The Works of Man and the Works of God

Often it is difficult, superficially, to distinguish between the works of man and the works of god. By god here I don’t necessarily mean – although I don’t exclude either – the God of religion or of a particular scripture; I mean the god whose presence we detect when we sense true inspiration and genuine creativity. And by the works of man I am not intending to be disparaging, because some of the works of man are truly wonderful; but what I mean is those works which seem specifically to derive from man’s ego, man’s calculation and man’s pride. Man here is being used in the sense of mankind, the human being.

This is especially true in works of art. There is so much in modern art that lacks beauty, lacks form, and lacks, even, any skill. It was Tom Stoppard who said: "Imagination without skill gives us modern art". This is so true of so much drab ‘abstract’ art. And it is true of so much contemporary poetry too. The essential task of poetry is to stir the feelings and to do this rhythm is crucial; and yet we see
and we read poem after poem hatched in the head, baked in the crossfire of some idea, and ending up as some intellectual and pretentious drivel that is simply prose cut up into lines. In all this there is an absence of beauty, of truth and fundamentally of spirit.

I came across a surprising and extreme example of this only the other month where I was least expecting to find it: in architecture.

We had gone to Lichfield to visit the birthplace of Dr Johnson, a great hero of mine, and while there attended Lichfield Cathedral. What a marvellous building – it oozed worship, reverence, and order in the service of God. Saints had clearly trod the stones too over the ages and there was an air of sanctity and spirituality pervading the building. Who ‘built’ the cathedral? It is not known and
obviously is not important – it wasn’t built to be a monument to man’s achievement, but a place to worship God. This, then, a much bigger concept.

For some obscure reason I had always thought I knew St Paul’s Cathedral in London. And in the sense in which I was born in London and had been taken there when I was about six, I did. But last month I realised I didn’t know St Paul’s at all and went to London to correct that omission. What a disappointment compared with Lichfield: here, truly, was a monument to man.

Yes, great building, Sir Christopher Wren – but where was the sanctity, the holiness, the sense of the presence of something beyond mere human beings? Everywhere the eye could see were monuments to war and warriors: the Duke of Wellington in prime position above and Nelson in the basement below. We learnt how people lose their lives fighting for their country, but in this case it seemed more about fighting for the empire, fighting for imperialism – it was cold and chilling.

True, the ascent up the stairs to the Whispering Gallery, the Stone Gallery and finally the Golden Gallery was impressive – but it was exactly that – impressive, not awesome, not holy, not sacred. No, something built to convey the grandeur and power of man, which was why so many grandees had obviously sought it as their final resting place.

If final proof for me were needed that this was a work of man rather than a work of divine inspiration, it would have been in the low key presence of John Donne, the great poet and preacher of the St Paul’s before the great Fire. That such a great and spiritual person should be so submerged under the noise of all the lieutenant generals that few people have ever heard of astounded me.

Thus it was that I was glad to have re-visited St Paul’s after all these years, and yes it was fine and impressive building. A monument to what man can do. But for me it was not a spiritual building: it was a work of man and not of God, and so not really inspirational.