The Role of Art in Instructing the Religious Imagination

Introduction

This is not a historical overview of religious art but only a philosophical tribute in cameo form. Although I do mean the visual arts, I do not mean only the visual arts but those that involve the process of human creativity, which includes literature and music. As created in the image of God, we are inherently creative, some more than others, it is true, but even those who claim to possess little creativity of their own generally appreciate its expression in others. This appreciation invites art to become a powerful mouthpiece for faith. The fullest appreciation of art in any form will always link to the philosophical purpose of art: to create a world in microcosm or to see one slice of reality as it relates to the established order of truth.

Visual Art

By no means an authority in the visual arts, I can nevertheless testify to having seen some of the world's finest art in person, some at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam and some at the Louvre in Paris. I came totally unprepared, but in some ways, my naivete served as the blank slate upon which to impress the images of a lifetime. These images include twenty-two of Rembrandt's paintings, among them, his most famous work, The Night Watch. Dated 1642 and measuring 12 feet high by 14.5 feet wide, this painting is known not only as Rembrandt's most famous work but also as one of the finest paintings of the Dutch Golden Age, known for its naturalistic realism. The largest canvas I have ever seen, this painting carries its own ability to inspire awe, despite its absence of religious content. A commissioned portrait depicting an Amsterdam civic militia company, this energetic painting portrays not only Rembrandt's signature allegorization of light and shadow but his idiosyncratic tendency to put himself into the painting.

Perhaps the most meaningful of Rembrandt's paintings, The Raising of the Cross is not conserved in the Rijksmuseum but in the Alte Pinakothek in Munich, and I honestly cannot remember if I have seen it in person, although I did visit Munich years ago. A vivid depiction of the Crucifixion scene, this painting portrays Rembrandt himself standing in the foreground as one of the executioners who raised the Cross of Christ. By featuring himself realistically in 17th-century Dutch garb, Rembrandt juxtaposes contemporary anachronisms with Biblical details to achieve thematic unity: not only the executioners and onlookers, but Rembrandt himself stands guilty as a soul for whom Christ died. This highly instructive allegorical presentation of the soul's need for redemption reveals that Rembrandt's passion for realism did not preclude his artistic license in painting images that were spiritually true though not historically accurate. Likewise, Rembrandt's passion to portray Christ worshipfully did not prevent him from painting Christ realistically.

Using most likely a live Jewish model from Amsterdam's Jewish quarter, Rembrandt became a pioneer in depicting Jesus with Jewish features--something the Catholic art tradition had largely avoided. Such a departure from religious tradition not only allowed Rembrandt to portray Christ with greater believability but enabled him to assign to His humanity a range of varied emotions, such as sadness, happiness, and sternness. In this way, Rembrandt linked his artistic expression of realism with the reality of his personal faith in a loving Lord who, as God with us, is accessible in our daily lives and empathizes with our struggles. Rembrandt valued his portraits of Christ so deeply that, even when poverty led him to file for bankruptcy, an inventory showed that he had kept three paintings of the Head of Christ among his personal possessions. Not only were Rembrandt's paintings of Christ expressive of his personal devotion, they evidently remained instructive to his own religious imagination. To what extent the Christian faith is indebted to such devotion of heart and hand is impossible to tell, for viewing even one of Rembrandt's great works leads the soul to introspection.

In contrast to Rembrandt's unique blend of artistic realism and personal faith, Leonardo da Vinci's expression of artistic realism was not so clearly linked with piety, despite his famed output of sacred narratives. Whether this "missing" dimension diminished the impact of his art in instructing the religious imagination would be difficult to determine, but it would appear that da Vinci approached subjects as significant as those depicted in The Last Supper, The Annunciation, and the Adoration of the Magi from a more cerebral and scientific viewpoint even while capturing realistic human emotions.

Yet, even if da Vinci's motivation was more academic than spiritual, his ability to make the abstract concrete and the spiritual visual was disciplined with objectivity and scientific precision. As a result, his ability to link art to both science and faith was a significant contribution to the Christian faith and preserved the role of God as Creator of all three. It could also accurately be concluded that da Vinci's work, although pointing unmistakably to God, glorified God's creation as much as its Creator, thus opening the door to Christian humanism.

Because da Vinci's personal connections to religious faith remain highly ambiguous, unlike Rembrandt's, which are fervently personal, perhaps it is ironically appropriate that da Vinci's most famous painting and, arguably, the most famous painting in the world, does not feature religious themes at all. The Mona Lisa, notorious not only for its ambiguous subject but also for its enigmatic expression, has become as famous for what it does not portray as for what it does. Debated as a possible depiction of da Vinci's own face inverted to become a woman's, this small and rather unassuming painting, which I have seen at the Louvre, is profoundly underwhelming. More important than seeing the painting itself is my ability to say I have seen it. And yet, the Mona Lisa's power to compel a riveted gaze despite its lack of pretention proves its chief irony and value. Perhaps this woman's mysterious smile symbolizes the traditional world's philosophical shift from the centrality of faith in art to the celebration of humanism in the modern arts. Perhaps it also serves as a subtle harbinger of the historic divergence of art from faith.

In what way are we to regard religious art today? Perhaps a better question would be what religious art is being produced today. A quietly understated resurgence in religious art known as a "New Renaissance" is evidently now underway and is gaining momentum through a "return to beauty" and a renewed interest in tradition, liturgy, ancient narrative, iconography, and mysticism. The question would be whether this art illumines truth in ways recognizable to traditional Christian faith, which values objective beauty and spiritual transcendence, or whether the ambiguity of postmodernism will have left its shadow of subjectivity on the canvas. The question also, therefore, will be whether this new art finds its place in instructing the religious imagination. Perhaps it is enough to know for now that the pursuit of beauty still orients one to faith and that faith itself opens the heart to beauty. As John Keats said of art so long ago, "Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all / Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know" ("Ode on a Grecian Urn", st. 5).

If we could with accuracy say that religious art by nature is a visual representation of spiritual truth, we might argue with equal accuracy that all truth has a visual dimension, for even our Creator God has manifested Himself in the Incarnation of Christ. I heard a pastor once say, when speaking of personal holiness: "If you can't see it in color, it isn't true." His point was that spiritual truth is not merely idealistic but realistic, pointing not only to what should be but to what is. After all, the best explanation is an example. Despite valid arguments for the role of visual art in instructing the religious imagination, sacred art is not a universally cherished aspect of many Christians' faith. The not uncommon antipathy in Calvinist and Reformed traditions towards visual depictions of Christ, out of a strict interpretation of the Second Commandment, has led many to reject not merely two-dimensional religious art but religious pageantry altogether. Arguments against depicting Christ in art have proved unconvincing, however, to much of the Protestant world and certainly to the Catholic and Orthodox traditions. In fact, because such depictions are seen as allegorical rather than literal, many do not regard them as having violated the Second Commandment at all, but as nurturing the spiritual imagination.

It would be difficult to imagine my own life without any depiction of Christ whatsoever. My earliest memories as a child are flanked with depictions of Christ that formed my childlike sense of His tender holiness before I could even talk. Near the front door of our living room, my parents hung a beautifully framed and lighted copy of Heinrich Hofmann's painting of Christ praying in the Garden of Gethsemane. The sheer beauty and mystery of this sacred nighttime scene not only assuaged my childish fear of the dark as it illumined a black hallway at night; it awakened the eyes of my soul to the unseen realm with a toddler's awe and credulity. If I were to ponder where my holiest thoughts began, I would say they began in pictures. This picture arrested my gaze as something I could not, yet must, understand. A transcendent radiance shone from Christ's face as He prayed, and His upward look of surrender amid sorrow forever bonded surrender to radiance for me. When I gave my heart to Jesus when I was less than four years old, it was to this persona of Jesus that I surrendered my life.

We could debate the advantages and disadvantages of the use of religious art in the formation of spiritual awareness, for certainly art is only an approximation of truth and has often been accused of inviting idolatry. But to the extent that religious art trains the imagination to perceive beauty, to that extent its value is immeasurable. To divorce truth from beauty is to make instruction entirely didactic, whereas our most deeply held values are better caught than taught. Art invites interaction, rhetorically appealing to logos (mind) through pathos (heart). Inasmuch as most of religious art also portrays conflict, whether internal or external, it also appeals to one's ethos in the struggle of good against evil. It is this, in fact, that Hofmann captures in Christ's face in the Garden as He prays, "Not my will, but Thine, be done." Religious art also captures the paradox of divine irony in a subject's moment of truth, such as that in da Vinci's The Last Supper when the viewer knows what the disciples do not know: that one of them will betray Christ. In this way, the tension inherent between art and reality is frozen in time in a way that makes the message both instructive and inescapable.

Religious art properly understood not only plays a vital role in spiritual instruction but brings a unique delight to spiritual truth. It is as if art allows us to experience the world vicariously in its epic battles and in its decisive victories. The great traditionalists of medieval and even Renaissance times understood this function of art in the mind, unlike later movements that fractured meaning with abstractions that were unrecognizable and even detestable. To call this art is a fundamental question; to label as "art" that which depends upon deconstruction rather than composition is a contradiction in terms. It would seem that the eye of the artist is better engaged in putting images together to make sense of the world than in taking things apart for esoteric reasons. Art of this nature represents rebellion rather than reflection.

Certainly, the artist's ability to show us what we already "see"--but have to this point failed to observe--presents its own argument for spiritual instruction. The power of the allegorical proves why the parables of Jesus function as literary art. It is also why the imagery in the Jewish tabernacle in the wilderness was so compelling. Seeing Cherubim as more than instruments of divine deliverance but also as participants in divine redemption shifted the focus of an entire nation from the evils of slavery to the holiness of God. Gold earrings and items of daily use were refashioned as holy articles. In this way, the people themselves were included not only as active participants in the tabernacle's economy but as artisans of its beauty. As common items became metaphors of transformative grace, the common became holy without making the holy common, for visual and symbolic barriers distinguished public spaces from the Holy of Holies in the Secret Place of the Most High. Golden Cherubim guarded the Mercy Seat with wings outspread to defend the glory of God from desecration.

The tabernacle structures and articles fashioned by superior craftsmen "according to the pattern" (Exodus 25:40) each represented a visual dimension of precise spiritual truth: from the table of showbread, the altar of incense, the Ark of the Covenant, and the Mercy Seat itself to the veil that separated the Holy Place from the Most Holy Place, each aspect had both a literal and a spiritual function. The patterns, colors, and fabrics carried deep symbolism; from the brilliant blue, purple, scarlet, and white of the fine linen curtains surrounding the tabernacle to the waterproof seal or sea cow skins that protected the entire structure, not a detail was overlooked by the Divine Artist's sacred touch. And to the exact degree that the pattern was crafted, to that exact degree was religious instruction delivered. The meaning originated, not in the object as an idol, but in the spirit which found expression in the object. The links between physical and spiritual were inescapable and also recognizable, for the construction of the tabernacle mirrors the formation of our bodies as the temple of the Lord. We are indeed His workmanship, created for His good purpose.

In that sense, then, I question the validity and purpose of adding to His art, such that we significantly alter His finished handiwork. To what purpose would body art enhance the Lord's perfect and unique design for every human being He has created? A sense of deconstruction and a spirit of distraction become almost an obsession for those who feel compelled to cover every bodily surface with yet another tattoo. In fact, Scripture condemns this pagan practice as exactly that (Leviticus 19:28) because it reflects an erroneous sense of personal ownership that is not defensible in Scripture. We are not our own; we have been bought with a price. And, inasmuch as we are not our own creator, we are also not our own artist. Consider a well-known contemporary song artist who sports an enormous snake the length of his arm: he says it reminds him of God's work in his life, to which I say, which God? Art that reserves its own private interpretation fails to instruct the religious imagination.

A child once described this present craze as spraying graffiti on God's cathedral. Her point was well-taken. An inherent purity and simplicity of appearance draws attention to our Creator rather than to ourselves. To over-identify our bodies with what we ourselves have made, whether through an obsession with vanities of fashion, extreme body art, multiple piercings, or even appearance-altering surgeries, reduces our bodies to the level of an object or canvas rather than elevating our identity as a soul. Yes, we are creators as created in the image of God, but in whose image are these symbols on our bodies? Art not only has a specific purpose, it must find a larger purpose in God's overall design. We see, then, that to restrict the creative impulse is as instructive as is expressing it. To learn the tension between freedom and restraint is the fundamental lesson of religious pedagogy. To act as a steward of the art God has made in our bodies, we must first understand the beauty He has designed.

Literary Art

In some ways, there would truly be no end of examples to study in the field of religious literary art. In another sense, however, there are far too few. We could take a journey through the fantasies of J.R.R. Tolkien or C. S. Lewis or even through the mysteries of G. K. Chesterton. We could explicate John Milton's epic, Paradise Lost. Or we could annotate John Bunyan's masterpiece, The Pilgrim's Progress, arguably the most famous religious allegory in world history. When we had exhausted these, we would do well to dive into the icy waters of the oldest epic in the English language, Beowulf. Who doesn't love picturing Beowulf's youthful wrestling match with the terrifying Grendel or his near-death confrontation with Grendel's mother in her watery lair or his final feeble battle with the dragon wherein he possesses more zeal and wisdom than strength? These treasures of our language are not only entertaining but instructive and uniquely edify the imagination for moral emulation--not that we all have a Grendel to slay, but our giants and dragons are every bit as malicious as those haunting the English moors of old.

But if I were to spend the rest of my life studying the literary art of Jesus in His masterful storytelling, I would never tire of treasure-finding. His turn of phrase, vigor of image, and deliberate omission of detail to necessitate inference in the soul's imagination each speak to the divine element of language that defies explanation. His words are truly living and active, more powerful than any two-edged sword. His use of suspense in His parables carries the ironic effect of a circle, with each one beginning exactly where it ended: in wonder and amazement, for the application cannot be found until the ending, which requires us to return to the beginning. The parable of the talents, of the four soils, and of the five wise and five foolish virgins each forces self-evaluation. The parables of the lost coin, the lost sheep, and the lost son speak of joyous reconciliation, presenting a sacredly redundant pattern of divine tenderness and mercy in rescuing a lost object, a lost animal, and a lost soul. Clearly, each item lost builds upon the last, such that each represents a new fold in the storyboard of the soul's condition apart from its Maker and Redeemer.

The parables of Jesus are instructive precisely because they are illustrative; they collect for the mind patterns that we "see" but fail to understand. They organize truth into entire systems of thought that reflect a unified code of ethics for all human behavior. And each character found therein is always answerable to someone higher in authority: the one-talented man must give account to his master for having buried his "meager" gift in the ground, or the unjust steward must juggle his master's ledger while also exposing his own laziness to his master's clients. Even the elder brother in the parable of the Prodigal Son is answerable to his loving father, who marvels at his son's lack of joy in celebrating the lost come home. Certainly, the parables are as intellectually demanding as they are appealing, and we, as modern-day disciples, must continually return to our Master to learn what they really teach. As true art, the parables invite the viewer's intense participation in solving the divine riddle of meaning. As brushstrokes of an artist, each image lands exactly where it must, shading no more and no less than precisely what is meant in the illustration's capacity to reveal spiritual absolutes.

If religious art teaches the soul to see, literary art teaches the spirit to think. Indeed, to the spiritually blind, parables are meaningless, but to those who have eyes to see, ears to hear, and hearts to heed, the parables of Jesus not only bring heaven to earth but earth to heaven. All ideas, as immortal images, must flutter like eaglets trying their wings until they soar to new heights of spiritual understanding. In fact, the sense of an omniscient narrator in Christ's parables allows them to be understood, as it were, from above--a bird's-eye view that sees all things at once, working together for good. Even those parables that teach sobering consequences of responsibility poorly borne show a moral correctness in judgment deserved and an ethical appropriateness in sufficient warning given. The parables of Jesus are indeed the art gallery of the Bible and the crowning work of God in Man.

Musical Art

And then, as in a crescendo to a grand symphony of the soul, we arrive at the most intangible art of all: music. And yet this winged delight more than all the arts speaks to the body we have been given, as if to tune its sinews to the rhythms of the universe. The soul that lives without music stumbles in the dark, hearing never a whisper of the divine. How appropriate is Milton's Pandemonium as a hell of sound without sense, an inferno of discordant and cacophonous noise inflicted upon the ear forever without a conductor, a discernible beginning, or a climactic end. Is this music? If the trumpet gives an uncertain sound, who shall prepare himself for battle (I Corinthians 14:8)? Sound split away from instruction is an explosion of nonsense to the imagination. But music, like a rainbow of seven notes falling into immutable scale, yet expands with infinite variation.

And who can say that his song has already been written? Every soul is a musician, and, beginning in the heart, the song need not be transcribed to a score in order to be heard. And yet the paradox of turning pitch to paper and tone to note immortalizes the song only for those trained to read the score. So like the atheist does the musically illiterate ignore the Composer's composition while still trying in his wandering way to play the song. Music, as an allegory to faith and a summation of the arts, not only trains the soul to see and the spirit to think but instructs the will to obey. But who is trained to read the music of his own suffering?

Answering Job out of the whirlwind of his own ignorance, pain, and confusion, the Lord flings out to his cries of pain one rhetorical flourish after another. Job can find no answer to God's questions, but listening to the crescendoing voice of God turns his pain to music and catapults his confusion into profound understanding. Out of his bewilderment, he has heard his God asking who has laid the foundations of the earth or stretched the line of its measurements. And where were you, Job, "when the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy?" (Job 38:7). And Job is tucked safe in the rest of his own silence.

Surely, David heard the music of the spheres one lonesome starry night when he wrote these beloved words in Psalm 19: "The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament showeth His handiwork. Day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto night showeth knowledge. There is no speech nor language, where their voice is not heard. Their line is gone out through all the earth, and their words to the end of the world" (Psalm 19:1-4). David has uttered the paradox of the centuries: the silent night speaks to him, not of his own destiny, but of divine reality. With what tremendous reverence does David speak of God's creation while avoiding the fatal mistake of worshiping the creation rather than the Creator. And with what divine inspiration does David create his tribute to the stars, showing in their formation the intent of natural, not horoscopic, revelation. All this we might have imagined ourselves, but to hear what most of us merely see--that is Job's epiphany plucked from David's harp.

Without any instruments of observation other than the Composer's tuning key to the strings of his soul, David heard what modern science has since discovered, that the stars do vibrate like giant double bass instruments in the symphony of the skies. The poetry in David's soul captured lyrics for the music of the heavens, and that is indeed where real music begins. How would we even begin to plead with the pandemonium of our times that finds pleasure in chaos, addiction in syncopation, and obliteration in raw emotion? The intellectual demand of true music transcends the body and lifts the spirit to heights unknown through any other sense of body or soul. And here, words fail because the greatest music needs no words to inspire the most beautiful thoughts known to man. Even so, in the tune of the stars David finds his own voice. He hears music in the stillness and reads notes in the twinkling of the skies.

Those who would argue that harsh and violent sounds can invoke a spirit of worship might better tell the stars to scream or the sun to roar. Surely, the emotions of the soul are appropriately interpreted through the ear in a language all music's own. This supposedly most subjective of the arts refutes its abuse with its truth: to say that a certain sound is not soothing or bombastic is to defy not only the very nature of music but the purpose of sound itself. A siren or a whistle commands action; a buzz or a whisper demands attention. Music as created by God to express the moods it evokes in the heart's ear is thereby inherently instructive. And yet to erase this intuitive sense is to embrace our own confusion, as has been done far too often in the music world today. Our Lord gave us music to unite, not to divide, body and soul. And well might we argue that music written only to please the body will destroy the soul as surely as Satan's pandemonium in Paradise Lost.

Conclusion

When art succumbs to artifice, it deceives rather than communicates, deconstructing rather than constructing meaning in the soul, whether through image, word, or note. Our Creator has graciously and brilliantly designed His crowning creation to learn through the imagination, and He has given the gift of art in image, word, and song, that we might enjoy the light of the stars, speak the language of the silent night, and sing with the music of the spheres. Would that we might add one note in tune.