There's no doubt in my mind that the architects of religion knew what they were doing. I don't mean in the philosophical sense, although I will leave that discussion for another time and place. I mean in the actual architecture, the buildings, the places of worship. The churches.
I have no idea what actually transpired in any conversation between the bishops and the builders but you can bet on a winner that it entailed some details about grandeur, awe inspiring and somewhat beyond the means of mortal men and women.
A splash of light here, an over-seeing figure, there, a ceiling no-one could possibly reach; all to play int the hands of the bloke in charge and provide a feeling of inadequacy to the rest of us. There should be plenty of art work to view as well. A nicely mosaiced floor, something angelic from a local painter on the walls, with the possible addition of a few tombs for those who might give generously in thier death or life.
Its no wonder we get frightened out of our wits when we are young and vulnerable. These are the sorts of places kids read about and would expect a lion to appear from a cupboard or a boogie man to grab them from under their bed.
Never the less, there is some good from all of this. The yard outside seemed peaceful enough; the sort of place one could enjoy a sandwich, add to the vitamin D deficiency brought on by 48 hours in air ports and plains, and converse with whoever took my fancy, fictitious or not.
It was comforting to know that such places exist and provide work and rest for the masses, even if its just to mop the floors and sleep on a concrete bench.