I'm obsessed with the way different architectural styles reflect different aspects of God.
Like, gothic? The spires and the stained glass and the pointed arches? The gargoyles on the outside of churches, signifying that the demons can't enter into a sacred space? It's grand, almost foreboding. It sings in the piercing, ethereal song of the dryads of old, "He is not safe, but He is good."
And then there is romanesque, and it is God as fortress, God as bulwark. Round arches, heavy stones. Sturdy, safety, support. It sings in low Gregorian chant, "God is my strong tower, my refuge."
And then there is Baroque. And your breath stalls in your throat, and your heart does something strange because, oh—oh this must be what heaven looks like. It's dazzling, marvelous, almost a dream. And its song is not in words because there are no words to express it except "Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus." But its chorus is celestial all the same. It is God as Divine Beauty, the source from which all beauty flows.