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All church buildings tell stories about the people who build them and about their understanding of how God meets his gathered people. To understand the stories new church buildings tell, I started with an old one—Hollywood Presbyterian, built in 1924.

That's not very old as buildings go, but it is old on a human horizon. Our grandparents built such places. Hollywood Presbyterian is a Southern California evangelical monument, where Henrietta Mears inspired future leaders like Campus Crusade's Bill Bright.

You have seen buildings just like this on a hundred urban streets—a neo-gothic brick pile shoe-horned onto a corner, just inside the sidewalk. With its soaring tower, it "looks like a church," but it doesn't make much of an impression on its environment. Step into the grand old sanctuary, however, and a hush comes over the world. In the sacred darkness, stained-glass windows, ornate wooden trusses, stone arches, and a high pulpit unmistakably communicate "holy place." Dominating the chancel are five ornamented thrones, the center one designated for the preacher to sit in until the moment he ascends the pulpit, ten feet above the congregation. If Moses appeared lugging the Ten Commandments, he would fit right in. This is a church that makes you want to sing "A Mighty Fortress." This is what our grandparents meant when they said "sanctuary."

Now take, by contrast, Saddleback Community Church, the "Purpose-Driven Church" that pastor Rick Warren leads in south Orange County, California. This gigantic Southern Baptist "seeker-sensitive" congregation is hardly obsessed with buildings—they met in a tent for years. When it came time to build a 3,000-seat worship center, Saddleback deliberately chose an architectural firm that had never designed a church. They wanted to avoid creating a "churchy" environment that might put off newcomers.

The most impressive spot in this open, airy campus is outside on the main patio, a broad rectangle of concrete, undecorated except for a square of nine large palm trees and some concrete benches. Along one side of the rectangle is the vast, reflective-glass wall of the main church building. Looking at it you see simultaneously three scenes. Through the glass, you look in to the interior of the worship center. Reflected in the glass you see an immense outdoor vista of sky, palms, and patio. And etched into the glass are words, so that a message stretches over the indoor and outdoor scenes. OUR PURPOSES: MAGNIFICATION, MEMBERSHIP, MATURITY, MINISTRY, and MISSION. Clustered around these words are biblical phrases that underscore each word's meaning.

The effect is subtle, since the color is all in the outdoor reflection, while the words are a glass gray. Yet the wall unmistakably communicates that this church is governed by a purpose, inside and out.

Another outdoor patio has the baptistry as its focal point—an attractive, below-ground fountain, with steps leading into a shallow, splashing pool. It might be in the courtyard of a bank building, a lovely spot to eat a sack lunch. The fountain looks nonreligious, but those who attend Saddleback will soon know its purpose from the frequent baptisms performed after services. The design allows the pool to be filled to a depth suitable for immersions, and the broad steps then give easy access into the water. (The first person baptized in the pool was its architect, Brian Connor.)

For me, the most notable aspect of Saddleback is that all its grace is on the outside. Hollywood's building is like a shell protecting an inner sanctum, but Saddleback's worship center is nothing but a clean, airy exhibition space, with exposed air ducts, retractable bleachers, industrial carpet, giant JumboTron screens, and a stage that looks like a TV talk-show studio without the sofas.

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September 7 1998, Vol. 42, No. 10