Over the years, I have had many experiences in places of worship. As a Jew, I have visited many synagogues. Through travel, I have also visited cathedrals, churches, mosques, and sacred sites throughout the world, some of which are famous, historic, and architecturally significant.
In light of that, I was surprised by the depth of my reaction last Saturday at a memorial service at Pinnacle Presbyterian Church in Scottsdale. I was there to honor Dr. James Schamadan, a man I had known for only six or seven years, yet he had influenced me. Jim had served as president of the Board of our homeowners association, on which I also served. He was friendly, thoughtful, gracious, and quietly impressive. At 98, he embodied a life of service, accomplishment, and continued engagement with the people around him.
But what affected me most that morning was not only the service itself, as meaningful as it was, but the place where the service took place.
The sanctuary at Pinnacle Presbyterian Church was designed by architect Jim Roberts of Roberts/Jones Associates and is unlike any other worship space I have experienced. Sitting there, I was deeply moved by the architecture. In fact, it was as close to a meaningful religious experience as I can remember having in a place of worship.
The sanctuary is an asymmetrical space, yet it does not feel arbitrary or forced. Each element has its own identity, yet they are carefully integrated into a larger whole. Nothing seemed accidental. Nothing seemed to compete unnecessarily. The space did not impose itself on the congregation; instead, it gathered us together.
One of the most remarkable features is the large stained-glass window. It does more than decorate the sanctuary. It transforms it. The glass, light, and exterior landscape seem to work together, so the view beyond the building becomes part of the worship space itself. The boundary between inside and outside seems softened. The desert landscape is not excluded; it is invited in. That integration of art, architecture, and nature is masterful.
The placement of the choir and pipe organ was equally powerful. They had a major presence in the sanctuary, as they should, yet they were not overpowering. The music filled the space without dominating it. The organ and choir supported the service rather than overwhelming it. Their presence gave the memorial emotional weight, but the architecture kept that weight uplifting rather than heavy.
The pulpit was also handled with unusual sensitivity. It was clearly an important element, but it was not so dominant that it created distance between speaker and congregation. That balance mattered. Words spoken from it seemed to carry authority, but not theatricality. The design gave dignity to the spoken word without making the speaker remote.
At other moments, the pastor stepped away from the pulpit and spoke from the altar area. That simple movement changed the emotional character of the service. It made the communication feel less formal and more personal. The architecture allowed both modes: the formal and the intimate, the ceremonial and the human. As a result, I found myself listening more closely and understanding more fully than I often do at religious services.
That may be the highest compliment one can pay a sanctuary. It did not call attention only to itself. It deepened the meaning of what took place within it.
As an architect, I am aware of how difficult that is to achieve. A worship space must accommodate ritual, music, speech, procession, silence, memory, community, and individual reflection. It must be large enough to hold a congregation and intimate enough to touch a single person. It must have presence without becoming theatrical. It must support faith without dictating emotion. At Pinnacle Presbyterian Church, Jim Roberts achieved that rare balance.
The memorial service was for Dr. James Schamadan, and it was fitting that a man who had lived a life of service and accomplishment was remembered in a place designed with such care. I knew Jim only in the later years of his life, but even in that relatively short time, he left an impression on me. He was one of those people whose influence did not depend on dramatic gestures. It came through steadiness, courtesy, intelligence, and the simple act of remaining engaged with others.
Perhaps that is why the service affected me as it did. The architecture, the music, the spoken words, the light, and the memory of Jim all seemed to reinforce one another. The sanctuary did what great architecture can do but too rarely does: it made the occasion more meaningful.
I came to the church to attend a memorial service. I left with a renewed appreciation for the power of architecture to shape human experience.
And I left grateful — grateful for having known Dr. James Schamadan, even briefly, and grateful for having encountered a place that allowed memory, beauty, and spirit to come together so powerfully.
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David Brotman FAIA Member Emeritus
Sunset Consultants
Scottsdale AZ
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