The conflict between
my religious and art training is pushing me into a far smarter painting.
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Christ Pantocrator, 6th
century AD. The two sides of his face may represent the two natures of Christ
as fully God and fully human. From Saint Catherine's Monastery, Mount Sinai
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English is wordy because it preserves parallel versions
(synonyms) from its source languages. Sacred comes to us
via the Norman Invasion, from the Old French sacrer, which in turn came from the Latin sacrare. Its root means “to sanctify,” or set apart, free from sin.
Holy means the exact same thing, but
it comes to us from the Saxon invaders of Britain. Its roots lie somewhere in
the northern Scandinavian forests.
Very little is known about Germanic paganism, so we can only
infer what was holy—the mountain Helgafell among the Norse, possibly
megaliths and holy trees among the Anglo-Saxons. But the existence of words for
holiness tell us that there were places, or values, that were set aside from
sinful man.
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Moses Indignant at the Golden Calf, 1799-1800, William Blake
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Household gods are a
commonly recurring feature in pagan religions and folklore worldwide. They’re
ancient objects of protection. They’re called teraphim in
the Bible, which forbids them. In fact, the Bible repeatedly warns its followers
against idolatry, most famously in the story of the
golden calf.
The prohibition against idols is felt
particularly strongly among Protestants. It led to a misguided wave
of iconoclasm across Northern Europe and England in the 16th century
that destroyed much of our pre-Enlightenment art.
Sacred art, by definition, would be art set aside for the
purpose of worship. It’s very easy to see how music, dance and the decorative
arts can be used in worship, but less easy to see such an application for painting
or sculpture. Within Catholicism, there are vessels like monstrances, tabernacles and chalices. These receive a reflected
glow of veneration, although it is the transubstantiated Christ
that’s the true subject.
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Rachel sitting on the teraphim, 1726-1728, fresco, Giovanni Battista Tiepolo
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Orthodox and Eastern Catholic churches have icons, religious symbols meant as
aids to prayer. Icons are venerated, but they also served as teaching tools for
the illiterate faithful. In a way they reflect the wonder of the incarnation,
since they’re a tangible representation of an intangible God. As the Eastern Orthodox
Council of 860 proclaimed, “all that is uttered in words written in syllables
is also proclaimed in the language of colors.”
And that’s, pretty much, the limit of sacred art in the
western tradition, The rest—as beautiful and transcendent as it may be—is not
intended for veneration. Within Protestant Europe, religious artwork was meant primarily
for purposes of edification, honor, comfort, contemplation, and inspiration.
But it’s not set aside or sanctified, except that it may be part of a sanctuary
or shrine.
As a dyed-in-the-wool American Evangelical, I feel those
limits keenly. When I’m called to make a religious image, I tend to slip sideways.
I’m working on such a painting right now, and my own religious training is rumbling
with the artist in me. How does one represent the character of God without
presuming to paint the face of God? How does one represent the love of Jesus
without making an idol?
The conflict is invigorating, and making for a far smarter painting.
I can barely wait to get to work on it again.
