I wish someone would ask me to design a cathedral.

“I wish someone would ask me to design a cathedral.” Thus spoke Philip Johnson, the visionary architect who spent his life shaping glass, steel, and space into expressions of modern beauty. His words may sound simple, almost wistful—but within them lies a profound longing, one that transcends the craft of architecture itself. It is the eternal yearning of the creator: the desire to build something sacred, something that reaches beyond function and fame to touch the realm of the divine. In this one sentence, Johnson reveals not just the ambition of an artist, but the soul of a man who understood that the highest form of creation is not to serve the body, but to elevate the spirit.

When Johnson speaks of a cathedral, he does not mean merely a structure of stone and glass; he means a monument to meaning, a vessel of transcendence. The cathedral, in the history of humanity, is not simply a building—it is the physical embodiment of faith, of aspiration, of the human urge to reach toward heaven. To design such a place is to participate in something eternal—to join the lineage of those who built not for kings or markets, but for God, for beauty, for the immortal within the mortal. In wishing for that opportunity, Johnson reveals both humility and hunger: the humility to serve something greater than himself, and the hunger to create something that would endure beyond his own name.

To understand the depth of this yearning, we must look to the origin of the cathedral itself. In the Middle Ages, cathedrals rose like mountains of devotion across Europe—Chartres, Notre-Dame, Cologne. They were built not by a single man, but by generations, each mason laying stone upon stone in faith that he was part of something that would outlive him. These were not just buildings—they were acts of worship in stone, where every column, every stained-glass window, every shaft of light was designed to draw the eye—and the soul—upward. The architects of those cathedrals were not merely engineers; they were poets of space, giving form to humanity’s highest dreams. It is into this lineage that Philip Johnson longed to step.

Though Johnson lived in the age of glass towers and modernist precision, his spirit was not untouched by the sacred. He had designed icons of modern architecture—the Glass House in Connecticut, the AT&T Building, and countless other works that shaped the modern skyline—but even amidst these triumphs, he knew that something was missing. The skyscraper, though impressive, serves commerce; the home, though beautiful, serves comfort. But the cathedral serves eternity. In wishing to design one, Johnson was expressing a deeper truth: that every creator, at the height of his craft, yearns to build something that will not merely be admired, but revered.

There is a poignant irony in his words. For in the modern world, few call upon architects to build cathedrals anymore—not because faith has vanished, but because its temples have changed. Today, the great cathedrals are towers of finance, arenas of entertainment, temples of consumption. Johnson’s longing, therefore, is also a lament—for a world that no longer asks its artists to build for the soul. His wish is not just professional; it is spiritual. It is the call of the artist who still believes that architecture is not merely about shelter, but about shaping the sacred geometry of human experience.

Yet there is wisdom here for all who create, in any field. For every human being, in their own way, wishes to “design a cathedral”—to make something of lasting worth, to contribute to the world something that ennobles rather than merely exists. Whether one writes, teaches, heals, or builds, the calling is the same: to create with reverence. The cathedral, in this sense, is not a building but a metaphor—the ultimate expression of work infused with meaning. To design your cathedral is to live your life in such a way that it becomes an offering: an act of beauty, devotion, and love that lifts others higher.

Let us, then, heed Philip Johnson’s longing as a lesson for our own time. Do not be content to build only what is useful—build what is meaningful. In your craft, in your relationships, in your daily choices, let there be architecture of purpose and grace. Seek not only to succeed, but to sanctify your work through sincerity and passion. For every soul that dares to create with intention is, in truth, already designing a cathedral—a structure not of stone, but of spirit; not bound by walls, but carried in the hearts of those it touches.

And so, when Philip Johnson wished to design a cathedral, what he truly longed for was to touch the divine through creation. His desire is the artist’s eternal prayer: that our works, no matter their form, may become bridges between earth and heaven. For in the end, the cathedral is not only built of stone—it is built of human longing, of courage, of vision. To live one’s life as such a design—to dedicate one’s gifts to what is sacred and enduring—is to fulfill the very purpose of creation itself.