I’m an Atheist—but Going to Mass at the Sagrada Família Changed My Life Forever

The earliest days of the Barcelona trip I felt that the trip I took in 2025, which was type A, was completely against who I am. My friends and i booked everything a week in advance, paying a few hundred euro for an Airbnb and budget tickets from Paris where we were at the moment. Except for these essentials, I didn’t have a plan for the weekend. Instead, I went with a level of spontaneity that was a little uncomfortable, and eschewed my usual detailed itinerary. At this point, it was much too late to book tickets to any of the top attractions; Parc Güell, the Picasso Museum, and Sagrada Família were all sold out. We decided to just wing it.

I had to sacrifice six hours of sleep on the morning of our trip to take an Uber to Paris Orly Airport at 3 am. By 10 a.m. my two friends, and I, were in the heart BarcelonaWhere we would be for the next fifty hours.

The first day, which was very hot and long, was exhausting. Running on about two hours of sleep with our huge, mildly dorky backpacks in tow, we hiked up Montjuïc hill; spent a few hours in the Joan Miró Foundation; and took a long, winding journey back down (albeit with spectacular views). We struggled with the lock on our Airbnb when it came time to check-in. However, a tasty meal of black Paella at Restaurant Palermo helped to ease the tension. After dinner, I was eager to get into bed. My friends, however, were determined to see the Basílica de la Sagrada Família—so, outvoted, along I went.

Construction on Sagrada Família began almost a century and a half ago, in 1882. Catalan modernist architect Antoni Gaudí took over its design the next year, and from 1914 until he passed away, it was his only project. The church, easily distinguishable by Gaudí’s signature nature-inspired style, is still under construction—a project that has taken over 140 years to complete—but it’s set to be done in 2026, the centennial of his death. 

When I visited, Sagrada Família was missing its tallest central spire, the tower of Jesus Christ. It was a magnificent sight, a behemoth of ivory and beige stone, impossibly intricate and breathtakingly tall. I’m not sure why, but American churches never really interested me. But the Gothic, stately, exponentially older European church was a different beast—and Sagrada Família was in league of its own. The next night, we walked the length of the church for an hour. We breathed it in and let the cold creep through our inadequate layers. Our best efforts failed to capture anything. 

We began in front of the Passion façade, a skeletal, shadowy construction centered on the cross and, just under it, the crucifixion scene. Then, after walking around the unfinished Glory façade, we reached Nativity. 

This side of Sagrada Família was darker, rounder—as if stained and eroded with time. With rippling shapes and mosslike florals, it’s ornate, organic, and acutely Gaudían. We spent most of that hour in front of the Nativity façade: three upward-tilted chins, six unblinking eyes. 

I’ve been an atheist my entire life, so I didn’t know the stories behind each of the churches. But their raw and historic power still struck me. The unfinished nature of Sagrada Família only added to its effect. There I was, watching something amazing in its long, laborious process. 

We were sure we wanted to get inside. How do we do it? The standard tickets had long since disappeared and the last-minute tours cost too much for us college students. After some digging, we discovered a possible solution. 

Every Saturday at 8 p.m., Sagrada Família holds an international Mass. It’s open to all and free. It’s free. (There is also Mass on Sunday mornings but we had to get on a flight.) Frankly, the Mass was not important to me. I was only interested in the exterior and wanted a glimpse of the interior, which had been much talked about. We went to Mass the following day. 

The plan was not set in stone. That night after our exterior tour of the church, we had a  sangria-fueled late night out, naturally. Then on the day of, we took ourselves on an extensive walk through the Parc de la Ciutadella to Somorrostro Beach, where we sat for probably too long (entirely inappropriately dressed for the beach—I, for one, was in a black leather jacket and jeans, and none of us had brought sunscreen). In the end, we decided it was okay to miss Mass that evening. At the last minute we decided to jump on the Metro and give it a try. We made it in just enough time to get inside. 

Before I went to Europe for my studies, I was only in church two or three other times. My childhood friend attended the Methodist church in my suburb of Pennsylvania, a one-story, nondescript white building. I’d been there with her for a few events, but it didn’t leave a lasting impression. In my childhood, I was only exposed to spirituality through temple visits and incense burning on trips to China. Or perhaps, sporadically, when I tried to meditate in highschool. As I walked in to this church for my first time, it was as if I finally understood what spirituality meant. I still couldn’t pinpoint what “it”, exactly, was.

The interior was somehow more impressive than the façades. The spiraling ceilings and deceptively simple tree-like columns made it appear to be a forest. It was like a forest of enchanted white stone with arches, warm lights, and rainbow-dappled windows. Not a straight angle could be found. I could feel the basilica growing and me with it. We sat in our folding chairs, faces raised and lips parted. A hush descended over the crowd as Mass began.

Half the time I didn’t know what was happening. There were parts in English and French but there were also other elements in the Mass. Add on the fact that  I didn’t have much foundational knowledge of the story being told to begin with—which, as my friend later told me, was of the parable of the prodigal son. But to just exist inside the church was enough. We were in a place that seemed to extend so far above us and buzzed with energy.

After 15 minutes, 30 minutes and 45 minute, several tour groups left. They, like us, probably just wanted to get inside for free—but we stayed glued the whole way through. We strain to understand the singing and speaking in languages that we don’t know, we turn to greet our neighbor-strangers from other countries and we stand to watch an Eucharist which we can’t participate in. 

This was not how I had imagined spending my final night in Barcelona. It was not what I imagined myself doing. I’ve always been a seeker of completeness, certainty, and rigid structure. But that night, surrounded by a collective longing for faith and connection, I let it take me—the beauty of something unfinished, unanswered; the ever-unfolding realization of a centuries-old design.

An hour later, it was dark outside, but inside—where we’d spent our whole lives, it seemed—the shadows glowed amber. Mass ended under the canopy made of living stones. So we moved on.