The Function of Sacred Art

Julia and Hans Rausing Room inside The National Gallery in London (Photo by Brett Wharton)

Some time ago I found myself I London with an afternoon to spare, so I headed for the National Gallery situated at the head of Trafalgar Square. The gallery is a treasure house of art in the Western tradition, spanning the twelfth to the nineteenth centuries.

Many of the galleries are full of sacred artworks from the Medieval masters through to Michelangelo, Raphael, Veronese, Caravaggio, Rembrandt, and Titian. The pictures now hang in a secular gallery crowded with tourists, and it is difficult to appreciate them fully.

After all, they were designed and crafted as sacred artwork to be the focus of devotion as an altarpiece, a feature of an iconostasis or a church or monastery wall. In a gallery, they lose their context and are shorn of their real significance. Seeing them clustered in a kind of anonymity in a secular gallery raises the question:

“What is sacred art FOR? — Why have sacred art at all?”

To answer the question, we must look into the history of religion, and as soon as we do, we realize that imagery is part of the religious experience from the beginning. Our ancestors had an awareness of the numinous - a reverent regard for what Rudolph Otto called the mysterium tremendum et fascinans. That mysterious power behind creation was nameless and faceless, but the human mind cannot have a relationship with an invisible, formless entity, so before long, the human mind, out of the experiences of religious visions, dreams, and encounters with spirits, conjured up all sorts of images of their gods.

Michelangelo & Sebastiano - Room 3 Defining the Roman Style

The day before I wandered through the National Gallery in London, I spent some time in the British Museum, and there one can see a variety of images our ancestors created to picture their gods and goddesses. The images are bizarre hybrids of bird, beast and human or they are the stuff of nightmares—fearsome monsters with glaring eyes and bloody teeth. No wonder they were regarded with fear. If the carved idols came alive, they would devour you in an instant, and no wonder then that their devotees offered the hearts of their enemies and the bodies of their children to appease the hunger of their gods.

So the religious images — the idols were representations of the invisible spirits of their fearsome gods. But they were more than that: the ancients believed that the images were also a kind of channel for the invisible spirits to communicate with the visible world. They were a conduit through which the monster gods could descend — the ultimate aim of which was to come through the image to infest the living bodies of their devotees. That is why the ultimate offering to the gods was of oneself.

Carved Images and Iconoclasm

It is easy to understand, therefore, the absolute prohibition of carved images in the Old Testament law. There was nothing intrinsically evil about a carved image. Indeed, later in the Pentateuch, God commands Moses to carve cherubim and cover them with gold to adorn the Ark of the Covenant. The prohibition of carved images is linked with the commandment “Thou shalt have no other gods before me”. To rephrase the commandments, God is saying, “Do not make carved images of those alien gods, or they will come down and possess you.”

The prohibition of images prompted the iconoclasm controversy in the eighth and ninth centuries. In the first centuries of the Christian church, images of Jesus, Mary, and the saints were rare. Clearly, the early Christians—heavily influenced by their Jewish antecedents —forbade religious imagery. However, by the eighth century, icons and other two-dimensional imagery were proliferating in the church. In the East, for complicated reasons both political and theological, people blamed their troubles on the existence of icons, which they argued were a direct violation of the commandment against graven images.

Destruction of religious images by the Reformed in Zürich, Switzerland, 1524

A huge controversy flared up in which icons were banned and destroyed, or defended and protected. Like most church controversies, while painful to endure, it helped to clarify the issue. John of Damascus (d. 787) —quoting Colossians 1:15 —explained that “Jesus Christ is the image (icon) of the unseen God.” Consequently, images of Jesus Christ were permissible. Saints, because they are images of Jesus might also be portrayed.

The Second Council of Nicaea in 787 affirmed John Damascene’s argument permitting the use of images as sacramentals, for education and devotion. So this is what sacred art is for: as sacramentals, they can help to channel God’s grace. As educational aids, they can illustrate the gospel, and as devotional aids, they can foster devotion and divine worship—and while they may be venerated, they are not to be worshiped themselves as worship is for God alone.

Understanding these uses of sacred art makes their presence in secular art galleries even more disturbing and awkward. As a Catholic, I stood before several of the paintings in the National Gallery and tried to put aside my disappointment in their venue and sit still and contemplate their beauty and meaning as if I were in church, not a crowded gallery.

One painting, in particular, made an impact during my most recent visit. It is a large portrayal of the Adoration of the Magi, painted by the sixteenth-century Italian, Paolo Veronese. The Christ child, seated on the Virgin’s lap, regards the three wise men with calm benevolence—like the infant king he already is. Shining down on the child from above, the wise men are a bright beam of heavenly light. The painting does exactly what an icon should do: it reveals the sacred image of the Lord Jesus Christ, inviting us to kneel in adoration with the magi. As such it is a sacramental—unlocking God’s grace. It educates and sparks devotion to God.

Adoration of the Magi, Paolo Veronese (1528–1588)

With all this in mind, we are informed about what sacred art is for. Too often, we lapse into regarding sacred art as mere decoration. We think a Catholic Church should “have some pretty pictures on the wall,” so we rummage through a church catalogue and buy a cheap reproduction of Leonardo da Vinci’s Last Supper or Michelangelo’s Pieta to hang up somewhere random.  This won’t do.

When selecting art for a church or chapel, the function of sacred art needs to be remembered. If the function is sacramental, educational, and devotional, then its creation should not be a cheap photographic reproduction. In the Eastern tradition, the iconographer must pray special prayers as they proceed with writing their icon. The same should be true of the sacred artist: they should be a committed, prayerful person aware that they are creating an image that is a reflection of either the ultimate image of God—Jesus Christ—or secondary images of Christ—the saints.

To have suitable sacred images in a church or chapel, appropriate sacred artists should be commissioned to create original works. Not only should they be knowledgeable about the history of sacred iconography and the function of sacred art, but they should also be fine craftsmen who have offered their talent to God.

If they have done so, then their vocation is a sacred calling, and it should be honored by generous patrons who are willing to commission and pay for the new works of sacred art. Only in this way, with informed clergy and people, will we experience the renewal of Catholic sacred art that I feel may be just about to happen.