10 Cathedrals of Concrete: A New Theology of Space

Churches were not founded by religion alone but where political will, social stratification, and public ritual converged. From the intimate gatherings in Roman villas to the soaring grandeur of Gothic cathedrals, churches have always fulfilled a dual role: containing the divine and claiming terrestrial power. Unlike most architecture, however, they evolved incrementally, based on the idea of permanence. Their very refusal to modify itself was a declaration of steadiness, of continuity. As Hannah Arendt observed, power wants to appear eternal – and what more dashing means to portray that fantasy than with stone, repetition, and ritual? Yet in moments of deep upheaval – cultural, theological, or political – churches have shed their old skins. 

History marks rare moments when churches radically changed their architectural language – when form no longer just followed faith, but ideology. If Gothic cathedrals were vertical acts of dominance and Baroque façades a theatrical reply to Protestant austerity, the 20th century gave rise to a more unsettling expression: Brutalism.

Rising out of the aftermath of war, in the midst of social dissolution and spiritual doubt, Brutalist churches abandoned ornament and embraced raw concrete, mass, and silence. Not comfort houses or triumph, but of encounter – witness to a post-industrial, post-traumatic reality in which religiously no longer enjoyed certainty, only presence. They spoke of democracy over hierarchy, of humility over transcendence. Some are bunker-like, as if defending the sacred against a collapsing world; others, abstract and brutal, embodied the loneliness of belief in a secular age.

Within this architectural language of austerity and ambiguity, several churches stand out – not only for their formal innovation but for the cultural, political, and spiritual questions they raise. Each becomes a case study in how the sacred can be reimagined when tradition fractures and ideology shifts.

Pilgrimage Church, image courtesy Wikipedia

Usually heralded as the very first true Brutalist church, Neviges' Wallfahrtskirche was a revolutionary departure from previous ecclesiastical design. Commissioned after a supposed Marian apparition drew thousands of pilgrims to this tiny German town, the church was charged with accommodating an avalanche of spiritual need – but Böhm responded to it in a manner no one could have anticipated. Rather than building a building of warmth and welcome, he created a jagged, monumental structure that appears to have pushed itself up out of a shattered ground.

“The Pilgrimage Church is a place where architecture and faith come together, creating a space that is both monumental and intimate, inviting reflection and spiritual experience.”

– Böhm

Constructed of pure concrete from head to foot, its bulbous folds and rock-like profile evoke immediately medieval strongholds and the rubble-strewn wreckage of post-war Germany. It does not stretch towards heaven with filigree spires – it collapses under the weight of history, trauma, and doubt. Inside, the room is unrolled like a cave, with fractured light trickling through jagged windows, casting uneasy shadows across rugged planes. It is a disquieting, near movie-effect.

Fritz Wotruba, Skizze zu einer Architektur, 1966. Photo by Harald Eisenberg Belvedere

“I dream of a sculpture in which landscape, architecture, and city are one.”

– Fritz Wotruba

Perched on the edge of the Vienna Woods, Fritz Wotruba’s Kirche Zur Heiligsten Dreifaltigkeit is less a church and more a sculptural manifesto. Composed of 152 irregular concrete blocks, stacked and interlocked like a brutalist puzzle, it looks at first like a ruin – or a monument from a civilization that never was. And yet, out of this chaotic mass, a sacred geometry emerges.

Wotruba, a sculptor and not an architect, believed that spirituality could be found in abstraction. Inspired in part by the stark power of Chartres Cathedral, he sought to strip the idea of a church to its bare essence: form, mass, and light. There are no crosses, no ornament, no hierarchy. The sacred here isn’t proclaimed – it’s suggested through the rhythm of concrete, the tension of weight, the careful choreography of natural light pouring into interior voids. 

Wotruba Church, photo by David Altrath

Built in an era of spiritual rediscovery in postwar Austria, the church expresses a deep transformation: from institutional assurance to individual reflection. Its face – raw, quiet, nearly aggressively secular – defies traditional notions of what a church should be like. But enter it, and a sense of quietness becomes evident. The lack of symbolic language makes room for something more profound: interior stillness, unmediated being.

L’Église Saint-Nicolas, photo by Jamie McGregor Smith as explored in Sacred Modernity

Carved into Hérémence's alpine landscape, Walter Maria Förderer's Église Saint-Nicolas is a stubborn, carved bulk of concrete – part mountain, part monument, part enigma. Built between 1967 and 1971, the church is an unyielding example of postwar Brutalism, compressing geology and theology into one unsettling form.

"In designing Église Saint-Nicolas, I sought to create a space where simplicity and spirituality converge – a sacred architecture that invites contemplation through pure forms and a profound connection with light and materiality."

– Walter Maria Förderer

Förderer, whose extreme syntheses of sculpture and architecture are well-documented, envisioned Saint-Nicolas not as a vessel of grandeur but as a spiritual sanctuary. Its labyrinthine interior – narrow corridors, unexpected voids, sudden openings into light – feels like a journey through inner terrain. The architecture refuses clarity; it demands attention, movement, and interpretation.

L’Église Saint-Nicolas, photo by Jamie McGregor Smith as explored in Sacred Modernity

During a time of liturgical renewal and shifting religion, Église Saint-Nicolas rejected the adornment of tradition for raw presence. It's not a church that soars heavenward – it burrows into the earth, anchoring the divine to the elemental. A refuge of concrete and shadows, it invites not to transcendence, but immersion.

Church of the Immaculate Conception, photo by Jamie McGregor Smith as explored in Sacred Modernity

After the Vajont Dam disaster that devastated Longarone in 1963, architect Giovanni Michelucci was entrusted with building a new church as religious site and civic act of remembrance. Between 1975 and 1977, Michelucci designed the Church of the Immaculate Conception, one of his most emotionally loaded buildings – an architecture of sympathy, built over the site of suffering.

“The church must be an open place, not a monument to admire, but a space where man can meet, talk, and rediscover his humanity.”

– Giovanni Michelucci

Michelucci was a singular figure in 20th-century Italian architecture. Trained in the classical tradition, he later rejected formalistic forms for more experimental, human-scale design. For him, architecture was never just structure, but social function. He devoted his life to fighting the monumentalism of institutional architecture and advocating a kind of "open" architecture: fluid, permeable, and affectively engaging.

In Longarone, such philosophy is reinterpreted in stone. The sweeping curves and twisted floor of the church seem to avoid hierarchy, encouraging movement, confluence, and continuity. The church does not loom – it wraps around. Softly flooding light streams in, engendering a mood of mourning tempered with grace. The absence of harsh symmetry allows the viewer to perceive the space from multiple angles, emphasizing the complexity of shared bereavement. Michelucci would talk about architecture as a mode of "dialogue with life". This church is precisely that – a place where memory, mourning, and hope could be present together. It's not just a monument, it's a gesture: open, exposed, and intensely human

Osterkirche Church, photo Emma Braun/MAPS

Built in the late 1960s, the Osterkirche in Oberwart is a striking example of radical liturgical architecture at the height of postwar experimentation. Designed by Austrian architects Günther Domenig and Eilfried Huth, the church defies conventional ecclesiastical language. With its asymmetrical volumes, fractured geometry, and dynamic use of raw concrete, the building feels more like a sculptural intervention than a traditional house of worship.

Domenig and Huth, both of whom were strongly committed to the cultural reevaluation of modernism, dismissed the notion of church as a static, hierarchical structure. Instead, they conceived Osterkirche as an open, spatial narrative: fragmented, participatory, and tense. The sanctuary itself is decentralized, eroding the distinctions between altar, congregation, and building. Light seeps in erratically, increasing the feeling of disruption and emotional intimacy.

Constructed during a politically unstable period in Austria – still grappling with its postwar identity – the church reflects a broader religious unease. It's not a site of transcendence in the classical sense, then, but of rupture and reconstitution. Religion here is not framed by symmetry or peace, but by an engagement with form and material. More than a church, Osterkirche is a constructed manifesto: confronting the past, questioning authority, and providing a raw, discomfiting arena for new rituals to be born. It is one of the most confrontational interpretations of the sacred in 20th-century European architecture.

The Temple of Monte Grisa, photo on the left courtesy of Senses Atlas and photo on the right by Andreas Manessinger CC BY SA 2.0 

Sailing above the cliffs to the north of Trieste like a crystalline beacon, the Temple of Monte Grisa is Italy's most visually imposing place of worship. Commissioned by Antonio Guacci and constructed in just two years, the church is a geometric risk-taker of reinforced concrete – its facade repeating isosceles triangles that form a titanic, sculptural lattice.

“The Temple of Monte Grisa was conceived as a spiritual beacon rising above the Adriatic – a monumental translation of faith into concrete, where form, landscape, and devotion converge in a single architectural gesture.”

– Antonio Guacci

Commissioned by Bishop Antonio Santin as a token of national unity and peace after the devastation of World War II, the temple mingles religious ambition with architectural futurism. Rather than taking its inspiration from classical or ecclesiastical forms, Guacci turned to abstraction – creating a space for the sacred that is as much sculpture as conventional church.

The triangular modules, repeated inside and out, are rich in symbolism: representing the Holy Trinity, the stability of faith, and the mountain itself. Light enters through the angular gaps and bounces off the stark concrete, casting a dynamic rhythm of shadows that shifts with the sun – a subtle liturgy of time and material.

Christi Auferstehung Kirche, photo by Lorenzo Zandri

Tucked within a quiet Cologne neighborhood, Christi Auferstehung Kirche (Church of the Resurrection of Christ) is one of Gottfried Böhm’s most refined and introspective works. Completed just two years after his monumental Pilgrimage Church in Neviges, this structure takes a quieter, more contemplative approach to Brutalist ecclesiastical design.

Christi Auferstehung Kirche, photo by Thibaud Poirier

In contrast to traditional churches organized around linear procession or axial grandeur, Christi Auferstehung offers a space without a fixed hierarchy. The altar is gently demarcated, not elevated. The geometry resists symmetry. This architectural decentralization mirrors the spiritual ethos of a post-Vatican II world: more communal, less dogmatic.The church was built in a Germany still reckoning with war and division, and Böhm’s design reflects both the trauma and hope of that period. It’s a place not of triumph but of quiet resurrection – where faith isn’t proclaimed, but questioned, held, and reassembled through space.

Church of the Holy Cross,  image courtesy Wikipedia

“The Church of the Holy Cross was envisioned as a place where structure and spirit align, with expressive geometry and natural light shaping a sanctuary rooted in modernity yet open to contemplation.”

Located in Vienna's Meidling district, Vienna's Holy Cross Church is a graphic depiction of late 20th-century Brutalist church design. Constructed between 1969 and 1972, the building's rough concrete exterior is an angular, almost impenetrable exterior – more evocative of a sculptural bunker than a traditional house of prayer.

Inside, however, it is another story. The austerity remains – bare concrete walls and harshly geometric forms characterize the interior – but the light dance changes the atmosphere. Slender clerestory windows and thoughtful openings allow shafts of natural light to penetrate the heavy surfaces, bathing the altar and casting quiet shadows across the sanctuary. Quiet is tangible, and the acoustics of the bare materials ring off it.

Church of the Holy Cross, photo by Jamie McGregor Smith as explored in Sacred Modernity

Furniture is plain and practical, as in keeping with the philosophy of the building. Pews made of wood are low against the bulk of concrete, and ornament is minimal, emphasizing the weight of the building itself. Within this spare setting, what is absent is present: the emptiness, quietness, and filtered light engage a contemplative interaction with the divine.

Rather than overwhelm with iconography, the church creates space for doubt, solitude, and quiet resilience – a spiritual refuge shaped by postwar realism and modernist restraint.

“We weren’t pursuing a style as much as a truth: concrete as it is, space as it breathes, light as it falls. If that aligns us with Brutalism, it’s only because honesty is the common language.”

– Richard Hein

While the last two churches are not technically part of the Brutalist tradition, they sense its spirit in their exposed concrete, sculptural mass, and unadorned handling of sacred space. Brutalism now has a complicated legacy. Formerly discredited as chilly and authoritarian, it has recently been reevaluated by a more nuanced, sociological critique.

In an era of hyper-digital shells, climatic anxiety, and cultural over-saturation, Brutalism's coarseness and mass have taken on a new level of significance. Its unflinching materiality and visuality are now a relief in a world of endless scrolling and disengaged experience. To some, it has become a symbol of a sort of emotional and psychological grounding – a way of returning to something tangible, real, and durable.

Image courtesy O Studio Architects

“With the Church of the Seed, we envisioned a space rooted in simplicity and spiritual resonance – where light, geometry, and material converge to cultivate reflection and regeneration.”

Take The Church of the Seed. Although technically not Brutalist, it draws on this heritage in strong terms. Designed by O Studio and completed in 2021 at the foot of Luofu Mountain in China, the church is a seed form – curved, organic, and sown into the ground. It has in-situ concrete walls that speak of a rough, softly articulate quality. What it takes from Brutalism is not so much material honesty, but spiritual minimalism – an architecture free of spectacle and ornament, compelling individuals to look within, rather than upwards.

But The Church of the Seed isn’t about monumental power – it’s about withdrawal, humility, and symbiosis with nature. It suggests a new kind of spirituality – one that embraces impermanence, ecology, and intimacy over transcendence and grandeur.

Image courtesy O Studio Architects

To step into The Church of the Seed is less to step into a building than to be embraced by a living organism. The curving, bamboo-textured concrete walls create a tactile, organic space that breaks down the distinction between landscape and building. There is no hierarchy, no ornament – only soft light, gentle slopes, and quiet materiality. The elliptical form leads the visitor in, but not to an altar, to quiet. Light flows in through a central oculus, changing throughout the day and animating the space subtly, rather than with spectacle.

The silence is almost physical – amplified by the sound-absorbing concrete, inviting reflection over ritual.There are no traditional pews or strict spatial divisions. The interior encourages freedom of movement and posture – one can sit, rest, contemplate. It’s not a place of dogma but of presence. This is a contemporary sacred space shaped by subtraction, not symbolism. It doesn’t preach – it listens. In its quiet strength and openness, The Church of the Seed becomes a place for inwardness, humility, and the slow unfolding of meaning.

Photo by Iwan Baan

This contemporary reimagining of Brutalist principles – mediated by sustainability and affective restraint – proves the style is far from dead. Instead, its underlying values are being remade by a new generation of architects seeking meaning in a shattered world. Brutalism, once a radical postwar reconstruction language, is now a discreet language of refuge.

Image courtesy Bunker Arquitectura

“In designing the Sunset Chapel, our intent was to frame the horizon, to let light and material merge the landscape with the sacred – creating a simple space where architecture is a lens to nature’s beauty.”

The Sunset Chapel in Guerrero, Mexico, by Bunker Arquitectura in 2011 is a persistent reminder in this tour of sacred concrete. Perched at the top of a rocky slope and looking like a crystalline boulder, the chapel gets lost in its unforgiving landscape rather than invading it. Made from exposed concrete, its jagged, broken form is more geological monument than traditional house of God. Inside, the room is warm, brutally lit by a single cross-shaped window that encircles the setting sun.

Image courtesy Bunker Arquitectura

Though far removed from the canonical Brutalist era, Sunset Chapel channels its ethos: not in formal style, but in spirit. It is raw, unapologetic, and rooted in the land. Like many contemporary sacred spaces, it offers no sweeping declarations – only solitude, light, and silence. A quiet conclusion, perhaps, to an architectural language still echoing through new interpretations of belief.

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Words: Simone Lorusso