Sacred Heart Cathedral: The tent of faith

I CANNOT remember the exact day I first set foot into Sacred Heart Cathedral (SHC) Kota Kinabalu. I arrived in Sabah towards the end of 1991, but those early years were lived largely in transit. Most weeks, I flew straight from Kuala Lumpur to Sandakan – work dictated rhythm, not reflection.

Kota Kinabalu was often a stopover, not a destination. Dates blurred. Flights merged. Memories arrived without timestamps. But while the date has escaped me, the feeling has not.

I remember walking into SHC for the first time and thinking – quite genuinely, and with no disrespect intended – Am I in a Protestant church? The name said Sacred Heart. The building said something else entirely.

It looked nothing like the Catholic churches I had grown up with. No familiar towers. No heavy arches. No stained glass announcing its presence. Instead, what stood before me felt startlingly modern – expansive, angular, almost daring. Futuristic is the word that returns to me now.

In fact, my first impression – one that still makes me smile – was that the Cathedral looked more like a spaceship or UFO than a church. Wide at the front, narrowing at the back, crowned by a vast roof that seemed to hover rather than sit. It felt less anchored to the ground than poised for lift-off. That moment of mild disorientation carried a quiet lesson.

SHC was not trying to look Catholic in the way I expected. It was inviting me to relearn what Catholic could look like. Inside, the unfamiliar continued. There was no crucifix immediately dominating the altar. Instead, my eyes were drawn forward and upward – to the immense mosaic of the Risen Christ, hovering above the shores of Sabah, with Mount Kinabalu rising in the distance. Jesus was not distant or abstract. He was local. He was risen. He was looking outward, not down.

This was not the Catholicism of dark wood and whispered Latin many of us had inherited. This was faith expressed in a different architectural language – confident, contemporary and unafraid.

Over time, what first felt foreign became familiar. What unsettled began to instruct. SHC revealed itself not as a rupture from tradition, but as a deep continuation of it – simply expressed differently. The absence of expected symbols was not rejection, but re-ordering. I came to understand that SHC was not designed to impress the nostalgic. It was designed to form the faithful.

The irony is that this realisation returned to me years later – not while standing in the Cathedral, but while writing about other churches altogether. After penning the stories of St Peter’s Church in Kuching and St Mary’s Church in Sandakan, I felt compelled to return – this time through archives, photographs and memory – to piece together the story of SHC that had stood so faithfully in the background of my Sabahan years.

This writing is not driven by novelty. It is driven by remembrance. It is an act of gratitude – for a Cathedral that never shouted for attention, yet shaped faith across generations; for a space that welcomed migrants, travellers and locals alike; for a church that looked futuristic at first glance, yet proved deeply rooted in Scripture, symbolism and pastoral care.

When a building becomes memory

There are buildings you pass by. And then there are buildings that quietly pass into you. SHC in Kota Kinabalu belongs firmly to the second category.

It is not a structure one merely visits. It is a place one grows into – sometimes unknowingly -like a familiar hymn whose words you only fully understand years later. For generations of Catholics in Sabah, SHC has been less a monument than a companion: present in baptisms and bereavements, ordinations and anniversaries, moments of triumph and seasons of doubt.

It stands today not merely as concrete and steel, glass and mosaic, but as something far more elusive and enduring – a record of faith made visible, shaped by exile and mission, courage and compromise, vision and necessity.

To understand SHC is to understand something deeper about Sabah’s Catholic journey itself.
Long before Sacred Heart became the Bishop’s Church, it was already behaving like one. Founded in 1903 by Fr Henry van der Heyden, Sacred Heart grew alongside Jesselton itself – a town stitched together by sea routes, timber trade, migrant labour and missionary resolve. The Church did not dominate the town; it accompanied it. It listened, adapted and endured.

By 1938, a new Sacred Heart Church stood proudly. Then war arrived, uninvited. WWII did not spare Jesselton. The church was destroyed by aerial bombing, leaving behind not just rubble, but an absence felt deeply by a community already bruised by occupation and loss. Yet faith, as it often does, proved more resilient than masonry.

By 1949, Sacred Heart was rebuilt. In 1953, another iteration followed – functional, earnest, and sufficient for a growing congregation. But growth has a habit of exposing limits.

When cracks become conversations

By the early 1970s, the roof structure of the Pro-Cathedral was found to be weak – dangerously so. Parishioners felt it before engineers confirmed it. People sat closer to exits. Anxiety crept quietly into worship.

A structural engineer from among the parishioners eventually confirmed what many already sensed. Temporary reinforcements were carried out, but the verdict was unavoidable: the building could not carry the future.

After consultations with the Bishop and prolonged discussions at both parish and diocesan levels – Parish Council and Pastoral Council (PAX) – a consensus emerged. The Pro-Cathedral would need to be replaced. Not repaired. Not patched. Replaced.

This was not demolition driven by ambition. It was stewardship driven by realism. Buildings, like institutions, sometimes reach a point where love demands letting go.

A phased act of faith

Wisdom and finances dictated that the project be implemented in phases. The Parish Hall was completed in 1975, designed to double as a temporary place of worship. A new Rectory and workers’ quarters followed in 1977. These were not glamorous milestones, but they were essential ones.

Meanwhile, plans for the Cathedral itself were being drawn, debated, revised and refined. In 1977, the final plans were unanimously approved by PAX at its annual assembly. That unanimity mattered. It signalled not just agreement, but shared ownership.

A Cathedral Building Committee was formed, chaired by Datuk Ben Stephens – a role that required patience, diplomacy, persistence, and a saintly tolerance for meetings that likely tested Christian charity. The committee held its first monthly meeting in March 1978.

By August that year, a leaflet was circulated to all Catholics in Sabah, explaining the building plans and appealing for donations. It was not glossy marketing. It was transparency. It said, plainly: This is what we hope to build. This is why. And this is how you can help.

How a cathedral fund begins – with a variety show

Every great faith project has a moment when momentum shifts from aspiration to action. For SHC, that moment did not come from a corporate pledge or a wealthy benefactor. It came from a group of artists performing variety shows.

In April 1973, proceeds from two shows at the Kota Kinabalu Community Centre were donated to the building fund. It was public. It was generous. And it set the tone. The Cathedral fund did not begin with grandeur. It began with goodwill.

From there, contributions flowed steadily – from parishioners, from Catholics across the Diocese, and from members of the general public in Sabah. Some donations arrived from beyond the shores of the state. Others came quietly, anonymously, persistently.

One parishioner brought in several coin boxes filled over years. Not dramatic. Not headline-worthy. But profoundly moving. This was not fund-raising driven by spectacle.

It was faith expressed in whatever currency people had. Small change. Big conviction.

When the vision took shape: Fr Tobias Chi

The permanent solution was clear: a new church had to be built – a conviction strengthened when Sacred Heart was elevated to cathedral status in 1976. Yet while plans and discussions were unfolding in Kota Kinabalu, the defining vision was taking shape elsewhere, quietly and decisively.

Fr Tobias Chi did not conceive the Cathedral in the city it would one day anchor. Its form was imagined earlier when he was in Sandakan. There, removed from immediate pressures, the idea came into focus with unusual clarity – so vivid that he built a physical model of it.

Long before concrete was poured or steel erected, the Cathedral had already taken shape in his mind. Fr Chi encountered neo-catechumenate churches in Spain and Italy – spaces where architecture was catechesis, where movement through a building mirrored the journey of faith.

He knew, then, what he wanted. He sketched it. He modelled it. He carried it with him. When he eventually came to Sacred Heart, the idea came too. An English architect once remarked, astonished by Fr Chi’s drawings, “You know all about buildings!” Yet when formal submissions were made, they did not survive committee scrutiny. And so, fittingly, the Cathedral returned to local hands.

The principal architect became Mr Shen Dah Cheong of Wisma Arkitek, working closely with Fr Chi – the latter often described, affectionately, as the project’s “mastermind”. This was not ego. It was conviction.

One of the Cathedral’s most quietly radical design decisions was also among its most pastoral. Unlike the old church, which faced the busy main road, the new Cathedral deliberately turned away from it. The Blessed Sacrament Chapel was placed at the back – facing Jalan Tengku Abdul Rahman and designed to act as a sound buffer.

The Chapel was air-conditioned 24 hours a day. Not for comfort, but for constancy. Prayer, here, would not compete with traffic. In this one decision, Sacred Heart revealed its priorities: silence over spectacle, presence over prominence.

From demolition to determination

In September 1979, the old Pro-Cathedral was demolished. There was regret. There always is. But sentiment did not override stewardship. The structure was deteriorating, lacked architectural value for preservation, and could no longer serve safely. Moreover, the new Cathedral had to rise on the same site – because it was the most central, the most visible, the most symbolically appropriate.

Foundation work began before the year ended. By early 1980, concrete structures for the main entrance and Chapel entrance were rising. Then came delays. Steel frames for the superstructure, sourced from overseas, were delayed by more than two months. Construction slowed. Patience was tested. Faith, perhaps, was exercised in quieter ways.

When the steel finally arrived in June 1980, work resumed in earnest. By October, the steel superstructure was complete. Cross-beams and roof structures followed. The Cathedral, slowly but unmistakably, took shape.

A roof like a tent – and a spaceship

The roof is what most people notice first. Long, sweeping, dominant – it defines the Cathedral’s silhouette. Timber shingles were considered, then rejected. After deliberation, BR-Monier tiles were chosen. Installation was completed in July 1981.

Some would later say the Cathedral looked like a spaceship. The building felt futuristic. Wide in front, narrowing at the back, crowned by a vast roof that seemed more aerodynamic than ecclesiastical. I was wrong, of course.

Fr Chi explained it simply: the roof was shaped like a tent. A tent – not a palace. A tent – not a fortress. In the Old Testament, the tent was where the people of God gathered, where God dwelt among them on the move. Temporary. Humble. Holy. Suddenly, the spaceship made theological sense.

Engineered for grace: When faith meets ingenuity

To some, cathedrals are places of worship. To engineers, they are also questions. How do you span wide spaces without columns? How do you shelter thousands from tropical rain? How do you invite light and air without inviting noise, heat or decay?

Sabahan engineer Tan Kok Jyh reflecting on SHC years later observed something telling: this was a building that understood its environment. Long before “sustainability” became fashionable, Sacred Heart practised it instinctively.

The Cathedral’s reinforced concrete and steel structure was chosen not for bravado, but for resilience – compression where weight demanded it, flexibility where movement was inevitable. The steeply pitched roof was not a design flourish; it was climate wisdom – shedding heavy rain quickly, sheltering walls from sun and storms. Wide eaves moderated heat. High ceilings encouraged passive ventilation. Warm air rose and escaped; cooler air flowed in. Acoustics were carefully considered so that a whispered prayer could travel without distortion.

In short, the Cathedral did not fight the elements. It negotiated with them. This was engineering that listened – to climate, to liturgy, to people. Not utilitarian, but humane. Not flashy, but thoughtful. Faith here was not suspended above physics. It was carried by it.

How faith pays its bills

The construction contract was awarded in August 1979 at a cost of RM2.1 million, with a projected completion of 15 months. Costs rose. They always do. It was nothing short of a miracle that sufficient funds were found to sustain the project. Donations never fully dried up. Support kept arriving – sometimes just in time.

The Sacred Heart Women’s League deserves special mention, having raised over RM250,000 for the building fund. But perhaps the truest measure of success lay not in totals, but in participation. This was not a Cathedral funded by a few. It was built by many.

Art that teaches without preaching

Once the structure was up, the interior took centre stage. An artist from Mexico, Francisco Borboa – then resident in Taiwan – was commissioned to design a series of artworks in mosaic, fiberglass and iron. Materials arrived by ship from Hong Kong and Taiwan in October 1981.

Behind the altar, instead of a crucifix, rose a massive mosaic of the Risen Christ, hovering above Sabah’s shores with Mount Kinabalu in the distance. This was not artistic rebellion.

It was theological emphasis. Christian faith does not end at the Cross. It moves through it. The Way of the Cross unfolds across four long iron panels stretching 63 feet along the back wall. Modern. Minimal. Sorrowful. There is no melodrama here. Just line, form and silence.

Born of water and courage

Sacred Heart also pioneered baptism by immersion – likely the first of its kind in a Malaysian Catholic church. Fr Chi later admitted he was surprised by his own courage in introducing it. Parents, however, did not resist. Not one refused.

As the congregation grew, a new baptismal font became necessary. Planned in 1995 under the stewardship of Rector Fr Cosmas Lee, the below-ground font was completed in February 1998 and placed prominently at the front of the altar.

Octagonal in form, the fiberglass covers reflect a neo-catechumenate inspiration. Designed by Rome-based architect Mattia del Prete, the mosaic covers were crafted in Venice and air-freighted to Sabah. The mosaics depict the symbols of the Four Evangelists, drawn from Ezekiel’s vision: Mark as the lion, Matthew as the man, John as the eagle, and Luke as the ox. Together, they frame the baptismal font as a meeting place of Scripture, symbolism and sacrament – where new life is received into the faith.

A cathedral that outgrew itself

As the Catholic Church in Sabah marked its centenary (1881–1981), Sacred Heart Cathedral was dedicated on 21 November 1981, the Feast of the Presentation of the Blessed Virgin Mary. It was a fitting choice. The feast commemorates Mary’s early offering of herself to God – a symbol of purity, faith and quiet readiness.

Today, SHC seats about 1,200 on the ground and another 250 on the balcony. On most Sundays, that is not enough. People stand. Doorways overflow. Parking becomes an act of faith. Yet the Parish Centre is alive nightly. The Chapel is rarely empty. SHC faces a familiar challenge: how to grow without losing soul.

The Silver Jubilee reflection in 2006 closed with words that still resonate: “If the Lord does not build the house, in vain do we labour.” SHC was not merely built. It was discerned. Debated. Prayed into being.

It stands today as a tent pitched firmly in Kota Kinabalu – a shelter for faith, a testament to ingenuity, a reminder that when people give what they can, something greater than themselves rises. Sacred Heart does not ask to be admired. Only to be entered. And perhaps, like me, to be misunderstood at first – before slowly, patiently, becoming part of who we are.