OUR DEAR LORD IN THE ATTIC

Where?   Amsterdam, Netherlands

What?     Clandestine church, concealed at the top of a canal-side townhouse

FROM THE outside this townhouse on the Oudezijds Voorburgwal canal looks little different to any other. Handsome, yes, in Dutch Golden Age style, its proportions tall and slender, its facade crowned by a soaring spout gable. But of more note is what lies within. Above the old kitchen and the day rooms, along the narrow corridors, up the steep, creaking stairs, right at the top: a church. Unexpectedly tucked into the attic is a place of worship, with a Baroque altar, a painting of the baptism of Christ, sculptures of the apostles, a made-to-fit organ. This secret chapel is a symbol of hidden faith, and a lesson on past tolerance that well befits the present day ...

Ons’ Lieve Heer op Solder (Our Dear Lord in the Attic), and the house in which it rests, was built in the 17th century, at a time of both Dutch dominance and division. In July 1581, seven northerly United Provinces – the precursor of the modern-day Netherlands – declared their independence from the Spanish king, shifting the fledgling nation from majority Catholic to Protestant; in a subsequent declaration, the overt practice of Catholicism was banned. But many people remained loyal to their former faith, secretly celebrating mass in their homes or workplaces – or even constructing their own churches.

Such was the case for Jan Hartman, a successful Catholic merchant who made his fortune in the linen trade and wine excise business. This was, after all, the era of the Dutch East India Company, when the Netherlands became the world’s leading maritime and economic force. With his fortune, Hartman bought the house on Amsterdam’s Oudezijds Voorburgwal, along with two attached properties in the adjoining alley. He then set about merging the three attics into one space, to create his own schuilkerk, a hidden Catholic house church.

Despite the prohibition of religious observance, Our Dear Lord in the Attic was a well-known ‘secret’. The Protestant authorities were happy to turn a blind eye. As long as the church was unidentifiable from the outside, they would tolerate what went on within – a liberal attitude that endures in the city to this day. With space for 150 worshippers, who packed into the neat nave and up into the two levels of galleries, the church served a whole community for over 200 years. From its completion in 1663 until the dedication of the far larger Saint Nicolas’s Church in 1887, this divine loft conversion hosted weddings, baptisms and masses; Hartman, given his connections in the trade, was able to provide the communion wine.

Ons’ Lieve Heer op Solder still springs a surprise. Tucked into De Wallen – Amsterdam’s Red Light District – it’s a sliver of saintliness amid sin. There are sex shops and brothels just around the corner yet, within this house – now a museum – 17th-century bourgeois decorum remains. The lower floors look just as Hartman might have left them, from the Delft-tiled kitchens to the grandstanding zaal (main parlour), with its marble-flanked fireplace, fine furniture and ceiling of gilded oak.

Above, on the second floor, is a simple confessional, installed around 1740 so the priest might better forgive the confider’s sins. On the third floor, up the time-worn stairs, lies the big reveal: the church, preserved here in its 19th-century glory. Just as in 1862, rush matting covers the floors while electric replicas of the old gaslights hang from the roof and walls. The woodwork is painted caput mortuum (‘dead head’), a liverish shade of pink, which seems to channel the eye to the fine altarpiece, where Christ’s baptism sits below the stucco of God the Father and the Holy Spirit, depicted as a dove.

Outside, Amsterdam rumbles, the canal busy with boats, the restaurants, bars and brothels doing a roaring trade. But up here, in this God-fearing garret, there’s a hidden place of peace, where you might feel closer to the divine, no matter what your beliefs.