacobikerk itself witnessed iconoclasm. Protestantism emphasizes simplicity and the preaching of the Word. But do we risk throwing out beauty along the way? I think that would be a real loss. Because beauty has the power to open another reality. Good architecture can also express meaning. It speaks a different kind of language. Buildings evoke feelings and reflect values. And so, architecture is like a mirror of the human soul and culture. It can show our deepest hopes – or challenge them.  

Actually, I think that’s a big responsibility for the church. Church buildings can inspire someone passing by. It can spark a moment of joy. It can point to the hope we carry. And that alone is reason enough to give more space to beauty in the life of the church. Especially now, in a world where so much is online, our buildings can offer something powerful and tangible in public space.‍

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Anticipation

So, back to the beginning: what is the value of our church buildings? It is about mercy and about beauty. But I think there’s also a third value: And that is anticipation. Because the best is yet to come!  

In his book Art + Faith, Fujimura tells an inspiring story. It’s a kind of modern parable about the meaning of vulnerable but valuable places – like our churches. A father takes his child to the beach. The child builds a sandcastle, knowing it will soon be washed away by the tide. And the father – who is an architect – watches with love and admiration. Many years later, the grown-up child discovers that his father had built a real castle, inspired by that sandcastle at the beach from long ago! What’s this story about? It shows that our creativity and efforts are temporary. The tide will come. Things fade.  

So, are our church buildings “just stones” after all? Will they fade as well? Fujimura’s answer is “no”! Even if everything is eventually washed away, our efforts still matter. Even a sandcastle –though temporary – reflects the heart of a creator. That creative act has value in itself, because it joins in God’s ongoing work of creation. God works through us. He even works through our architecture. And in our fragile acts of building and shaping, we already catch a glimpse of how things will one day be.

And so: “Everything of worth is defenseless.” That’s true. But in church we know that defenselessness is not the end. In the church, we know Christ, who went through the vulnerability ofdeath, but also rose again. Our church buildings speak of him; his body broken and his blood shed. But also: new life through death. Reconciliation. Eternal hope. And even stones can tell that story.