Every human being is a temple; every temple is the center of the world: the intersection of North and South, East and West, above and below — existing simultaneously in the present and in timelessness.

Geometry is the instrument through which divine perfection is made visible — it is, at the same time, a form of prayer, meditation, and praise of God.
The circle expresses wholeness, the square represents human earthly existence, and the triangle embodies the mystery of the Holy Trinity.
Proportions and symmetry manifest the harmony of the world, which springs from divine perfection and reflects it back.

Geometry is an organic part of the fundamental laws of architecture: it is both a system of signs and the beginning and result of drawing composition.
This coincidence is not accidental; it is no coincidence that these principles form the backbone of architectural history.

A sacred building is only authentic if it is truthful in every element. Every mannerism is glaringly exposed.
For this reason, designing a chapel provides the architect with an opportunity for honest self-confrontation, for silence, for the practice of self-discipline, for the enrichment of knowledge about the world and faith, and for the experience of the true depths of architecture.

In historical eras, master builders knew what a church should be like.
Today, there is no secure, established, and universally interpretable set of tools.
An architect’s individual decisions determine what a building will become.

The Second Vatican Council granted great freedom in church design.
There are no strict prescriptions from the Church, only general recommendations — for example, the use of natural materials and the avoidance of ostentatious splendor.
Even the orientation of the sanctuary towards the East is now only encouraged, not explicitly required. If it is achieved, it is good; if not, it is no great matter.

Architectural-historical analyses, as well as contemporary approaches and narratives, present risks in which it is easy to lose oneself.
It is an interesting observation that the adaptation to context — a principle strongly emphasized in contemporary architectural education — is not relevant in the case of a chapel.
Perhaps this is because such a building must represent a stronger statement, one that can be interpreted on a much larger scale in both space and time.

In the course of reflecting on the design of the chapel in Pécsely, we chose as our starting point the concept of “sacred geometry” — a pure, unquestionable, self-organizing principle that also assumes continuity with historical architecture.
A circular horizontal platform marks the site of the chapel in the undulating landscape.
The proportions of the floor plan are defined by the intersection of two circles.
Two — because this yields a harmonious proportion for the interior space and, at the same time, establishes a clear orientation of the sanctuary towards the East.
We insisted on the eastward orientation as a means of placing the building within the constancy of the world’s axial coordinates.
A minimal angular deviation was introduced in order to align with the access path, which also functions as an axis of symmetry.
The façades are regular squares; the roof can be inscribed within an isosceles triangle.

The existing — now crumbling — cellar built into the hillside was constructed from stone quarried locally, therefore the choice of material for the chapel walls was unquestionable.
Because of the stability required for the rubble stone walls, they are thick; we sought to avoid concrete reinforcement wherever possible.
The roof structure would be made from CLT panels, potentially prefabricated in their entirety and lifted onto the walls.

The white mass set against the green landscape forms a strong visual signal when seen from the road.
The stone wall would be whitewashed, a surface that can easily be renewed each year.
The roof tiles, too, are to be produced in a custom proportion and fired in the lightest possible pigment.
Thus, the homogeneous white mass can also be interpreted as an abstract form.

The form and appearance of a church are an aggregated idea drawn from shared experiences spanning many generations.
We all hold within us an inner image of what a church should look like.
This is difficult to define in every respect, yet any deviation from it leads to interpretive dissonance.
Modern architecture tends to overwrite the importance of this, although disregarding the consensual architectural semiotics does not necessarily exclude good results — it does, however, carry a high risk in terms of comprehensibility.
The relationship between form and concept is deeply ingrained in human consciousness, regardless of how open-minded a particular social group may be.

The proportions, materiality, position, circular pedestal, and whiteness of the designed chapel all relate closely to the small rural chapels found outside villages.
The chapels of the Balaton Highlands — often built for the blessing of vineyards on the feast of Saint Donatus — are mostly Baroque or, in some traces, Classicist in style.
Essentially, they are naïve, miniaturized reinterpretations of the parish churches.
Perhaps it is precisely this distortion of scale that gives them their charm.
We felt, however, that we could not reproduce this phenomenon authentically, and therefore it was not our intention to use these historical models as direct references.

Our design instead focuses on determinacy through geometry and on a constructive simplicity “as straightforward as a wedge of wood.”
We deliberately strove to make as few subjective design decisions as possible.

Although the competition brief suggested that access to the urn crypt should be provided directly from the interior of the chapel — specifically from the sanctuary — we nevertheless decided to design the crypt with a separate, external entrance.
There were several reasons for this.
Traditionally, the crypt is located in a semi-basement, beneath the sanctuary, as part of a substructure.
Building directly on top of the former wine cellar, treating it as a single spatial unit with the chapel, would have resulted in a structural and spatial complexity that we considered disproportionate to the modest scale of such a small, humble chapel.

Another reason was our rigorous adherence to the eastward orientation.
We did not wish to disregard this historical principle merely for the sake of the crypt.
We consider it important both for its sacred meaning and for the natural lighting of the interior.

A further consideration in favor of separation was that the chapel was intended to be open and accessible to anyone who might pass by and feel invited by the place — whether for prayer, for quiet reflection, or simply to enjoy the breathtaking panorama of the landscape.
We did not wish to compromise the intimacy of the family crypt.

What makes a building sacred? Does there exist a set of tools through which sacredness can be achieved? Can historical precedents still be used today? How does contemporary architecture relate to the sacred? Does the architectural approach originate from faith, or from architecture itself?

“The sacred is something filled with life. The sacred force simultaneously signifies reality, eternity, and efficacy. (…) Hence it is understandable that the religious person longs to partake in reality, and to be filled with power.” — Mircea Eliade: The Sacred and the Profane

Standing on the site in Pécsely, one can feel — in a way that is hard to articulate, more as an inner sensation — a distinct vitality, the strength of life itself.
The question arises whether this natural force should merely be celebrated and brought into visible focus through the chapel, or whether through designed structure we may attempt once more to designate the axis of the universe and of time.

We were interested in how the contemporary architects we respect and follow with great admiration think about sacred architecture. Below are excerpts from some of their writings.

Peter Zumthor often speaks about “presence,” which, according to him, is like the moment when the space between past and future disappears, and the present moment alone captures our attention.
He begins with the sensory impressions that arise from materials such as stone, light, and space — these create the emotional atmosphere that forms the basis of the sacred spatial experience.
In his view, the characteristics of sacred architecture may remain unnoticeable, yet still exert an effect: they encourage presence, tranquility, and contemplation.

Olgiati, together with Markus Breitschmid, formulated the theory of “non-referential architecture,” according to which modern society no longer requires architecture to rely on cultural or historical references — the essence lies in the physical and sensory quality of space itself.
The “experience of space” is founded on the sum of formal elements — material, light, acoustics, texture — rather than on external meaning. (OCTOGON Magazine, Noémi Viski: ZOOM IN: Existential Spaces)

This approach stands in contrast to classical sacred architecture, which often employs celebratory, iconic, or liturgical references.
For Olgiati, the “sacred” does not depend on religious symbolism or iconography but on the fact that the building possesses meaning in and of itself — a profound, multi-layered spatial experience that can carry spiritual resonance without ever declaring it explicitly.

Herzog & de Meuron designed the chapel near Andeer in Switzerland, located along a highway, intentionally devoid of religious iconography, yet offering a strong spiritual experience.
The design was inspired by nature — it does not look to the past but responds to the spirit of the place.
The interior contains three small chapels: one circular and light-filled, another larger, with an oval panoramic window framing the landscape through red glass.

“It is impossible to recreate the magic of old walls without appearing in poor taste,” said the architects. (Architectural Digest: Roadside Chapel — Minimalist Spirituality)

In summary and interpretation of the reflections of these highly esteemed colleagues, a defining tendency can be observed: the iconography of sacred architecture is regarded as a matter of the past, breaking even the slightest continuity of tools between historical and contemporary architecture.
References and embodied ideas appear to lie beyond a line of aesthetic permissibility.
Instead of creating space founded on inner religious experience or theological understanding, contemporary architectural thinking often expects sacredness to arise from the sophisticated purity of architecturally conceived design — as if from the qualities of space or material themselves.

Perhaps a more complex, deeper result can be achieved if a sacred building is not born solely on the architect’s computer screen, nor merely as a manifestation of an individual concept, but rather as the outcome of dialogue and communal cooperation.
The following two architects see the solution in precisely this kind of creative process.

The Salgenreute Chapel was the collective work of several hundred local people.
Its architect, Bernardo Bader, emphasizes that the meaning of sacred spaces is defined not only by form or symbolism but also by the fact that a community is created through the act of building.
This communal “action” itself possesses a sacred dimension.
The 200-year-old predecessor of the chapel provided the basis for the new design — its fundamental shape was preserved, yet the spatial formulation offered a new, contemporary response.
Thus, for Bader, sacred architecture is not an act of preservation, but a living dialogue with tradition.

A similar thought is expressed by Ferenc Török:

“For me, the construction of churches has been a marvelous sequence of experiences and encounters; I was able to witness the strengthening or even the birth of communities as the House of God gradually rose.
Church building was a collective social endeavor… The believing community became one not only in the liturgy but also in the act of building the church itself.” (Magyar Kurír)

Note: We do not consider our competition entry as a final result, but rather as a snapshot taken during a period of reflection.

Sources:

• New Testament
• Csanády Gábor: Szakrális tér a mai Magyarországon
• Mircea Eliade: A szent és a profán
• Sacrosanctum Concilium 122–129.
• OCTOGON, Viski Noémi: ZOOM IN: egzisztenciális terek
• Archdailly: Peter Zumthor: Seven Personal Observations on Presence In Architecture
• Architectural Digest

• Magyar Kurír