Brussels, Belgium — Once envisioned as a neo-gothic tribute to Belgian greatness by King Leopold II, the Koekelberg Basilica now stands as one of the world’s largest Art Deco churches—and perhaps one of its most divisive landmarks.
With its imposing size, austere interior, and a construction saga spanning 65 years, this colossal structure on a hill has seen everything from Catholic Masses to exhibitions of venomous snakes.
Visible from miles away, the basilica looms over Brussels like a colossal power station, its green copper dome and red-brick facade a stark contrast to the city’s more popular Gothic and Art Nouveau architecture.
For many, it is an eyesore; for others, a misunderstood masterpiece of 20th-century design. Despite its prominence, the church remains largely overlooked by tourists, its empty halls a testament to its polarising presence.
A King’s Unfulfilled Vision
The basilica’s origins date back to King Leopold II, who envisioned a grand pantheon on Koekelberg Hill to honour Great Belgians, inspired by Paris’s Panthéon. Unveiling was planned for 1905 to mark the 75th anniversary of Belgian independence.
However, opposition and lack of enthusiasm shelved the plan. Leopold, not one to abandon grandiose visions easily, pivoted to building a neo-gothic church instead, laying the foundation stone in 1905.
The project stalled with Leopold’s death in 1909 and was further derailed by World War I. It wasn’t until 1919 that King Albert revived the effort, but the country’s war-ravaged economy could not support the original neo-gothic vision.
In a dramatic shift, an architecture competition selected Albert Van Huffel’s Art Deco design, inspired by Byzantine churches, which won international acclaim at the 1925 World Fair in Paris.
A Slow and Stormy Construction
Van Huffel’s monumental design, however, faced years of financial and political hurdles. Construction stretched painfully from 1926 to 1969, interrupted by World War II and slowed by limited resources.
By the time the basilica was completed—featuring reinforced concrete, terracotta tiles, and vast empty spaces—the architectural world had moved on to sleeker, modernist styles.
The basilica’s interior is as controversial as its exterior. With a capacity of 3,500, it is often eerily empty, its Art Deco decor reminiscent of a 1920s cinema or a fascist-era railway station.
The nave, completed in 1951, and the dome, finished in 1969, frame an interior devoid of the usual clutter of statues, paintings, and ornate altars. Instead, visitors find rows of simple chairs, confessionals, and a few photographs of the Pope.
Unexpected Uses and Eerie Silence
Despite its austere setting, the basilica has hosted an array of unexpected events. In one of its strangest moments, it was the venue for an exhibition of poisonous snakes.
For years, a Dutch-language Catholic radio station, Radio Spes, broadcast from inside its walls until 2017. The tourist office operates from a side chapel, while a church shop occupies another.
Those who venture inside are often struck by the sheer scale and silence. On most days, the halls are nearly deserted.
The Art Deco detailing, from stained-glass windows by artists like Antwerp’s Jan Huet to the minimalist confessionals, adds a subdued elegance to the cavernous space.
A photo exhibition traces the building’s torturous construction history, including images of Leopold II laying the first stone and King Albert inspecting the unfinished site.
A View from the Top
The basilica’s main draw for visitors is the panoramic view from its dome, 52 metres above street level. Accessible by a lift installed in 2012 or a grueling climb up hundreds of steps, the platform offers sweeping vistas of Brussels, albeit primarily the city’s suburban sprawl.
Along the way, visitors can admire stained-glass windows depicting religious and wartime scenes, including a recent abstract work by South Korean artist Kim En Joong.
As Brussels celebrates its Art Deco heritage this year, the basilica may finally get its moment in the spotlight. With the Catholic Jubilee drawing pilgrims to churches worldwide, Koekelberg’s lonely grandeur might attract fresh eyes—if not appreciation.
For now, the basilica remains an imposing, misunderstood monument, a relic of a different era standing watch over Belgium’s capital.
