Imagine a city entirely designed by religious orders, where monks run breweries, gardens double as symbolic representations of theological concepts, and even graffiti sparks theological debate.
Start in the university district, where scholarly rivalry has reached new levels of intensity. The Dominicans have just unveiled a new lecture series titled “Veritas and the City,” drawing a crowd of theology and philosophy students in black-and-white attire. Their promo posters are hand-lettered in Latin. Even the graffiti on their side of town quotes Aquinas — “Bonum est diffusivum sui,” scrawled neatly across a stone archway. ("Goodness is self-diffusive.")
Not to be outdone, the Jesuits across the street counter with a philosophy symposium that includes Dave Brubeck’s jazz Mass and a panel on Ignatian discernment in artificial intelligence. Their graffiti? Multilingual and boldly contemporary: “God in all things” in five languages, including Braille. One wall simply reads, “AMD+G,” glowing under eco-conscious LED backlighting.
Far from the chalkboard duels and ethical debates, the Benedictines run the city’s most peaceful hotel, dedicated to hospitality -- as they are. Each room has a psalm-themed minibar and the breakfast buffet includes fresh eggs from their own hens. Their hospitality is so legendary, no one’s ever checked out angry — just contemplative, and maybe with a new prayer routine.
The Trappists, quieter but no less industrious, manage the city’s brewhouses. Guests sip ale in reverent silence, and while the monks won’t say much, the beer does most of the talking. It’s smooth, strong, and mysteriously restorative.
In the Franciscan quarter, gardens bloom on every balcony and bees have citizenship. Neighbors are usually found teaching kids how to compost or holding impromptu peace talks between pigeons, rats, and dogs. This is the only neighborhood where you’re as likely to be handed a flower as a sandwich. Often both.
On a quiet cul-de-sac, the Carmelite community is thriving. Roses grow everywhere (as a homage to Therese de Lisieux) and every front porch has a small act of kindness happening in real time — someone folding laundry for a neighbor, baking cookies, or writing a heartfelt letter. The neighborhood motto? “Small things, eternal impact.”
And finally, there’s the Augustinian sector. Their layout is both practical and poetic, with parks named after paradoxes and street corners where neighbors casually quote Confessions over espresso. They take their inspiration from St. Augustine’s vision of the “City of God” — a place where the earthly and eternal meet in unexpected ways.
Though imaginary, this saintly city hints at a real truth. Each charism brings something necessary to the life of the Church — thought, hospitality, beauty, labor, joy. As the Catechism puts it, “The communion of saints is the Church” (CCC 946). Which means heaven is not a far-off dream, but something we’re already building — one saintly neighborhood at a time.
